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PostPosted: Thu May 05, 2011 8:40 am 
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So, carrying on regardless for the benefit of those still following the story...

Season 2 Episode 2

Open to scene of Finarfin and his followers trudging slowly towards the gates of Tirion. Many are openly weeping, fearful of their reception. Camera closes up on Finarfin, as he passes through the gates:
Finarfin: [we hear his thoughts voiced aloud] My steps are heavy…my soul broken as I lead my people back. No journey has ever felt as long as this. [looks up at the city as he walks through the streets] The buildings of Tirion gleam in the darkness, lit by the lanterns of those that stayed behind. I half wonder that we dare walk through these streets, we outcasts, fallen…betrayers. [sighs heavily] Mother lingers still in Father’s house, deserted first by husband, then by her sons…is Eärwen sitting beside her, her blue eyes darkened by grief? Does she hate me, I wonder, for what my brother did? [he hesitates, and the host falters with him.]
Elf 1: My Lord, we need you to be strong for all our sakes – meet our judgement with pride, stand tall!
Finarfin: [resolutely] I will be my Father’s son! [he moves forward again, and the host follow. Fade.]

* * *

[Fade in to garden at Finwë’s house, Tirion. Eärwen, Anairë and Nerdanel sit looking up at the stars. An embroidery frame stands to one side, framed by silver lamps that show Fëanor and Finarfin in shadow relief. Indis approaches, veiled and dressed in black.]

Eärwen: They seem brighter, now that the Trees are gone.
Indis: With every loss there is something to be found, I think. [Sits] They will send word, you know…somehow.
Nerdanel: Do you truly believe that?
Indis: I have faith in my sons. They are like their father, strong and honourable men. For now, there is work enough to do in the remaking of our world. We will need light in this darkness, lamps and torches. That should keep the hands of our metal smiths busy for some months.
Nerdanel: Some of us have begun the task already, but surely the Valar do not mean to leave us forever with only the stars to light our way.
Indis: No doubt there are plans in motion. You know you are welcome here as long as necessary. I enjoy your company, to be truthful. You are like another daughter to me now. But I know it hurts to be parted from him…
Nerdanel: [nods her head, playing with her wedding band.] My hands and memories are all that are left to me now. I have tried so hard to douse those thoughts in my craft.
Eärwen: It is good to keep yourself occupied, and your works are so lifelike! I wish I had your talent to preserve my husband and children’s likenesses.
Indis: [takes Nerdanel’s hand in hers] At least it brings you some comfort, my dear.
[Camera shift to screen right. Elf enters, out of breath; He kneels before Indis]
Indis: Speak.
Elf: Lady, they return!
Indis: What?
Elf: They return, Lady: Those who left us. Your younger son leads them, though they are much lessened in number. [Eärwen gasps, then she, Anairë and Indis gather their skirts and run off screen right]
Nerdanel: Tell me true, are all the sons of Finwë returned?
Elf: I know not, Lady. I saw only Lord Finarfin.
Nerdanel: [glances right, then relaxes] His mind is as firmly fixed as the stones in the walls of this garden; as unchanging as forged iron that will break before it will bend. He will not return to me…would that I could go to him, though. [fade]

* * * * * * *

Fade to scene at Lake Mithrim. The camera shows us a makeshift tent - strips of canvas and other such materials strung between some trees on the banks of the lake. It is lit by torches on poles stuck into the ground. About a dozen elves are in two groups - the first kneeling on the ground and the second huddled together on the other side. The camera goes to the back of the kneeling elves and then over the shoulders of two of them. On the ground is a dead enemy soldier dressed in dark materials, strips of leather holding various sections of metal together in a rough and crude imitation of armour. The body is being stared at and periodically prodded and poked.

Amras: alike.... yet .... yet ...
[An older Elf takes the initiative and reaches towards the face…he pulls apart the lips and reveals two rows of sharpened teeth with two pair of longer fangs]
Amrod: …yet different.
Older Elf: We should pull these and study them to see if these are natural or shaped by some device.
[Amrod takes a step back at the mention of pulling out the teeth of the dead warrior.]
Amrod: Should we not just see what is in front of us before we go taking apart this devil. Let us have a look under all that hair…
[The older elf pulls back some long flowing hair matted and clotted with drying blood to reveal ears that are somewhat pointed like the elves but are twice as long and thicker…].
Maglor: Alike… yet different.

Maglor picks up the hand of the dead soldier and all eyes turn to the sharpened claw like talons that grow from the middle and index fingers. Blood is caked under them and one is broken and ready to fall off.

Older Elf: It is like normal hands have been changed or altered to give them the properties of claws but still preserve the hand for normal use. Maglor: I have never seen any living creature with hands or claws like that.
Older Elf: We should strip this creature of all skin and examine it closely…. We should pull those teeth and anything else we can get at.
Amras: [hesitates and looks a bit scared] you do not think …. This creature could not have been ….. I mean ….. he is like us but not like us.
[Before anyone can answer there is a command from Maedhros in the other group on the other side of the tent.]
Maedhros: Leave your plaything and join us here…
Fëanor: A few scouts following the retreat have reported back. It seems the spawn of Morgoth is running home to be with him. They have no taste for our metal or our courage to stand and fight.
Maedhros: no matter what advantage they had in numbers! [Caranthir slaps Maedhros on the back and everyone smiles… except Fëanor.]
Fëanor: If you think the battle is over, you are mistaken. This is only the beginning of the fight. We must pursue them over the mountains and right to the feet of Morgoth himself. [motions to nobody in particular] We leave in two hours time. All of you organize your troops and make them ready for the pursuit. Leave a small number behind to clear the dead and tend to the wounded but in two hours we begin to finish this forever. [Amras waits behind while the others prepare to leave and goes to his father].
Amras: Father, this dead creature has information that could be valuable to us. What should we do with him.
[Fëanor looks over at the dead soldier who is being examined again by the older elf. Fëanor walks a few steps towards the scene and stops as the old elf takes out a knife and slices a neat cut from the bottom of one ear across the throat to the other ear.]
Fëanor: Let Nolmë stay and do his work as he can. We will return after we finish our task and perhaps he will have that valuable information you think rests in a dead servant of Morgoth.
[As Fëanor and Amras walk out of the makeshift tent, the camera catches the old elf opening the gaping neck wound and he begins to probe inside as the blood stains his hands. They pass Amrod who seems to be leaning against a tree for support as he runs the fingers of one hand along his own throat. Cut]

* * *

Cut to scene on the rocky outcrops of the Mountains of Shadow. Several thousand orcs and scattered other creatures making their way through the passes of The Mountains of Shadow in a hasty and disorganized retreat back to Angband. Many are bleeding, limping and in poor shape. They have no leadership as is evidenced by orcs pushing each other out of the way, arguing with one another, fights breaking out and general mayhem. We see several such quick incidents as the camera pans along the line of orcs. As one group comes to a overhang where they must walk single file along a ledge, we see some pushing and jostling and several fall to their death on the rocks below.

We cut back to the Noldor who are on other parts of the mountain. The more agile Elves are moving in a orderly fashion and moving much faster than the orcs. Seeing the orcs close ahead of them, Fëanor and Maedhros are finishing getting a report from a scout.

Scout: Some of the army of Morgoth have found their progress hindered up in a ravine a short distance ahead once we round this next section. They have to pass one at a time on a narrow ledge and it will take them hours to do so. Others have broken away and are looking for another way - perhaps they are lost and cannot find the path that brought them here.
Fëanor: Is there room for attack?
Scout: The ravine is narrow and does not lend itself to our skills or numbers. But there are more cliffs higher up that we can get to.... cliffs with ledges that we could climb to without much risk or difficulty.
Maedhros: How many could those cliffs hold and still be close enough for bow work?
Scout: A few hundred my lord.

