The Circles: Book 1: The Triumph of The Shadow: 32. Mistress of the Eastern Wind

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32. Mistress of the Eastern Wind

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The chamber lay clutched in ebony darkness as the Dark Lord listlessly reclined upon the couch. His blackened form was unclad, save for a light sable covering which had been thrown carelessly over His loins. A door slid open soundlessly and a shadowy shape eased into the room, fading into the darkness as the door closed behind.

Like a gentle breeze upon a balmy summer night, the graceful figure glided to Him upon silent feet, slightly stirring the still ethers of the darkened chamber. She sank to her knees before His couch and pressed her soft crimson lips upon those of black. Yet there was no response, no whisper of greeting, no soft utterance of pleasure, though her lips were sweet and tasted of honeyed balm. She spread her wings over Him, the black flesh draping over the reclining figure like a blanket of soft, supple leather.

Still He said naught. She sensed His melancholy, the great brooding sorrow. It swelled up from His heart, enveloping her in a well of sadness deep and eternal, and her spirits sank into abysmal despair. The features of her wan face were soft and sad as she looked down upon the grieving figure of the Dark Lord, and her eyes were filled with deep concern. A slender hand reached up and long, tapered fingers gently touched His cheek. Claws of iron which had oft been stained red with the blood of the hapless glided carefully across His dusky face, in fear of marring the skin of the God before her. Like double curtains of somber night, His eyelids veiled faintly glowing embers of fire. The wavering fingers of the woman of secret shadow discovered a tear at the corner of her Master's eye.

"Artano," she whispered. "You weep!" Great compassion swelled up inside her chest, and she wished she could take away all His pain, for One so righteous and just as He did not deserve the anguish which now smote the very core of His being. Indeed, the ages had been long and wearying, and though there were triumphs, the innumerable years were filled with many disappointments.

She breathed in deeply and then exhaled, her breath coming out as a ragged sigh. Ever did the Valar seek to destroy the designs of the Wise, first those of Melkor, and then those of Sauron, seeking to replace them with monstrosities of their own creation. Arda was born in the midst of this strife, and the infernal meddling of the Valar was the cause of all trouble and woe. The others had resented the creativity and ingenuity of Melkor, for it far surpassed their own, and they were exceedingly jealous of Him. The mountains that Melkor created - great structures of primal beauty - the Valar threw down, and when He sought to aid them in their own creations, they reviled Him, saying that He devastated their handiwork rather than improving it.

Ever did the Valar scheme and plot for the downfall of those possessing true wisdom, first in the making of the world, and even now in the Age of Men. They were to blame for this latest defeat!

"How my heart cries out for Your suffering and sorrow!" she whimpered, embracing her Lord's pain as her own. "The Old Enemies are at work here; I feel their hatred and jealousy as a sharp and bitter knife." She thought of the leering faces of the Hated Ones, those who walked twistedpaths bathed in light and adorned themselves in robes of self-righteous piety. How they must take especial delight in this day of woe! "Always will those who are righteous suffer and be persecuted; such has it always been even ere Time began," she sighed as she stroked His cheek, her voice filled with sadness.

Another tear slid down His face, a trickle of liquid light, radiant and sparkling against an ebony cheek. Her pointed tongue darted out and touched the golden droplet, tasting of the essence of His suffering. Once He had been handsome with alabaster skin over a face slightly elvish in design, but now His darkened visage was no more than a base mimicking of former glory.

"You are beautiful, my Lord," she purred softly as she licked His tears away, her tongue gently lapping at the richness of His pain. "Your face is a delight to my eyes, and my heart beats just as fast for You as it did when I was Your messenger. Though we dwell in the realm of Time and watch as the years go by, though we may take different forms or have forms robbed from us, You shall always be fair to me and I shall always worship You, my Beloved," she murmured, smiling affectionately, her eyes aglow with love.

Impassive, He did not seem to notice when her lithesome form slid onto His couch and gracefully draped over His body, her wings spreading out around them like a covering. Gently she cradled His head in her hands as she kissed His lips, His cheeks, His forehead, the lids of His closed eyes. Then once again her lips went to His mouth, and she kissed Him long and tenderly.

Weeping silently, He said not a word and lay as one dead.

"My Beautiful One! You are the love of my heart! Please do not weep!" she pled desperately as she kissed away the newly fallen tears.

