-Ilarion-
I hadn't questioned it until now, but how was it possible that we understood their language?
I glanced sideways at Galadriel. Feeling my attention, she turned her face toward me and offered a soft, almost imperceptible smile before drawing a little closer. It seemed she hadn't stopped to think about it either: the speech of the Sindar felt as natural to us as our own breath.
Thinking better of it, Quenya and the Sindarin tongue shared the same root, an ancient language. Searching my memory, I recalled that Lady Varda had once mentioned that, before our arrival in Aman, the primitive language of our people had been Eldarin. Undoubtedly, both tongues preserved that common root, and from there our comprehension was born.
'Though it was also part of our nature—Galadriel's and mine—to learn swiftly. In my case, that gift had been the most evident legacy of my father.'
While I lost myself in these thoughts, the wind brought with it the scent of salt. My ears, attentive even in the gloom, caught the distant, constant breaking of waves against the rocks of the shore. Beneath the darkness of the early morn, the pale silver glow of the moon allowed me to make out reddish flashes among the shadows.
"The camp is close," I said at last, turning toward our group.
Amrod, behind my back, let out a clearly audible sigh. Turning toward him, I noticed how his shoulders immediately relaxed, and I didn't blame him: we had been in constant vigil for far too long.
In our advance, we had already crossed paths with another group of Orcs. To their misfortune, they were few... and we were deadly.
Before they even caught our shadow, arrows struck them from the darkness. The Sindar, accurate and silent, struck them down without granting them any chance to counterattack. Like us, they too harbored a deep hatred for those creatures.
And that was what was truly curious. While I knew the Orcs from the War of the Ring, I was unaware of why, upon beholding them, something deep inside me resonated like broken bells. I abhorred them to the marrow, as if their very existence were an affront to the stanza of life, an insult to the great Eru Ilúvatar.
And I was not the only one. The faces of Galadriel, Amrod, and Amras contorted in a gesture of pure disgust upon resting their gaze on an Orc.
'Natural enemies, I suppose.'
It was not long before we reached the entrance, guarded by several Noldor. Some of them were dragging away the bodies of the fallen Orcs and tossing them onto a macabre mountain of corpses; without a doubt, they would consign them to the fire later.
"Are there wounded?!" exclaimed Galadriel at my side.
Without pausing for an instant, she ran toward a group of Noldor women who were tending to the wounded with agile and careful movements, as if every gesture were part of a dance.
I furrowed my brow. Judging by the scene, the Orcs had been more numerous than we expected. That sowed a bitter disquiet in my chest.
Had they attacked my father as well?
I will not deny that the thought made me shudder. I worried for him and my brothers; the long years by their side had taught me to care for them, to love them as a true family. I knew well that they were formidable, almost terrifying in combat... and even so, I could not silence that subtle dread, that small thorn of fear at the possibility of losing them.
"These beasts have been far too active these days," said one of the Sindar, observing the mountain of Orc corpses.
"It is concerning," added another, nodding gravely.
Their words ignited my thoughts. Though they were not given to long conversations, in our brief exchanges they had mentioned clashes with scattered bands of Orcs. However, this scene suggested something different: not mere skirmishes, but a deliberate movement. With Morgoth's return, his servants seemed to be regrouping under a single will. And knowing him, it was evident that he would be forging an army in the shadows; hence the Orcs showing themselves with a disturbing frequency.
But the essential question was another: where was Morgoth now?
Had he returned to his old fortress? And if so, how many servants were already marching beneath his command?
If my memory did not betray me, my master Tulkas had once spoken of a group of corrupted Maiar, bound forever to the service of the Dark One. If my conjectures were true, those spirits—who were known as Balrogs—would have risen again alongside their lord.
'He is undoubtedly weaving a trap,' I thought. 'Perhaps to finish off my father... or my uncle Fingolfin. Without them, the morale of the Noldor would break, and then it would be much simpler to crush us.'
All those thoughts were born of my apprenticeship alongside Morgoth... or as I called him then, Master Melkor.
In those days, I was ignorant of who he truly was. Had it not been for the wealth of knowledge he deposited in me, I would never have understood that that Vala was also the lord of Sauron, the evil that was to terrorize a great part of the history of Middle-earth. I would never have imagined that the patient, measured, and apparently benign being I knew was, in reality, the first Dark Lord.
I do not compare myself to him, neither in power nor in cunning; it would be folly to do so. But I am aware of many of his stratagems. After all, it was he who taught them to me.
I do not know if he did it out of arrogance, carelessness... or because he never considered me a threat. Whatever the reason, I will not waste that knowledge. I will turn his teachings into a thorn that will thwart the greater part of his plans.
But all those thoughts dissipated when I entered the camp and, in the distance, distinguished my uncle Fingolfin conversing with other Elves.
They, unlike the Sindar, were more robust; their build recalled that of the Teleri, with thick and firm arms, tempered for casting ropes and securing moorings, more accustomed to the sway of the sea than the silence of the forests.
"Elves of Círdan?" whispered a Sindar at my back.
"Círdan?" I repeated, looking at him attentively.
The Elf nodded and, as we approached, offered me a brief explanation:
"They are the Elves who inhabit the coasts of the Falas. Rarely do they venture beyond the mountains, and we maintain little communication with them. Even so, they are kind and great mariners. My King Thingol holds them in high esteem, and even more so him who guides them:
"the wise Círdan."