Fëanor: And how far below would the enemy be?
Scout: Perhaps the length of ten men my lord. They would have the ease of shooting deer tied to a fence.
Maedhros: Father, we have seen the enemy knows nothing of archery or the bow. They would be trapped below our best with only a narrow ledge offering any escape.
Fëanor: And the rest of us would be behind them cutting off any retreat.
Maedhros: Fighting it would not be. Slaughter would be a more apt description. Our only limitation would be the number of arrows we have recovered from the earlier encounter by the Lake.
Fëanor: Select 400 of our best archers - give them all the arrows they can carry and still climb those cliffs. Fill each archers quiver and then strap a second upon them and fill that again. On my signal,it will rain death upon the evil spawn of Morgoth. The lucky few to escape will tell such a tale of death that Morgoth will never again send his creatures out against us. [cut]

* * * * * * *

Fade in on Noldor standing at the broken edge of the ice. Focus on Turgon, holding Idril’s hand, his attention on the dark water. Camera pan over Fingon, Aredhel, Finrod, Aegnor, Galadriel, Angrod, and finally Fingolfin. Fingolfin raises one hand to his chest, then slowly stretches the hand over the water, palm out. Camera pan back as all Noldor do the same. We hear the water slapping against the ice, wind blowing softly. Focus on Turgon as he picks up Idril and hugs her. Fade.

* * *

Fade back into Ice Field, later. Noldor line is broken, with gaps between groups. Wind blows snow into the line, and we see Noldor stagger against it. Stars shine overhead. Focus on Fingon and Finrod, together.

Finrod: [glances back] I think we have trouble, Cousin.
Fingon: [sigh] Just what we did not need. [both turn.]
[Camera shift to a group of Elves who have stopped, blocking the line behind them. One male, Thraldor, is speaking loudly, pointing toward the head of the line.]

Thraldor: How much longer are we going to follow this path to death? Has Fingolfin brought us anything but misery and tragedy?
Elf 1: We should never have left Tirion.
Elf 2: [hostile, to Thraldor and Elf 1] You were eager enough to begin this quest. Fortune and glory for all who dared take them, so you said.
Thraldor: So Fëanor promised us! And what have we gained from his grand words? Do any see fortune or glory here?
Elf 3: [angry] Fingolfin is no more than the brother of that cursed one who lured us to our deaths!
[Shift to Fingon, Turgon, Finrod, Angrod, and Fingolfin approaching. Shift to arguing Elves.]
Thraldor: I say enough! We need not follow the kin, who is no better than the mouthpiece of him who would have left us all to freeze on the shore! Will we all die here, alone on this trackless ice? Or will you follow another back to safety?
Fingolfin: And who would lead them, Thraldor? You?
Thraldor: Why not? I at least would not lead my people to certain death?
Fingolfin: Would you not? What is the way back? Can you follow a path that shattered beneath our feet? Or would you pick your own way over trackless wastes, knowing not whether your course had twisted back on itself?
Elf 3: What guide have you to set our path? We wander endlessly!
Fingolfin: [turns, points to the stars.] There is my guide. The brightest star at the tip of the Great Sickle. My father told me that star gave light to those who followed Oromë from Cuiviénen, and that star has not moved.
Elf 2: [to Thraldor] Have you such a guide to follow? Or did you bother to map our steps from the shores?
Thraldor: [snarls and draws his sword.] You mock me!
Angrod: [draws sword, blocks Thraldor.] Do not even consider it!
Turgon: [loud, frustrated] Have we not lost enough of our own already? Must we now spill Noldor blood ourselves? I have seen tragedy from this journey as much as any of you, yet I follow my father still. He is the best hope we have of ever seeing warm lands again. [to Thraldor] Now, if you have nothing better to do than argue, at least step aside so others can pass!
[Fingolfin, his sons and nephews turn and exit right. Elves walk past Thraldor, some glancing at him angrily, some seeming to show support. Focus on Thraldor, glaring at Fingolfin. Thraldor begins to walk right. Cut.]

* * * * * * *

There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes

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PostPosted: Thu May 05, 2011 8:56 am 
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Fade in…the screen is very dark....slowly we see the sides of mountains come into view and the camera pans down into a ravine and pass between two of them. Several thousand orcs are crowded together, many pushing an shoving and arguing as a long line forms to go single file along a narrow ledge around a cliff side. The ledge would be from three to five feet wide in parts, maybe wider in other parts but narrow enough in some sections to prevent anything other than single file passage. To the left of the ledge the mountain rises up over their heads into darkness. To the right of them it falls into a deep chasm.

Without sound or warning, a single flaming arrow is launched from well behind them and soars overhead. A few orcs notice and point skyward. Then, above them on the rising cliff sides, hundreds of more small flames come into being forming jagged lines along the cliffs. The orcs become increasingly agitated but before they can react the small points of flame advance almost as one and quickly close the fifty to seventy gap. We see from the perspective of the orcs as the points of flame quickly advance and grow in size. Hundreds of orcs are impaled with burning arrows.... clothing bursts into flames.... greasy hair catches on fire ...... panic erupts...... a few orcs closest to the ledge try to hurry along and some plunge to their deaths.

The camera changes view and now we are behind the Noldor archers looking from over their shoulder as they draw arrows and fire at will. For over two minutes there is a rain of arrows downward, almost every one hitting its desired target now well lit by burning bodies. At times the camera looks straight downwards and tracks an arrow from bowstring into the face or chest of an orc. These arrows are not lit like the opening salvo. But their effect is devastating both in the toll they take and the havoc they create. On the wider parts of the ledge orcs are running every which way in panic, unable to fight back at an enemy they cannot see let alone reach. Some try to scale the cliffs but only get a few feet and slide back to the ground....some pierced by arrows.

We see orcs trying to rush backwards away from the ledge and are cut down as they flee. We focus on one orc who is hit behind the knee with an arrow.... he screams and reaches down to his leg.... before his hand can reach the arrow two more hit him in the back and he writhes in obvious pain.... as he throws his arms outward a final arrow pierces his neck creating a shish kebab effect and he falls to the ground only to trip up another orc too close behind him..... the falling orc is pierced by two more arrows.

We change the angle and see the Noldor along the cliffs firing arrow after arrow. Cut to close-up of one such grouping where a teenaged archer reaches back into his quiver and comes up empty. His empty hand goes to his face and he wipes the sweat away... his hand stays a bit too long over his mouth.... the young archer leans back hard against the mountain side and his chest begins to heave.... he turns his head and almost vomits but struggles and composes himself..... he wipes some spittle from his mouth, leans back over the side and reaches to his second quiver, reloads and fires into an orc below.

After a few minutes of this nearly every orc is either dead or has run off, many over the side to their death.
The firing of arrows halts and an eerie silence takes over. We see that many of the Noldor archers have anything left but two empty quivers. The camera pans down and we see the dead orcs, their bodies like so many pin cushions. Not a few are still aflame. An orc who was playing dead slowly gets up and begins to run for the ledge.... before he gets ten feet several arrows cut him down.

Thirty seconds of silence follows...The Noldor archers begin to work their way slowly along the cliffs back to their lines.

Cut to Fëanor as Maedhros reports back to him.

Maedhros: Father, your tactics worked even better than we anticipated. Barely a tithe of the force Morgoth sent against us is left to go running back to their Master!
Fëanor: I do not plan to leave any alive to tell the tale, if I can help it. It will be I who walks up to the doors of Angband and delivers the good news to Morgoth… [turns as Maglor approaches, panting: he was commanding the archers up on the cliff sides] Ah, Maglor, you did well up there today… [concerned] are you not well?
Maglor: I am not quite feeling myself, Ada…a strange dizziness affected me up there [nods towards top of cliffs] And I am no mountain goat…
Maedhros: What of those orcs that were just wounded? Shall we enter the ravine and finish them?
Fëanor: No! we push onwards and harry those that are still fleeing before us. Let Caranthir and Curufin coming through behind us release those still with breath from their torment. Come! [turns and starts directing Elves onwards trough the pass.]