"There is naught else that I can do, for none have understanding of My plight. The only One Who could has been taken, cruelly wrested away! There is only trifling comfort now for Me. I cannot bear this frustration, this merciless denial!" He clenched His great hands into fists. "I feel driven now to destroy all Arda for if My plans cannot come to fruition, what is there left to Me?"

He sounded fey, savage and intractable as He clenched and unclenched His fists viciously. "I would wrench all men, plants and animals from this earth and cast them into the maelstrom of My fury! I would drag the stars from the heavens and beat them into dust with My bloodied hands! All have refused to acknowledge My great love for Middle-earth, and perhaps now I shall destroy everything! And then at last, all Valinor would lie beneath My feet, and I would crush My kin under My boots!"

Stricken with fear, the woman of shadow and mist trembled against the Dark Lord's body, and felt deep dread within her being that Artano would go mad, as had Melkor when His enemies had constantly impeded His grand designs. There, near the end, the Blessed Melkor's moods had shifted wildly, and He had rambled and ranted, frothing at the mouth in furious bursts of temper, driven to the limits of His endurance by the injustices of His kin.

Then Artano's great arms reached up and grasped her, nearly suffocating her. He clung to her desperately, weeping, begging for comfort and sympathy in His fit of rage and grief. "Thuringwethil," His soul spoke in anguish. "My nymphlet, how I have suffered today; only you would know!"

"I heard Your calls, my Lord, Your cries of agony and I wept long until I could weep no more," she whispered in agonized compassion, her head resting upon His broad chest, her slender body trapped in the warm prison of His arms. "My tears were without number and I thought to save them in a silver phial before they ceased. I will give them to You, for they are a gift of my eternal love and devotion. Though my power be feeble, take the tears which I have shed and use them for Your solace. If they should add even infinitesimally to Your great power, Your handmaiden would be pleased."

Another tear crept from under a closed eyelid and she gasped for breath. Her wings twitched and spasmed involuntarily, for her form was slowly being crushed. She was caught between the strength of His sinewy arms and the rock of His mighty chest, and when He squeezed her, it was like the massive plates of the earth when they thrust against one another in grinding fury. He held her life in His hands and could destroy her at any moment, driving her spirit from the fleshly form which housed it and sending her naked into the dark. But if she was to be slain in the arms of the One whom she loved as He sought comfort in her, she would perish in bliss, overcome with happiness and joy as she gasped her last breath.

"My Lord, a boon, a favor, I pray!" she panted, her eyes watering from the intense pressure put upon her weakening body. "Let me have but one of Your tears, and I will keep it forever!"

"'Tis a great boon you ask of Me and not many would dare! I grant it, but can you sustain such power!"

"Great is the might in but a single drop of Your tears, but I shall take it and more," she whispered gratefully, her voice strained.

"But a single tear is all that I will yield!" He finally loosened His tight grasp upon her and she lay there, panting in relief. Then she kissed Him, her tongue darting out and tickling His cheek.

"Such a great pity to waste them soddening the covers," she murmured as she lowered her head to His neck, nuzzling it with her gentle touches, the tears from her dark eyes falling like a silken rain. "My Lord, but a few drops more. Grant this wish to me, Your handmaiden. I beg You!"

An arrogant look spread over His face and He smiled. "For much to be granted, much must be given in return. Can you give what I demand?"

"Anything that You wish, I will give it if it lies within my power. You already own my heart, my body and my soul." Raising her head slightly, she bestowed upon His neck a series of kisses, and then licked over His smooth flesh slowly and tantalizingly, a promise of delights to come.

Supporting herself upon her hands, she raised herself up and smiled down at Him. Then, reaching into the plunging neckline of her sheer silken gown, she took a crystal phial from betwixt her full, pale breasts. Pulling the stopper from the neck of the vessel, she put the opening to His cheek as the golden teardrops trickled into it like dew falling from the leaves of Laurelin. The phial soon glowed and sparkled with a golden gleam, and the tiny beacon illuminated the room with a pure and holy light. When the vessel was half-full, the flow then ceased and Thuringwethil returned the stopper to the crystal bottle, sequestering it within the deep valley of her snowy breasts.

"Sweet, sensuous vampire," Sauron sighed plaintively. "My love of Arda shall be My undoing! Always have I loved that above all things, and have given up much for her!" His eyes flicked open. "Surely you do not think that I mourn only for My own defeat!"

