1. Slouching Toward Gondolin
I checked the edge of my blade against my thumb – it felt bright and perfect and fine. I leaned it gently against the arm of the sleeping body beside me – it drew a line of dark beaded blood without waking him. I was very pleased. Soon I would be happy to know that those I allowed to encounter its edge could feel it, but I wanted to be sure the razor keenness would buy my way into the city first.
After that there was little to do but savour the flickering shadows, the scent of heat, the taste of oil on steel that rose all around me… and think about the surprise the rising sun would bring to Gondolin. Would they have cherished their watchful silence tonight if they knew that the song that greeted the morning sun would be in our tongue – the scream of battle, the screech of shock, the shriek of death. Nost-na-Lothion! Good! Let the flowers bloom on your ill-gotten graves.
Smug elves - think they have it all figured out, who they are, what they are, why. They think they invented beauty, and no one else can see it. Yet they are so blind to others they can only see beauty in themselves. They pride themselves on the way they delight in every little blade of grass – yet they look upon our dark Lord and fail to see the glow of his ferocious fire. They woke up one night and someone told them they were born for love and purpose – that the very stars were made for them – and they believe it! Well, that’s how elves are – tell them they are wonderful, the crown of creation – why would they question that? It does seems like a great way to shut them up. What do they know? They woke in the dark, and they are being kept in the dark. Ask them about their souls and where their precious fëas will end up and see if they still seem so superior.
We know where we stand – squarely on the ground. We have no promises of time or of the West. We have to take what we want now.
I don’t need some stupid story about how I came to be. I am. And if I wanted a creation, what fiction could I devise to rival my reality as I ride towards Gondolin in the belly of death, wedged in tooth by claw with – more death!! The shrieking sound of metal in motion, the taste of copper and steel like blood in the back of the throat, the waves of heat that rise off the demonspawn and their whips – the press of immense yet indifferent hate.
I ride in the crucible of my conception. My deeds are my birth, my breath. I am not a soldier, I am a weapon, razor-sharp and fearless! What sword was ever born in a finer flame? If those close-minded elves can’t see the beauty of sparks flying outward from the forge – can’t see them as the stars our maker set for us… well, those who refuse to see fall into their own folly.
I felt my blood and anger rise as the belly of the metal serpent roared against the walls of their stupidity. What will protect you now from our risen loathing? The hot blood-filled air of the city felt cold as the serpent shed its skin to release our wrath. We are more than ready.
They try to tell us we were made from elves. Think on that, you puny, leaf-eared peace-seekers, when you think about beauty and purpose. You were just the raw material. You are pig-iron and we are steel. We have been remade, refined, perfected - fashioned, formed and forged for fury.
Here we come.
This is for Jim, who thought I could do it...