* * *

Cut to scene on Eastern side of Mountains. We see a mountain spring [Eithel Sirion] bubbling up through the rocks, rising just below the opening of a narrow pass. The camera follows the spring as it becomes a stream, carving a gentle path down the mountain side. Camera closes in on the water as is glitters in the starlight. Suddenly an orc foot splashes into view [rather like the clips with the Uruk feet on the logs running towards Amon Hen!] Camera pulls back and we see the ragged band of survivors from the orc force charging with what strength they have left down the mountainside, many splashing along the stream bed.

Camera cut back towards entrance to the pass again: the Noldor Elves emerge, hot on the tails of the fleeing orcs. Cue clips of orcs being hacked down as they trample along the bed of the mountain stream, the pure spring water turning dark with their blood.

Cut to quick clip of Caranthir & Curufin's units still coming through the narrow ravine, finishing off any orcs still alive after the arrow fest.

Cut to another clip of Celegorm & Twins leading the final Noldor force over a different, easier pass. On reaching the lowlands, he spots some orcs emerging from the other passes: The orcs see the Noldor and pull up in horror, looking around for a route of escape. The only way they can run is southwards along the foothills of the mountains…at the confluence of the rivers Sirion and Rivil lie the Fens of Serech. The orcs will be trapped in a wedge formed by the Mountains of Shadow and the highlands of Dorthonion.

Celegorm: [to Twins] Ah, I think we have found us some new sport!
Amrod: Yes! This should indeed be entertaining; they have nowhere to run except those wetlands ahead…
Amras: Do orcs like water?
Celegorm: Let us go and find out! [orders force to chase down the fleeing orcs, channelling them towards the Fens ahead, which look tranquil and mysterious in the starlight. Tall yellow sedge is silhouetted against the sky, and twisted withy beds disguise the treacherous marsh beneath]

Cut to orcs at front of group, starting to hit the wetlands. They obviously hate water and their natural lumbering gait is hindered further by the boggy ground. In desperation they plough onwards, a lucky few managing to find the invisible paths of firmer ground. The rest, hampered by the weight of their crude iron armour and weapons, slip into the marsh they are sucked under by the mud and dense clinging water weeds. A few of the front runners in the Noldor force enter the Fens before they realize the danger. Luckily they are able to walk lightly on the marsh and reach safety easily. Celegorm and the Twins halt their force and they watch the drowning orcs with grim satisfaction.

* * *

Cut to scene of Fëanor and 2 eldest sons, their forces lined up on Ard-galen, Camera pans round until it comes to rest on the distant peaks of Thangorodrim.

Fëanor: [gazing intently] I see you, Morgoth…you may hide but you have nowhere to run. I am coming for you! [we hear the Oath whispering again, although we cannot make out what it is saying. Looks round at sons] Well, what are we waiting for? Let us push on even now towards the gates…
Maedhros: Indeed, we are in sight of our goal…but should we not wait for the rest of our force to join us?
Fëanor: There are no more than a handful of leaves left to blow on the wind back to the Iron Prison and its Lord. He is ours for the taking.
Maglor: Not long now, Ada, until we avenge grandfather and reclaim the Silmarils…surely all your sons should be allowed to share in the moment of victory so long anticipated? [at the mention of the Silmarils Fëanor’s expression darkens and we hear the Oath’s voice louder and stronger, perhaps more persuasive and coaxing:]

Oath: You see, everyone wants your precious creations…perhaps you would do better to advance now with just this smaller force…after all, you are the mighty Fëanáro…the Spirit of Fire…an unquenchable force of nature…you would be protecting your sons for Nerdanel…she would thank you for it…
[Close up on the anguish in Fëanor’s face as he fights to rationalize his thoughts and decide his course of action. Cut]

* * * * * * *

Scene fades in on Ring of Doom, where the Valar are once more seated in judgement. The Vanyar Elves and the tithe of Noldor left in Tirion are all seated on the tiers around the Ring. The atmosphere is tense and everyone is subdued. A herald of Manwë announces that the court is in session.

Manwë: Bring forth the rebels… [the rebel Noldor are ushered forward into the Ring, with Finarfin at the front. He scans the crowd, and catches a glimpse of Eärwen, seated with Anairë. She smiles in encouragement, but has obviously been weeping. Indis sits calmly with Nerdanel, each drawing comfort from the other’s presence. His gaze passes on until it rests on Ingwë; his eyes are cold, full of judgement. Finarfin looks away. He feels the eyes of the Valar upon him.]

Finarfin: [whispers] Mercy! [falls to his knees. His people follow suit.]
Mandos: Stand, Arafinwë… Finarfin, son of Finwë… Do you speak for your people still? [gestures Finarfin forward to the step below Manwë’s throne.]
Finarfin: I do
Manwë: [severely] You have returned to Valinor despite the Doom and ban that has been laid upon you. Tell us why we should not insist upon this exile and force you to return to your brothers' march?
Finarfin: My Lord – Great Ones, I believe that our journey began righteously and as an attempt to avenge the evil forces responsible for the unjust death of Finwë, our King and our father. I supported my brother in that. It is dark here in Aman, but it is merely an absence of light. The darkness that our people will find in Middle-earth will be an absence of grace as well, for they have cut themselves off from the Valar. I cannot imagine living in such a darkness of the fëa to match a dimness of the sky.

Mandos: That is true indeed…but why have you returned to face such judgement as we may see fit to impose?
Finarfin: It was the attack on the innocent of Alqualondë that has caused me to forsake that path. I cannot lend support to the murderers of my wife’s people.
Ingwë: [stands, angry] I maintain that you have returned to beg pardon from the Valar because you failed to control the madness that your half-brother has descended into, a malevolence that has corrupted all that was good and loyal in the Noldor!
Finarfin: [heatedly] How dare you judge? You, who have never lived in my father’s house, who never felt the sickness of hatred creep through the halls and streets of his city spread by the lies of Melkor-Morgoth? How dare you?
Manwë [waves Ingwë down; turns back to Finarfin] Peace, Finarfin. In this we all shame some blame. We failed to see Fëanor’s madness, how deep it had become, how it had eaten all that once was bright and beautiful.
Finarfin: [muses] He was beautiful once, my oldest brother, the hero of my childhood…who never once had time for his younger siblings. [starts, as he remembers where he is] My mind whispers, reminding me of where pride has led my people. Fëanor led us to our doom for his own lust!

Ulmo: [his deep voice full of sadness] And what of the slaying of the Teleri, your own kin, for whom I also have great love. Could you not have prevented this treachery?
Finarfin: [chokes with emotion] We arrived too late…I would rather have died, fallen to pieces and shattered the very day that the ships were stolen and the Teleri felled by my brother's people. But we are innocent of this kinslaying, My Lord. Our hands are not stained with the blood of the Teleri though our hearts are filled with remorse for what our kin have done. Many of the Noldor wept with me and tended the wounded, Noldor and Teleri alike. We decided to return and sue for pardon in the hope that in your mercy you will not press your wrath upon the ignorant.

Aulë: Finarfin, I say to you, your return to Valinor was an act of courage. You had no idea what reception awaited you here - all of your children have chosen to follow on with Fingolfin, and you were not even guaranteed your wife's good regard. Nor did you know the state of Tirion after the majority of the Noldor absconded.
Manwë: And our pardon is not earned lightly. What can you offer in recompense for your actions?
Finarfin: We ask only that we be allowed to stay here with you in Aman, and help repair the damage the Noldor have wrought, so to learn the error of our ways! Every Noldo who walks in Arda will be haunted by the ill deeds Fëanor and others of our kin have committed.
Manwë: [gently] And what lessons have you learnt, Child of Eru?
Finarfin: [earnestly] I have learnt that remaining here in Aman and continuing with life blessed by the grace Morgoth strove so hard to steal from us is the best way to avenge our father.
Manwë [looks at Mandos, who nods his head in assent] Arafinwë, your wisdom and faith in the Valar has been a light in the darkness of the unknown, and has earned a pardon for you and your people. Therefore I decree that you will assume the throne of the Noldor and be crowned King! [gasps of relief and happiness from Noldor Elves. Cut to Indis hugging Eärwen. Anairë looks stunned, Nerdanel sits emotionless beside them.]