"Nay, Lord, Your Mind is high and noble, and far above the realm of the temporal," she replied softly as she lowered herself back down upon her Master's chest. "You are the rightful ruler of Middle-earth and all of Arda in the stead of our Master, and You think of the whole spectrum of Time and Being rather than mere fragments that are of no significance in the span of things. The full range of Your sublime thought is deep in its depth and vast in its width, O Lord, and the full extent of Your Mind is unfathomable to me, one of the lowest of Your kindred!" Her breathless words were passionate, filled with pride and adoration, and she rejoiced that she had rebelled against her first master, Manwë Súlimo, and followed in the footsteps of Melkor many long ages before.

"My sister, My treasured bat-fell. I have great need of your comfort."

"My Brother, I offer You my body for Your pleasure," she purred seductively, her heart pounding. "In each other, let us forget the great sorrows that plague this age, at least for a time."

"Wanton," He laughed. "You have always been My desire... My love... My lust."

She laughed merrily and put her finger upon His blackened lips. "Do not try to deceive Your Thuringwethil. I know Your desires are not for me only, and that You do, on occasion, enjoy the favors of those spirits of flame, like unto You, but lesser. But I shall serve You better in bed than any of them!" she boasted saucily, gusts of passion sweeping about her heart. "Though they are blazing, furious in their natures as the spirits of fire are, I am of the spirit of the wind, mists and vapors and I will soothe Your sorrows." She lighted a playful kiss upon the Dark Lord's lips, her own insatiable fires enveloping her warm body like smokes and steams.

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound, and she was pleased. She was even more pleased when the ebony chamber began to glow slightly, pulsing with a golden light that rippled and echoed from the walls and turned them into shimmering patterns of beauty. Her lips lit up in a radiant smile as she looked about the chamber, her sharp, saliva-drenched fangs gleaming like pearls in the flickering light.

There she beheld, unfolding before her eyes, scenes painting themselves upon the faceted, glowing walls, woven amid the tapestries of inlaid jewels. There were tales that were infinitely varied, changing in hue and in texture, never the same, always changing, always varying to suit the mood of the Master. Lying across her Lord's chest, Thuringwethil trembled in astonishment with the impact of rediscovered memories as the portraits of the past flickered upon the walls.

There were great vistas of panoramic beauty that showed celestial beings, taking shape as though from a golden mist. As the images of them appeared upon the walls of the chambers, a beautiful harmonic singing filled the room and an enrapturing scent wafted upon the air. The voices were exquisitely lovely, but the melodies that they sang were weak in thought and poorly conceived. The repetitious monotony of their song lulled on languorously with a dreamy quality of little substance.

Then somewhere in the background, there was a changing melody and a strident, brave Voice dared to sing out amidst the limpid, bland harmony of the others. This new melody was bold, resourceful, energetic, and ingenious with a great pitch and hue of variety. Thuringwethil's heart began to beat faster, thumping in time with the pulsing rhythm. The others now were sung to silence or reduced to intoning discordant rhythms that could not match the strength of the new music. When they did attempt to sing, they were ineffectual, impotent, without depth or meaning, and soon they had dwindled to a cacophony of placidity and vapid, jangling tunes that were of little consequence and of no energy, and surely not of delight.

Then the wondrous music was silenced by a great Thundercloud of dark portent. Sauron winced in pain and His great chest heaved as the torrents of golden tears rushed in a cascade of sorrow down His face. Thuringwethil cringed and pressed her body against the protecting warmth of her fiery Master.

"I can bear no more!" He screamed and flung His hand across His eyelids. "Let the visions cease!"Grief overpowered Him.

In fear, Thuringwethil slid down His body and huddled nervously upon His mighty chest, her own body trembling in little bursts of dread. Gradually Sauron's weeping ceased. Then the music began anew, playing itself upon the walls of His chamber. The lone Singer sang boldly once again, and this time His melody was stronger than before.

The new music both soothing and invigorating, Thuringwethil calmed and stretched out luxuriously upon her Master's body like a great cat sunning itself. She put her fingers on Sauron's mouth again and was delighted to find that the corners of His lips were slightly upturned. "He is smiling," she thought, her heart swelling with gladness.

She rejoiced as she looked at the walls in pleased delight, for the vista was changing. The melody in all its harmonic wonder was joined by other voices and now the strong, brave Voice did not sing out alone. Others more attune to His music joined with Him and their song was one of haunting beauty. Awe surged through her being as she listened to the voice of this One who dared sing a different song, to rebel against those which followed blindly like sheep.