Ulmo: [ominously] There are many reparations to make - the Vanyar and the Teleri look with horror and revulsion upon the Noldor who remain because of the deeds your kin have done.
Aulë: [practically] For a start we must train new skilled labourers, for so many of your craftsmen left with you.
Yavanna: We have to decide what is to become of the children who were orphaned when their parents were slain at Alqualondë…
Manwë: [raises hand for silence] Well, Arafinwë, do you have anything to say?
Finarfin: [overwhelmed] Father trained my elder brothers to succeed him one day if the need arose. He never trained me. I was merely the second son of his second wife, the son who never sought glory or attention or approval as Fëanor and Fingolfin did. I do not feel prepared for the task ahead… I was called a coward when I chose to forsake the march and return to Tirion. But I think that I and those who remain behind are the ones with the real courage, for we must rebuild what others have destroyed in their vanity and pride. It will be my humble task to lead my people in this. [bows deeply]

Manwë: Let it also be known that we have heard the cry of Fëanor ‘ere he left these shores: that the Noldor should do deeds to live in song for ever. So shall it be! Costly shall those songs be accounted, and yet they shall be well bought. Even as Eru foretold to us shall beauty not conceived of previously be brought into the world, and evil yet be turned to good.
Mandos: And yet remain evil… Fëanor shall come to me soon… [cut to close-up of Nerdanel who turns pale and buries her face in her shaking hands. Fade.]

* * * * * * *

There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes

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PostPosted: Thu May 05, 2011 9:16 am 
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Cut to scene in bedchamber at Finwë’s house. Nerdanel is pacing the room, while Indis sits on the bed, trying to reason with her.
Indis: Nerdanel, dear child! We must be calm and wait…the Valar have spoken…Fëanor’s fate has been decreed.
Nerdanel: Wait? Is that all you counsel? Waiting is all I have done since my husband and sons left in haste. Fëanor has doomed them all with that terrible Oath sworn out of prideful spite.
Indis: There is nothing we can do but hope…surely the Valar will relent and let the exiles come home once Morgoth is vanquished.
Nerdanel: While I wait on these peaceful shores, my husband will be slain! Once, I shared his pride but I was the one who turned from him, angered by the strife he wilfully sowed with his kin. Yet when he called, my sons followed him; into danger, into bloodshed, into the dark wilderness of Middle-earth. How soon will it be before they too follow him to the Halls of Mandos? [fingers her necklace: a chain of white gold with seven white opals streaked with blue and silver fires.] Fëanor and I forged seven jewels, fairer than any Silmaril… created in love, carried in my willing body, borne in pain and pride. How I yearn to see them again. No matter what fell deeds they have done, they are my sons and I love them.
Indis: As I love mine. [softly] At least I have one returned safely to me. [takes Nerdanel’s hands in hers, tries to read her face, anxiously] Would you too defy the Valar and become an Exile?
Nerdanel: [shakes her head.] But I must do something…anything…I cannot sit here idly…
Indis: There is plenty of work here in Tirion to rebuild our community - [ a knock at the door interrupts her. Eärwen enters.] - I know Eärwen and Anairë would be glad of your help, and our artisans and smiths are in short supply… [looks at Eärwen who nods] ...maybe you can find solace in helping others?
Nerdanel: Lady, in truth you counsel wisely. I loved the forge, and the making of things both beautiful and useful. I shall indeed visit the smiths on the morrow, and see if I can find some task to occupy my restless mind and limbs, even if it cannot ease my aching heart. [kisses Indis on the cheek and leaves the room. Camera shift to Eärwen, who looks thoughtful and then smiles.]
Indis: And where has your mind travelled, Daughter?
Eärwen: I was just thinking that there is much to be done to restore our people here. And I believe I know how best to help. [Fade]

* * *

[Fade in to Indis’ garden. Finarfin stands near an ornamental pool, staring at the dark water. Eärwen enters left, carrying a bottle of wine and a glass.]
Finarfin: [glances at her, then back to the pool.] Well. Today went better than I had dared hope.
Eärwen: The Valar are generous with forgiveness, especially when you are truly blameless.
Finarfin: [bitter] Blameless? I was the greatest fool in a collection of fools. An ungrateful idiot who could not see this path led us only to disaster. Now it is I, who never sought leadership nor have any training for it, who must lead the shattered remnant of a once proud people through the wreckage of our world.
Eärwen: [moves closer] You will find the path.
Finarfin: [shoulders drop] Eärwen, I do not ask you to stand beside me in this. I know this is my mother’s house, but you have a home here and –
Eärwen: So you think to abandon your place by my side?
Finarfin: [shocked] No! But –
Eärwen: Am I not strong enough to be the wife of a king?
Finarfin: You are the only woman I would choose for this task. But –
Eärwen: [hands him the bottle] We have the stars, a garden to ourselves, and a bottle of your father’s best wine. Are you going to waste these gifts when we may not get another night like this for a long time?
Finarfin: Are you suggesting what I think you are?
Eärwen: Must I spell it for you? Our people need many hands to rebuild our city, and they will not spring from the ground with the wheat. Besides, I have spent too many nights alone in our bed.
Finarfin: [slow smile widens into a grin] How did I become so fortunate as to find you? [they embrace, kiss]
Eärwen: I am afraid I forgot bring something to open the bottle. It will only take a minute to –
Finarfin: [snaps off the top of the bottle with his hands] Problem solved!
Eärwen: But now we will have to finish the bottle! [Both laugh. Camera fade out.]

* * * * * * *

Fade in to the wide and expansive plain of Ard-galen. The perspective is with the camera looking from the fortress of Thangorodrim so we do not see it. We simply see a rather barren, flat plain with mountains in the far distance and a scattering of smaller rock groupings along the plain.

Slowly, almost a pinpoint, a speck of movement begins along the distant horizon. As it gets closer, we see it is a human shape. As it gets even closer, the figure of Fëanor becomes clear. He walks fast, with long and measured strides looking only forward with great purpose. His face is set hard with determination and it is obvious he is not tired or in need of rest. Behind him a group of about a dozen Noldor struggle to keep pace with him.

As he gets very close to the camera, the angle changes as he passes it and now we see the boots of Fëanor and the powerful striding legs pushing forward. The camera rises as he passes and we see the rest of his body filling up most of the centre portion of the screen. He wears a long and flowing cloak that blows with the wind around him nearly blotting out the rest of the screen for a few seconds. As he passes the cloak settles a bit and we see the Iron Mountains on the right and left sides of the screen. And as he progresses further the camera angle goes a bit higher and we get our first look at the three peaks that make up Thangorodrim. Each of their three peaks spew smoke and foul pollution which colours the dark skies with reds, purples, dirty golds and other colours. The effect is not unlike a perverted rainbow or evil light show.

Fëanor passes between two taller rock groupings and as he does so four orcs seem to detach themselves from them and come up behind him, separating Fëanor from the other Noldor who are still trailing behind. The orcs are silent and make no noise ... at least that we can detect.

Fëanor: [just above a whisper] Foul spawn of Morgoth! Are you my greeting party?

The four orcs stop in their tracks, exchange surprised looks with each other as Fëanor begins to turn around and draw his sword facing them. The four charge as one... with one blow Fëanor decapitates two in an instant... he pivots and a third swings a heavy axe at him but misses badly and stumbles on by. Fëanor swings his sword at the fourth orc severing his arm at the elbow and slicing deeply into his chest. He pulls his sword out and in one movement spins around and cuts off the remaining orc at the knees severing both his legs cleanly.

Fëanor looks at the Noldor who have caught him up, but says nothing; he turns and walks onward, sword in hand, expression the same as when we first saw him.

* * *

Cut back to Maedhros & Maglor with their units; Caranthir and Curufin have joined up with them by now and have apparently been directed to patrol the foothills, and guard the passes. Cut to clip of Celegorm’s force emerging from one of the mountain passes with the vanguard. . We hear some cheerful, banter, especially between the Twins, regarding the finishing off of any stragglers among the fleeing orcs. Celegorm approaches Maedhros who is looking decidedly out of sorts.

Celegorm: [grim satisfaction] Well met, Brother! We are here at last! Our progress was slow, but our duty satisfying. I doubt you will find any of the enemy still left with the capacity to hinder our intentions this side of the Ered Wethrin.
Maedhros: Good work. [sarcastically] I am glad one of us can still find some satisfaction in his labour.
Celegorm: [puzzled] Why the sarcasm, Brother? [looks around] And where is Father…?
Maglor: [quietly] Ada is not himself…or at least, he seems worse than usual…
Maedhros: Father has ordered us to wait here for your force; Caranthir and Curufin were sent to patrol the foothills and watch for any enemy that you might have missed, while he has advanced practically alone bar a handful of men!
Celegorm: [incredulous] What madness is this? None of us knows the enemy’s true strength…he could be walking into a trap! Did none of you have the strength to stand up to him?
Maedhros: [angrily] I tried arguing with him once before, if you remember… [rubs his chin absently] There is no arguing with Father!

[Suddenly they hear shouts from Caranthir away on the slopes. He is pointing in the direction of Angband. They turn to see what he is looking at. In the distant shadow of Thangorodrim, the broiling cloud of dust and black smoke that hovers over the peaks is glowing, with flickers of flame seemingly darting and dancing in front of the gates...]
Amras: [nervously] Perhaps it is Father is giving Morgoth a piece of his mind?
Celegorm: I doubt it…more likely it is some foul trick of Morgoth to confuse and distract us… [ Curufin comes running up, panting]
Curufin: [breathlessly] No trick, Brothers….Balrogs!!
Amrod: [horrified] Ada!
Maedhros: [taking charge] We dispense with Father’s orders NOW… [shouts to rally the Noldor soldiers] Men! To arms! Your King needs us yonder in all haste!
[the force begins to advance at great speed. Cut.]

* * *

The stars shine down upon the rocky plain of Ard-galen..The band of fleeing orcs totals less than 100 now, and are nearing the approach to Angband; they are near exhaustion, one orc in particular is moving at a fast pace than the rest but keeps hanging back; one of the other orcs yells to him:

Lug: Othrod! – go on…don’t hang about on our account…save yerself…and send back reinforcements while yer about it!
Nackzar: And warn ‘em about the flying death sticks. They’ll need plenty of shields.
Razmak: And that leader of theirs...warn ‘em about him...he fights like twenty.
Othrod: [shrugs, then nods vigorously and makes a break for the canyon leading into the mountains and the Great Gate of Angband. Lug turns back to the rest of the orcs.]
Lug: Well, lads, it’s up to us now. Let’s see if we can buy us enough time for Othrod to reach his Lordship and bring us some fresh comrades to help us deal with these mighty Elves and their bright swords! [he persuades the orcs to stand their ground and turn and prepare to fight the Noldor that are pursuing them.]
Razmak: We outnumber them and they should be tired. And help will come.

* * *

Cut back to Fëanor and about 15 Noldor as they come upon the orcs.
Fëanor: [laughs in anticipation] Come! Let us deal with the last of the vermin that have plagued us over mountain and across plain…our goal is in front of us plainly now. It will not be long before Morgoth answers for his crimes! [The Noldor eagerly close in the remaining orcs, who do not offer much resistance to begin with… eventually a couple of Noldor fall alongside the mounting bodies of the orcs.]

Suddenly there is a rumbling noise and the ground starts to tremble; the orcs look at each other and grins spread across the orcs’ faces…they start to take heart again, and renew their attack. More Noldor fall. The temperature rises and the air becomes stifling.

From out of the gates of Angband come the willing slaves of Morgoth. Not his vast army or his legions beyond number or count but a carefully selected smaller band of specialists. A score of orcs, larger than the others we have seen, taller, thicker, having no necks and arms like coiled springs upon bodies like tree trunks and legs like barrels. Each uses both hands to hold with great difficulty a heavy chain and on the end of each is a werewolf like beast writhing and struggling to break free. They salivate and drool and spittle runs to the ground and stains the earth. And behind them is smoke. Thick, dense smoke that seems to hide other shapes that move within it. Sporadic sparks of fire and light crack through the smoke at times as if a thunderstorm were beginning inside.

Fëanor orders his men into a line with only a few feet between each man. While there is a good mile between them and the advancing enemy he fears the distance will be closed quickly.

Fëanor: What arrows do we have left?
Elf 1: Less than five score my lord.
Fëanor: Wait until you can deliver a clean head shot... aim for the beast that matches up with your spot on our line. If any get through and make it to us, we finish all off before we advance of the next wave of demons.

The thick orcs advance and have to struggle even harder the closer they get to the Noldor. When they are about a quarter of a mile away they stop and as a group in unison they unchain the werewolves. Piercing howls and screams from the depths of hell itself seem to fill the plain as the creatures run at an amazing speed toward the line of Elves.
Also in unison, the Noldor wait until the beasts are about 150 yards away and Fëanor gives the command to fire.......

Each of the demonic wolves is pierced by at least one arrow, some two, which go deep into their faces, head and neck. One creature has two heads and one reaches with its mouth and rips the arrow from its companion sitting on the same neck. They barely pause or break stride save a single one who was pierced directly through the eye and now rolls in terrible agony on the hard ground.

Elf: Their eyes! must aim for the eyes!

They are now 100 yards away and a second volley takes to the air. This time half of the creatures are hit in the soft eyes and go down. The remaining are less than ten but now are some 50 yards away. A third volley goes and six more beasts hit the dirt while the remaining wolves seems to use their forearms as shields to absorb the arrows and are turned into furry pin cushions. A fourth volley cuts down all but two of them.

When they are about forty feet away the two werewolves leap into the air going at least fifteen feet high. Before any more arrows can be fired they land into several Elves. Two of the Noldor have their throats ripped instantly by one beast. Another Elf is decapitated cleanly and his body stands and wavers before falling. It seconds it seems like half of the Noldor are ripped into and shredded by the beasts who move faster than anything the Noldor have ever seen. But working together as a pack themselves, many swords find their way into the furry bodies and the werewolves are killed. Bloods seems everywhere,,,, shards of clothing is being scattered to the wind, nine Noldor lay upon the ground only one twitching in his death throes, the others without any life remaining.

Fëanor and six of his men stand and attempt to compose themselves.

Fëanor: Their keepers come. Reform the line!

The thick orcs are advancing. Each now holds the chains that held the werewolves but now have attached a Morningstar-like weapon to the end of it. In another hand they hold iron shields. The 20 orcs advance.

Fëanor: Save the remaining arrows for sure kills. Fire at will when the opportunity presents itself.

Arrows fly and most are deflected off the iron shields. A few get through and hit the thick orc bodies slowing the enemy but not stopping a single one.
Elf: They are using the shields to protect their heads and faces. Their boots stop below the knee. Aim for the upper legs…

Arrows fly and strike many of the orcs unprotected legs and groin area. Several stumble, a few fall, and the others keep advancing. They move slowly and purposefully. They shorten the length of their line where their comrades have fallen
More arrows fly and several more orcs go down. About ten remain.

Elf: Our arrows have been depleted my lord.
Fëanor: Then let them feast upon our metal. They are slow. We rush directly at them then split into two groups attacking the ends of their line. Work your way to the middle where we meet over their carcases. NOW!!!

The seven Noldor rush to meet the advancing orcs and split as ordered. Four attack one orc on the right and three attack his opposite upon the left flank. Both orcs go down before their weapon can be employed. It becomes hand to hand combat between the eight orcs and the seven Noldor. The fighting is furious. The Noldor are quick and fast parrying, pivoting, and moving in small circles confounding the larger and slower orcs. But the heavy Morningstars do their work and some find their target and several Noldor go down with heads crashed in like ripe melons. One Noldor is hit directly in the chest and his ribcage caves in like a straw rooftop hit by a boulder roaring down from a mountainside. In a few moments, all the orcs are dead or severely wounded.