Then, like a thunderclap of wrath, the music was halted again, and Sauron wept once more. Thuringwethil's spirits sank and disappointment quenched her elation. There was now only crushing silence and a great, resounding, echoing emptiness created by the void of the brave, courageous melody.

"I die!" Sauron shrieked. "I can bear no more! Enough of this, for it tears My heart from My body!"

The scene on the golden walls changed again. Thuringwethil saw a great Figure, magnificent in power, clad in black armor, striding across a tangled landscape. His great hands reached out and clasped the raw essence of Arda and turned the banal light of the Eldar into a newfound glory of dark beauty. Fierce became their power, coursing with the strength of the One that endued them with new life. In this mighty bursting surge of creative power, the race of the Orcs was created.

Thuringwethil praised the might of the hands of Melkor, the very essence of untamed fury which dwelt within them. They could build and they could destroy; they could rend and they could bless. His hands could be gentle when He wanted them to be, for they had explored the secret places of her body many times, leaving her whimpering and pleading, begging for His touches.

With a sigh of yearning, Thuringwethil closed her eyes and thought once again of Him - Melkor the Potent, He Who Rises Ever in Might, the Lord of Wonder, the Master of the Fates of Arda. Silver tears welled up and escaped from the confines of dark lashes as billowing clouds of sorrow were stirred by sad breezes of melancholy. Memories of the old days came to her and she recalled how she would journey to and fro from Tol Sirion to Angband, bringing with her messages and leaving behind memories of wild nights of passion.

She was the trusted messenger of Melkor and Sauron, and both her Masters had been exceedingly pleased with both her speed in delivering their missives and the sensuous pleasures which she brought Them in Their beds. Both she had loved equally, though the greater part of her worship was, of course, given to Him Who was the more powerful. She opened her eyes and smiled through her tears, glad of the chance to behold Melkor again, even if it was only in a bejeweled vision.

Thuringwethil knew in her heart that Artano's will, that His mind, that His power brought these changes in the gems of the walls. Being a spirit of far lesser might, she did not have this strength, nor did she have this creativity, this purity, this ingenuity of intellect and of mind. True, she could weave spells of her own in the slivern halls which her Master had given her as a sanctuary, but naught she could do would ever match His divine power. How she ever delighted in Artano's touch and thrilled to be in His presence! She loved Him and all that He stood for, and cherished Him just as much as she had His Master. Now she lay upon the Dark Lord, straddling Him, comforting Him as He wept softly, holding her and directing the pictures that swirled about her on the beautiful, enchanted walls.

The bat-fay looked on in dismay as the scene began to transform once again. She was terrified at these new visions and dreaded the thought of reliving such painful memories. There He was again, Melkor the Mighty One, but this time He was brought low, defeated, humiliated. Thuringwethil watched as He was dragged forth from His chambers far below the ruin of the Thangorodrim, betrayed by His brothers and sisters.

The story was well-known to her, and she knew that Melkor would be condemned to a terrible fate. Though spasms of sorrow and anger rippled through her heart, she was thankful that she had never seen this great tragedy, for she knew that if she had, the sorrow of it would have been the ending of her being. She knew what had befallen Melkor, though; Artano could commune with Him in thought. He had seen fit to tell her, though it wracked His body with great, heaving sighs to recount the tale.

The Great One, the Benefactor of Arda, had been brought low by the jealousy of His kindred. Though He had sued for pardon and forgiveness, still the Valar betrayed Him, for ever were they wicked at heart. There, in the depths of His own mines beneath the wreckage of Thangorodrim, even as He was bending upon His knees in surrender, His perfidious brethren had laid hands upon Him.

Then, as Melkor had been held down by Aulë and Oromë, Tulkas had slowly hewn His legs from Him, laughing as he had done so, while Manwë wrung his hands and cried tears of false pity. Great was the agony of Melkor and His shrieks of anguish rocked the very foundations of His fortress. Yet His piteous wails brought Him no mercy, for the Valar possessed none in their blackened hearts. Then He was hurled upon His face and bound in the chain of Angainor. His iron crown was beaten into a collar and fastened about His neck, as He was forced to bow His head upon His knees in utmost degradation.

Thus was Melkor taken to Mahanaxar, the Ring of Doom, and then cast through the Gates of Night into the darkness of the Void. Great was the feasting and merriment in the halls of Valinor after the deed had been done. The Valar and all their folk had made merry and reveled, but Manwë had held his head in his hands and wept great copious tears of false sorrow. Nienna, wreathed in black, had wrung her hands, ripped at her hair and wailed in deep pity for Melkor, her moaning cries in stark contrast to lively music and boisterous laughter which rose from the City of Many Bells.