Fëanor pulls his sword from the stomach of one orc upon the ground and looks up. He alone is standing. Two of his men are still alive but both have sustained serious blows that have left them with arms dangling like broken matchsticks. Both are kneeling on the ground trying to stem the flow of blood which seems to flow from countless wounds. Fëanor himself has a severe cut on his cheek and seems to have the little finger on his left hand mangled but is otherwise fine.

Fëanor goes to tend to his men taking clothing from the dead and tearing it into strips to stop the flow of blood. As he does so, one of his men stops him and points to the distance towards the Gates of Thangorodrim.

Wounded Elf: Morgoth!!!!! He comes...


There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes

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Fëanor stands and turns and we see the thick smoke cloud now crackling, spurting, spitting energy and bolts of energy, flame and lightning. And it moves and advances towards them. Fëanor furtively looks around and sees a rock outcropping a short distance away. He rushes to it and climbs atop its flat surface where he can more easily defend himself from whatever inhabits the moving storm. The storm advances upon him and stops a short distance away. A huge gust of wind, almost of hurricane force comes from the direction of the Gates and Fëanor has to throw his cloak over his face and push his back to the rock to avoid being blown down. The wind destroys the thick smoky cloud revealing four Balrogs - one much larger than the rest. Fëanor looks around and repositions himself on a rise with a wall at his back and one side. It gives him a flat perch some ten feet off the ground and will force the Balrogs to meet him head on. By the time he takes that ground the Balrogs are nearly upon him

Fëanor: Is Morgoth himself too much the coward to meet us upon his doorstep? [The Balrogs shriek and roar in response.]
Largest Balrog: We are but the first fingers of his hospitality…

One Balrog comes right up to the rocky perch that holds Fëanor and reaches for him with an outstretched claw. Fëanor swings his heavy sword and takes two talons off the arm of the Balrog who bellows out in pain and anger.

A second approaches Fëanor from an open side and spews a fiery, napalm-like substance at him from his mouth. Fëanor attempts to dodge most of it and throws up his cloak to protect his face. The cloak catches on fire.

As the first wounded Balrog attempts to attack Fëanor, the flaming cloak is stripped from his back and flung into the eyes of the creature. Another loud shriek comes forth, the gasses within the mouth of the creature are ignited by the flaming cloak and the head of the Balrog bursts into flames causing the Balrog to throw itself on the ground and lose control of itself rolling back and forth in agony.

This scene is observed by the largest of the Balrogs who has stood to the rear and not yet involved himself in the action. The other two Balrogs attack in unison the remaining Noldor who are still fighting the remnant of the orcs, and they manage to stave off most of the razor-like claws with scores of sword blows. But they are cut many times and eventually they are overwhelmed and fall.

Cut back to Fëanor: blood flows from his limbs. Parts of his clothing smoke and burn. Several times he has to rip out sections of his own hair which catch on fire. As one of the Balrogs is upended by the first Balrog thrashing upon the ground, Fëanor takes the opportunity and leaps from his perch directly at a Balrog. The shocked creature cannot react in time and the sword of Fëanor plunges deeply into a eye of the beast. Fëanor falls hard to the ground and the dying Balrog falls next to him. The larger Balrog continues to stand and watch.

The Balrog who was knocked to the ground rises up and begins to slowly and cautiously advance upon Fëanor who is still upon the ground gathering himself after the fall and hard crash. The Balrog stands over him and roars loudly raising his two arms over his head in a triumphant gesture anticipating victory. Fëanor looks around for his sword but before he can find it the Balrog begins to reach for him. All the king of the Noldor can see is the huge visage of the Balrog blocking out the night sky and closing the distance to him.

Suddenly the Balrog is picked up like a child’s rag doll and flung contemptuously against the rocks. His head crashes against a jagged rock and a loud crack ensues. The creature slumps to the ground. The fourth and last Balrog - Gothmog Lord of the Balrogs has had enough of watching and has entered the fray. The sword of Fëanor is close to the feet of Gothmog.... Fëanor begins to stand and Gothmog kicks the sword to Fëanor. They are some thirty feet apart and silently stare at each other sizing up what could be for each their final battle.

Fëanor and Gothmog join battle: the first few feints and exchanges are in slow-mo; we hear the words of the Valar as voiceover between each exchange:

Manwë: Truly, Fëanor was the mightiest… [Fëanor parries a fierce strike aimed at his head…]
Tulkas: …in body and mind… [Fëanor arches backwards, away from Gothmog’s axe as it slices across his midriff…]
Oromë: …in valour and endurance… [a whip of flames strikes him along the side of the face leaving an ugly smoking track ..]
Nienna: …in beauty and understanding… [part of his shield is shattered by a blow that would stop a truck and makes him stagger backwards...]
Aulë: …in skill, in strength and in subtlety…

[the camera starts pulling back and we see that the battle is now a vision in the centre of the Ring of Doom, being projected and shared in the minds of the Valar. Many, including Manwë are weeping at the marring of Fëanor. We realize that we are hearing the thoughts of the Valar as they converse telepathically with one another:]

Manwë: …of all the Children of Eru.
Yavanna: A bright flame burns with him; Eru only knows the works of wonder for the glory of Arda he might otherwise have wrought.
Manwë: Of all the works of Melkor, his marring is surely one of the most evil… [A collective sigh seems to emanate from the Valar, and the image slowly dissolves away.]

Mandos: [aloud now] Let us take counsel on how we might redress the evils of Melkor. We cannot utterly forsake the Noldor in exile, and the time is approaching for the second Children of Eru, the race of Men, to awaken.
Manwë: [to Varda] The lands of Middle-earth lie under the same twilight as we here. Can we not work to provide light with which the deeds of Melkor might be hindered?
Varda: Yavanna, Nienna…you have already put forth all your powers of growth and healing, is there no hope?
Yavanna: the Trees are beyond my power to save, I fear…but I have an idea…[to Nienna] Sister, let us try a different approach… [Nienna bows her head in accord, and the two rise from their thrones and ascend the mound of Ezellohar.]

Yavanna stands in the shadows and sings a gentle melody, whilst Nienna weeps over the remnants of the Trees. This continues for a while; [maybe the “Song” could be visualized so that we can see it winding around the wounded trees under Yavanna’s direction, trying to heal the wounds and nurture the faint flicker of life.] Eventually Yavanna’s voice starts to falter as she loses hope. She stops singing, and head bowed she turns away. As she takes a step back down the slope Nienna exclaims in surprise and joy.

Nienna: Sister, look! Eru has heard our pleas!

The camera closes in on Telperion: on a leafless bough a large bud has formed which opens as we watch into a great gleaming silver flower; cut to Laurelin, which produces a single golden fruit that glows brightly. The Valar come hurrying from the Ring to watch. Yavanna plucks both from the Trees, and as she does so, the Trees wither and die completely, only their lifeless stems remaining. Yavanna carries the precious flower and fruit over to a beaming Aulë, who proudly puts his arm around her. They both turn to face Varda.

Varda: [to Aulë] Master Smith, I entrust you with the task of making vessels to hold and preserve the radiance of this fruit and this flower, for I am going to set them as lamps in the heavens that will shine far brighter than my ancient stars… [cut]

* * * * * * *

Cut to Fëanor’s workshop. The forge is blazing, and a large crucible is bubbling slowly on an iron harness over the fire. Nerdanel is carving a reverse into a piece of marble. She is working carefully, but seems frantic at the same time. Her appearance shows she has been working long; she’s hot, sweaty, streaked with soot, and looks years older than she did when we last saw her.

Camera pans back to reveal other blocks of marble with similar carvings. Now we see these are the faces of Noldor Elves. We recognize Fingon, Galadriel, Aegnor, and Turgon among them. Shift to door. Varda knocks, and then enters when Nerdanel does not respond.

Varda: [examining the marble moulds] Daughter of Mahtan, I think your talents exceed your father’s.
Nerdanel: Lady, I have little time for conversation.
Varda: But to what purpose?
Nerdanel: I will not leave us in darkness. [brushes the marble with a cloth. Nods. Takes the crucible, grunting from its weight. It is filled with molten silver. She carefully fills each mould.]
Varda: [soft, parental smile] And did you think we truly sat uncaring that the light had been stolen? Aulë is even now fashioning the finest settings for great new lights that will shine for all time. He could find use for your skills in his task, I know.
Nerdanel: Lord Aulë’s lights will be marvellous, but they are for all and special to none. [lifts one mould, pours out the unset silver. A thin coating of silver is left on the mould. Replaces it, moves to the next.] I would have these works for the Noldor alone, so that those who have left us will not be forgotten as the years pass and the edge of our sorrow is dulled by time and new joys.
Varda: I understand, Daughter. But you have time yet to complete your great work. Do not exhaust yourself in –
Nerdanel: Do not think to order me about, Lady of the Stars! This is my workshop, not yours. Mine and Fëanor’s. Here I am neither child nor servant to do as I am bidden!
Varda: [nods, exits. Camera follows her.]

[Outside workshop. Indis and Eärwen wait in the garden, looking worried.]

Indis: [sadly] She will not leave her work?
Varda: Not even for the promise of a place with Aulë.
Eärwen: How long can she last? At the pace she keeps . . .
Varda: Nerdanel is a fit mate for Fëanor. Her spirit is as fierce as his, if tempered by more understanding of others’ hearts. Like two halves of a single whole they are, never complete without the other. [cut]

* * *

Fade int to clips of Aulë fashioning ship-like vessels for the fruit and flower of Laurelin and Telperion. They are brought before Manwë and the assembled Valar and Maiar for blessing.

Manwë: [takes the silver flower and places it in the vessel.] Flower of Blessed Telperion, I name you Isil the Sheen…Moon. [takes golden fruit and places it in the other vessel:] Fruit of Hallowed Laurelin, I name you Anar the Fire-golden…Sun.
Varda: These lamps I will set high above the girdle of the Earth, but I will need devoted guides that are willing to steer the vessels continually on their appointed course. Are any among us prepared to take on such responsibility? [murmured voices of assembled Maiar are heard, as they whisper and glance at each other. Eventually a female Maiar steps forward with downcast eyes.]

Maiar: [bows to Varda] My Lady, I am Arien. In the days of the Trees I tended the golden flowers in the gardens of the Lady Vána, and watered them with the bright dews of Laurelin. I would be honoured to guide the vessel of the Sun. I do not fear the heats of Laurelin, nor am I hurt by them because I am a fire spirit beneath this raiment. [she raises her eyes and we see in their brightness the body of flame burning within. Varda nods.]

Another Maia , who has been gazing at Arien with undisguised longing, blunders forward, dropping to one knee.. He is dressed as a hunter, with a silver bow:

Maiar 2: If you please, Great Ones, my name is Tilion. I am a Maiar of Oromë, though when I tired of the hunt I often used to go to the pools of Estë and lie down to rest in the soft silver light of Telperion. I can think of no greater honour than to be given the task of tending for ever the last Flower of Silver.

Varda: Then so be it. Isil the Moon shall rise first into the realm of the stars, since Telperion was the elder of the Trees, and Anar the Sun shall follow after. The two shall ever be aloft, but not together; Anar shall mount the heavens in the East, through the Gates of Morning, and traverse the sky westwards to the Door of Night. Then shall she pass under the earth to begin the journey again in the East. Isil shall journey likewise, but rise only after Anar has descended from the heavens. This way the world shall still have a time of shadow and half-light for rest and sleep.

[Varda gestures to Tilion to follow her. They move over to where the vessel containing Isil is standing. Varda outstretches her arms, her eyes closed as she concentrates her power; her song weaves itself around Isil, then as Varda raises her arms heavenward the vessel begins to rise into the air above the heads of the Valar and Maiar. Varda opens her eyes and nods at Tilion with a smile. He shed his “Eldar” raiment, and becomes a shimmering body of silver light which shoots upwards after the vessel of the Moon. As he reaches it the Moon is enveloped in the silver light, and the camera follows its progress until it reaches the apex of its course. The land below is bathed in silver moonlight.]
Varda: Tilion shall steer the Moon on this course seven times, to accustom Middle-earth to such brightness after its long twilight. Then shall Anar the Sun be made ready and rise in its fiery glory to herald the awakening of Men.
Mandos: And now shall Melkor once again see how good is born from the evil of his deeds! [Fade]

* * * * * * *

[Now we return to the fight between Fëanor and Gothmog combining it with quotes from Mandos, and past life glimpses from Fëanor’s storied history in sepia-coloured tones:]

We cut back to the Plains before Angband - Fëanor and Gothmog are already engaged in combat. They parry back and forth with each getting in a strike or two and both manoeuvre over the landscape for an advantage..... Fëanor fends off a particularly hard blow from the fist of Gothmog and is driven to one knee... before he can rise or recover Gothmog opens his mouth and expels a napalm like fire that is aimed directly at Fëanor’s head. He raises his shield which blocks most of it but some gets into his hard and upper shoulders and burns his face. Fëanor rolls to the ground to put out the flames and begins to run loose dirt into his hair and face to put out the flames.

We see Fëanor with his back pushed hard up against rock wall with sweat and blood streaming down his face.... one ear hangs ragged touching his cheek..... [then again the slow-motion part] Gothmog exhales a fiery napalm like substance at him and he leaps to escape it ... some of it scorches him and he crashes hard to a level below...
we see Fëanor laying on the ground trying to shake off his pain; he sees the ghostly figure of Mandos, uttering the words as he looks down upon Fëanor...

Mandos: “Tears unnumbered ye shall shed….”
[the scene of Fëanor on the ground dissolves into quick, almost photographic sepia-toned clips of the sadness in Fëanor’s life: the death of his mother; seeing his father’s ravaged body; his banishment and estrangement from Nerdanel, the moment he thought Amras had been killed on the ships, etc]

A loud roar will cover the theatre and we see Fëanor starting to rise to face Gothmog again......The fight continues... Fëanor uses a longer lance to spear Gothmog in the stomach, doubling the larger beast over.....

Mandos: “On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth…and upon all that follow them shall it be laid also…”

[another sepia-toned flash series of clips of Fëanor and his sons – holding newborn Maedhros; fixing harp for Maglor; teaching Celegorm to hunt; sparring with Caranthir; working with Curufin in his workshop; playing with the Twins]

Cut back to Fëanor rushing towards the injured Balrog waving his sword over his head and attempting to strike a death blow. With cat-like reflexes and speed which belies his size, Gothmog spins and his tail catches Fëanor across the chest and knocks him a good twenty feet crashing against a rock wall. As he hits, the image of Mandos appears again

Mandos: “Your Oath shall drive you, and yet betray you…”
[Clips of the naming of Morgoth; the Oath-taking; the kinslaying; the betrayal of Fingolfin’s people; burning the ships]

Fëanor begins to rise from the ground, his left arm hanging broken and crushed like a broken doll’s limb at his side.... he tries to pick up his shield but cannot move his fingers to do so. Gothmog has an axe in his fist and swings it directly at the chest of Fëanor who dodges it but in doing so plunges some distance off the rock to the ground below hitting hard and rolling. We see Mandos in the corner of the screen:

Mandos: “To evil end shall all things turn that begin well…”
[clips of Fëanor writing with the Tengwar; working with Mahtan, crafting the Palantíri and Silmarils; maybe we see Fëanor at the height of his powers getting the admiration of a huge throng of Noldor almost to the point of worship, contrasted with his banishment; Fëanor in love with Nerdanel, their marriage ceremony, the pride at the birth of their children [giving her the necklace?] and their sad parting... the Silmarils replacing her in his affections?]

Fëanor is back on the ground, barely conscious, he rises very shakily and tries to lean against a large rock. Gothmog roars and reaches a large clawed hand towards him..... Fëanor picks up his sword and in one clean motion slices deeply into the beast’s clawed hand, causing Gothmog to pull back the hand and the sword with it. Another blast of fire hits Fëanor and he dives to the ground.