Though Melkor had been defeated and they, the viperous brothers and sisters, the false gods, had the triumph, they had not truly won. Melkor's spirit was indomitable, unquenchable and unbreakable, and His heart and mind would hold fast forever against the scoundrels who had dared tried to bring him so low.

"May they all die in the rot and corruption which fills their blackened hearts!" Thuringwethil spat contemptuously, her sorrow-drenched voice faltering and cracking. Her chest heaved with great, shuddering sobs and her bosom almost escaped its confines in her writhing fit of anguish. Yet her Master did not hear her, for once again He was weeping, a wistful look upon His face. Indeed He was thinking of all the things that she now thought, the great, somber, mournful visions growing, developing, taking shape, along the tapestries of His wall.

She wept new tears of her own and her silver ones joined with His of gold, mingling together and gleaming of their own accord like the light of the Two Trees. Melkor the Beloved was gone from the world now, and great was the sorrow of Thuringwethil. Many of the old spirits had also been lost when the earth shook and water poured over the lands, some reduced to wandering spirits of malice, and the fate of others remained a mystery even unto the Age of Men. She had loved many of them and had spent long nights coupled with them in sweet bliss; others she had cared little for and merely used them for her own designs or those of her two Masters.

Time shuddered to a halt as Sauron lived the sorrows once again. Then He sat up in the bed and pulled Thuringwethil with Him. She lay quivering upon His chest and ran her fingers through His long sable mane that had once been a golden red like the forge's fires. Casting her hands away from His hair, He thrust her to the side of the bed. As though to deny the scenes that He had created, He shook His head back and forth angrily. When He ceased, she watched His long, thick hair flow down upon His darkened nipples like black rain. Her breath caught in her chest and she watched Him, spellbound, captivated by His dark masculine beauty.

"Dance for Me," He whispered. "Dance for My pleasure and rouse Me from this lethargy!"

A tremor of excitement coursed through her body like the forked lightnings of Sauron's mighty spells of sorcery. "As You wish, my Master," she replied, her velvety voice coming through sultry lips.

Slowly the bat-fay slithered out of the bed, her body arching and falling as she crawled sensuously, her movements as sleek and graceful as those of a prowling cat.

The wanton creature of the night then stood before the Dark Lord, both wings folded about her frame, her smoldering eyes never leaving His. Slowly one wing uncurled partway, revealing half of her delicious body, her milky skin a splash of cool cream against the sable of her wings. Mischievously, she peered out, part of her face concealed by the smooth, sturdy skin which stretched between her long wing bones. A smile was upon her crimson lips and her ivory fangs gleamed. She ran one hand down the wing that still covered her, her hips moving in slow, tantalizing circles. Turning gracefully upon clawed feet, she tossed her head to the side, winking provocatively, her dark eyes flashing with lust. Wicked demon that she was, she teased her Lord with her shapely rear, the forms of her legs clearly visible through the skirt of her diaphanous silken gown.

Then, facing Him, Thuringwethil slowly unfurled her other wing, unveiling the whole of her body. A braided cord bound her sleeveless dress, crossing between her breasts and going about her middle where it ended in a loose ribbon. Her back arching, she raised her arms heavenward, her limbs swirling and twirling about in the air. Forward and back she moved, though her feet strayed not from their place, and her body rippled in waves starting in her belly and undulating over her whole frame. She oozed wantonly, like a river of sensual waters, warm and pleasant to the touch, and the silk pulled tight about her breasts, accentuating the two round mounds of delight.

And then, with a merry ring of laughter like tinkling bells, she spun away from the Dark Lord, dancing and twirling about the chamber. Her skirts would spin about her, a whirling circle orbiting her calves, and then she would turn, and the silk would wrap about her body, clinging to flesh moist with perspiration. Wild and sensual was her dance, ever changing from a frenzy of stormy passion to slow, undulating dance of sweet seduction. She would slide ever closer to her Master and then, laughing, spin away from His grasp, teasing Him shamelessly. Flighty and ever-changing as the wind, her graceful feet carried her upon prancing step, her clawed toes tinkling against the smooth floor like tiny cymbals.

She moved with the melody of the ever-shifting ethers, for since there were no musicians to play the sensuous songs of the dancer, she created her own music by summoning forth her powers. The wind howled eerily and her body writhed with the chill touches of the icy air, her own moaning adding to the lonesome song and creating a harmony both strange and alluring. Her voice was pleading and her cries were desperate, her wails beckoning, her body steaming but yet cold without the fiery touches of her Master. By her song and the movements of her body, she told Him of her eternal love, of how she worshiped and adored Him, of how she would be utterly empty and forlorn if any evil should befall Him or He should reject her and cast her away.

Then the ethers settled and calmed, and the whispering breezes were filled with sweet words of love and affection, praises and adoration. Wherever she went, there stirred playful wisps of musky perfume which wafted through the pleasant airs, and mists of shimmering light followed her path. Thuringwethil danced before Sauron's reclining form, her spirit soaring in heights of rapturous ecstasy far beyond the farthest star, and she deemed in her mind that she had at last proven herself as a worthy rival of Lúthien.

And then she spread her broad wings and took to the air, her passion driving her, and she flew and glided upon the ethers of love. Her body arched and then wheeled forward, her limbs flailed like a sheaf of wild serpents, and then like gentle waves of sleepy river waters. Writhing in the air, she flitted first here, and then there, before her Master, above Him, beside Him, and then behind Him. The chamber was filled with the sound of beating wings and songs of joy and gladness. Soft, caressing fingers retreated just as soon as they had brushed across sable skin, and the sound of her laughter added with the music of the wind. She fluttered and she flew, singing, dancing, her voice telling of love, promises, and nights when the sweet wind fanned the flames of desire into a blazing fury with the charms of supple lips, gentle fingers, firm breasts and silken thighs.

Then at last when she exhausted herself, Thuringwethil returned to her Lord, casting herself down before His couch. Her breath came in pants and gasps, her body was trembling, and her spirit was bathed in waves of rapturous bliss. Her eyes gazed up at Him, hoping for a word of approval, and she prayed that He would show grace unto her and ask her to stay with Him that night.

What did it matter if He loved her less than others... or if He loved her not at all? It was enough that she was here with Him at this moment, and there was the promise of the night and of His touch and of His lips and His hands and His heat buried deeply inside her.


Little is known of Thuringwethil, other than she was Sauron's messenger and flew back and forth from Tol Sirion and Angband, and that Lúthien impersonated her when she and Beren went to Angband. In some theories, Lúthien disguised herself in a "shape-shifting cloak," though the book does not explicitly state that. This could be a carry-over from one of Tolkien's earlier drafts, in which Lúthien disguises herself in a dark, magic cloak made of her own hair. In other theories, Thuringwethil is slain and Lúthien enchants her pelt, as was done with Beren and the skin of Draugluin.

The word "fell" is an old word for an animal's hide. Yet what is the meaning of "fell" in this case? It could be literal or it could be artistic. In the Silmarillion, Thuringwethil is more of a plot device for Lúthien than an actual character, and it seems that she was not given much thought or chance to develop. In any event, if Thuringwethil was indeed slain, she would have had plenty of time to regain a form over the many thousands of years between the First and Third Ages.

The theory that she was a corrupted servant of Manwë was originated by Elfhild. Others have proposed that perhaps she was a maia of Mandos, but her preference for a winged, flying form seems to indicate otherwise. Nothing is known for sure. This is, after all, an alternative universe.

"[Haun] turned aside therefore at Sauron's isle, as they ran northward again, and he took thence the ghastly wolf-hame of Draugluin, and the bat-fell of Thuringwethil. She was the messenger of Sauron, and was wont to fly in vampire's form to Angband; and her great fingered wings were barbed at each joint's end with an iron claw." - "Of Beren and Lúthien," The Silmarillion, p. 178

"By the counsel of Haun and the arts of Lúthien he was arrayed now in the hame of Draugluin, and she in the winged fell of Thuringwethil. Beren became in all things like a werewolf to look upon, save that in his eyes there shone a spirit grim indeed but clean; and horror was in his glance as he saw upon his flank a bat-like creature clinging with creased wings. Then howling under the moon he leaped down the hill, and the bat wheeled and flittered above him." - "Of Beren and Lúthien," The Silmarillion, p. 179

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Angmar and Elfhild

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: 3rd Age - Post-Ring War

Genre: Drama

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 08/24/09

Original Post: 10/29/06

Go to The Circles: Book 1: The Triumph of The Shadow overview


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