Mandos: “For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death’s shadow…”
[clip of slaying Teleri ; Maybe here we could also have glimpses of the future for Fëanor’s benefit – he can see what will happen to his sons: Maedhros with only one hand, bloodied and battered; Curufin shooting Beren and capturing Lúthien; Celegorm and Dior slaying each other in Doriath; Maglor perhaps hacking down Elves in Sirion and discovering Elros and Elrond cowering in a corner; ]

The screen again is filled with colour and we see Gothmog throw all the weight and power of his body against the rock formation that Fëanor is using for protection. It causes many pieces to break and shatter and Fëanor is caught under a small landslide of rock, burying him partway.

Mandos: “Slain ye shall be: by weapon, by torment and by grief…”
[images stroking Nerdanel’s hair, Finwë’s ruined body and finally Morgoth, with the Simarils in his iron crown, flash into his mind.]

Gothmog begins to move towards the crushed Fëanor but is suddenly hit by many arrows, some striking him in the face and near the eyes. He sees the sons of Fëanor and others running towards him firing again and again. Gothmog attempts to grab towards Fëanor but is hit again by another volley... he turns and bellows a loud roar tinged with smoke and fire and leaves back in the direction of Angband.

The sons start hastily digging their father out of the rubble, and they bear his semi-conscious, mortally wounded body away to safety. He has several burns to his face and torso, a smashed leg and hand, lots of lacerations, torn scalp, one ear hanging by a few threads of skin, perhaps a broken nose or smashed teeth, his body twisted from all the damage. His punctured organs are causing internal bleeding… One of the Sons brushes rock chips off his face, someone says "Ada?", and Fëanor opens his eyes. Focus on his eyes in his bloody and battered face. Fade…]

* * * * * * *

Fade in on Noldor on Ice Fields. Stars shine overhead, and there is little wind. Focus on Idril, walking beside Aredhel and Turgon. Idril’s foot slips and she falls with a splat on wet ice.

Aredhel: [picks Idril up, laughing.] All this time and you have not learned to walk upon ice yet?
Idril: [confused] But the ice is wet!
Aredhel: [touches ice, finds it is indeed covered with a thin layer of water. Rises, feels soft wind.] Ada!
Fingolfin: [breathes deeply] Smell the wind. There is forest near us.

[The ice begins to give way to solid ground, scrubby plants cling sparsely to the rocks and boulders. Ahead low hills start to rise. Fingolfin calls a halt. Fingon and Aredhel come to his side:]
Fingon: [wearily] Have we truly reached the end of this accursed ice at last?
Aredhel: [excitedly] Ada, you have done it! You have led your people triumphantly to Middle-earth-
Fingolfin: [harshly] - and at what cost, Daughter? [looks behind him at Turgon, trudging with Idril, some way back. He turns again to Aredhel, who bites her lip in chagrin. Fingolfin sighs.] We have lost many good people, Aredhel. I pray we never again encounter such suffering; no hardship shall seem insurmountable after this. I wonder if the bards will sing of my foolishness in years to come instead…
Fingon: [lays hand on Fingolfin’s shoulder] No, Ada, you are the strongest, most steadfast, and most valiant of Finwë's sons! One day the bards will sing of you as one of the greatest warriors of all Eru’s Children. [Fingolfin returns the gesture, smiling sadly. As they stand there they become aware of a lightening of the sky. Everyone looks up and gasps in delight as the silvery Moon rises above the horizon.]
Fingon: [points to horizon] Look there!
Turgon: [comes running with Idril in his arms] What is it?
Galadriel: It shines like a flower of Telperion, but set in the sky . . .
Aegnor: It is light, whatever the source.
Fingolfin: [focus on his face bathed in the moonlight] It is a sign of hope! The Valar have not abandoned us even when we turned our backs foolishly on them! [draws silver horn, blows it. The horn call echoes over the ice. Noldor cheer.] Today we march back into Middle-earth, and we will not stop until we have come unto the very doors of Angband. If we meet Fëanor on the way, so much the better….
Fingon: [grimly, to Aredhel] ‘though not for Fëanor!
[Aredhel nods in agreement. Noldor march more vigorously, cheering and chanting Fingolfin’s name. Camera shift right to where small bushes poke through the ice. Fade.]

* * * * * *

Cut to aerial shot of Fëanor’s litter being carried in procession by his sons and the remainder of the Noldor force following subdued behind on an upward leading path in the lower slopes of the mountain pass. Camera closes in on Fëanor’s litter. His breathing is harsh and irregular and his skin is deathly pale. Suddenly Fëanor gestures for the litter bearers to stop, his body wracked with a convulsion. As the fit eases we see blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Amras wipes his father’s mouth and he exchanges a look with Amrod, who shakes his head. The sons gather round the litter in concern, muttering softly, each wondering how long their father has left. Maedhros kneels at Fëanor’s side, grasping his hand.

Fëanor: [seems to rally a little. To Maedhros:] Raise me a little, so I might look one last time on the last defence of my enemy…[Celegorm and Maedhros gently prop Fëanor up enough for him to look out over the plain of Ard-galen. The camera pans across the wasteland, until it comes to rest on the peaks of Thangorodrim. Cut back to Fëanor’s face as he speaks:]
Fëanor: [sighs heavily] It is as the Valar warned me: I see now, with the eyes of death, that the Noldor will never throw down the dark towers unaided. [looks around beside him] Where is my sword?
Caranthir: [reaches for it, and places it in Fëanor’s right hand] Here, Ada..
Fëanor: [grasps the hilt of the sword; gathers his strength, and raises the sword to the sky, crying aloud in anger and despair:] Morgoth…Bauglir…I curse your name three times! [the effort is too much and he collapses back, gasping for breath, the blood bubbling in his lungs. Celegorm lays him down again]

Fëanor: The Oath!…I have failed… [his breaths shorten, and it is an effort to speak] My sons…I beg you…fulfil the Oath in my stead…avenge me! [Cut to sons who each kneel around the litter, head bowed and hand on chest in affirmation. Fëanor sighs, and the tension seems to leave his body. The camera focuses in on Fëanor’s face, as he raises his eyes to the sky. Then the angle changes so that we are seeing through Fëanor’s eyes, and we hear his thoughts as a voiceover:]

The air is heavy and the stars are faint, even the voices of my sons are distant. I stare at the stars, those which my father was born beneath, those that he loved and honoured, the stars that emboldened him on the Long Journey. I want to close my eyes, to shudder, to know that I failed him in life, but my eyes remain open…

I should have let him love and to be happy, should have given him as much as he gave me. Instead I forced him to choose, son against son…
Insanity took me at his murder and now I die with bloodied hands and soul. Father, do you still love me?

[A face peers at Fëanor, concerned, but it is blurry. A hand comes into view, with a wet cloth, squeezing cooling drops of water gently onto his brow.]

Fëanor: [whispers aloud] Nerdanel, is that you?[back to thoughts voiceover] No… No… I forget… Nerdanel is not here. Nerdanel the wise stood strong where I faltered. One of our sons, then,.. Maglor…the one with her voice…

Fëanor: [tries to speak again] Tell her… [His voice rasps] tell her that I will wait for her when her time comes. Tell her... [Now with every word spoken, more blood is lost.] …that she is my everything, and I am a fool…tell her that I love … [The final words are left unspoken...We continue to hear his thoughts as he tries to make out his sons’ faces:]

I have cursed them, damned them and bound them to suffer. My own sons… I struggle to breathe, to release them from the oath I forced upon them but instead I choke. I am dying…Please, my sons…. Forgive me… [Fëanor breathes his last.]

Maedhros reaches out to close his father’s eyes, and hesitates, seeing the piercing brightness still in the dead Elf’s eyes. As he stares it seems as though he can see flames dancing behind those eyes. He pulls back, suddenly afraid, and we see Fëanor’s spirit rise from his corpse as a body of flame, the shell of his body turning to ash as its soul leaves it. The body of fire is borne away on the breeze to the West like a wreath of flame.

End of Episode

There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes

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