A MISSION TO BELERIAND By Maureen Lycaon Copyright disclaimer: this world and its inhabitants belong to the Tolkien estate. Only the interpretation and the individual words belong to me. No infringement intended, only an exploration and a celebration of his world. Written in October, 2002. "And ere long the evil creatures came even to Beleriand, over passes in the mountains, or up from the south through the dark forests. Wolves there were, or creatures that walked in wolf-shapes . . ." -- J.R.R. Tolkien, "Of the Sindar", in The Silmarillion Down from the spine of the Ered Luin they descend, trotting, padding, sometimes leaping, aimed like deadly arrows at East Beleriand. Wolf-shaped, yet larger than any true wolf. And fouler, with long, matted dark fur, their eyes gleaming with bottomless bloodlust such as is found in no true beast. Were any natural creatures roaming these arctic heights, they would sense that unnaturalness, by smell or by some more profound, unnamed sense, and flee. But the crags and ice fields are barren and lifeless. The werewolves run alone, unseen. They have journeyed southward and eastward from distant Angband, crossing the cave-riddled stony plains and the dark forests beyond. True wolves could not have traveled with such speed, for they ran swiftly and needed less rest. Then they turned west and scaled this mountain range, finding and climbing through the narrow passes. No moon sheds light upon their journey; no moon yet exists. They need fear no sun to burn away their darkness and send them shrinking back to their Master. Only starlight shines upon their going, but that is as sufficient for their keen eyes as it is for Elves'. The one who leads them pads over the long stony slopes, now heading ever downward, downward. His breath steams pale in the icy air. The vast snowfields and bare, rocky crags gleam under the stars, stark and terrible. This landscape is of harsh extremes: black shadows; white snow; naked, jagged stone; and all bitterly cold. The werewolf leader does not regard it as beautiful, exactly, but he draws a certain comfort from the peaks' very harshness and barrenness, free from the subtle, weakening modulations of trees and grass. To him, these glaciated slopes and starlight-gleaming rocks hold a strength that soft wooded plains and gentle river valleys can never match or even approach. A dim reminder of the music of Melkor, a faint echo of that unimaginable strength and terrible majesty. And memory crashes in on him, shattering his momentary peace. Once, he was fair and terrible as a great flame. Once, he knew the Light, and he sang in the First Music. The memory is a deep ache in him, trapped as he is now in the form of a mere beast, bound to the swings of hunger, thirst, exhaustion and pain, pangs he never knew until the Lord of Werewolves imprisoned him within the shape he now wears. He will never again clothe himself in beauty. He will never again walk in the Light. He can only hunger for it, a hunger that can never be wholly satisfied. The memory recedes. With successive rebirths, he knows, it will fade entirely, leaving behind only the devouring hunger, a knowledge that gives him both bitterness and relief. But though this wolf-shaped spirit is ancient in being, he has not yet lost his first battle, endured his first death. No war has yet begun. His pack are merely scouts, their mission to explore the Ered Luin and Beleriand beyond. To learn the unguarded mountain passes and where they descend into the lands inhabited by their enemies, to find the weaknesses, probe where the watch is least well kept. The memory vanishes. The more mundane pangs of physical hunger send rumbling through his belly. The pack will have to find food soon, or risk weakening. For that, at least, there is hope. They are descending from the heights gripped only by eternal snow and ice, toward the first small patches of grass and herbs that herald the domains of life. At last they cross a scent -- faint, but warm and savory: a great mountain goat, straying too far from the places of grass below. Without a thought, the lead werewolf turns from his course, swinging to follow it, and the others string out behind him. The hunt that follows is swift and wholly bestial. Only as the goat is actually shrieking in their jaws does the werewolf come to himself a little once again, for this rending does not truly satisfy him. This dumb beast cries out only mindless terror and agony as they tear it apart. He has ripped Elves apart, prisoners brought still living to him by the Lord of Werewolves. He has smelled and heard their anguish at thousands of years of immortal life being brought to an end in a fell beast's maw, sensed it in their minds as they flared and darkened in death. Rending Elves satisfies him far more than devouring animals. The pack makes no effort to prolong the goat's death. The werewolves eat their prey quickly, leaving behind only a stain of blood upon the rocks and a warm glow in their throats. Later in their journey, they weary at last. The leader drives them on as long as he feels he safely can, before letting them sleep under a rocky overhang, in a small hollow in solid stone that lets their bodies hold enough warmth to be comfortable. In his sleep, he dreams once again. He dreams of light, of music. Of the beauty that came from Melkor's voice, and of his own voice pealing out its hymn in the chorus that formed around Melkor's theme. Wild, fearless, without restraint or the thought of restraint. In his sleep, he whimpers softly. And then he dreams other things: of the dark joy and fierce pride of serving the Master of Werewolves, who himself once served under long-imprisoned Melkor. Of running with like others, glorying in the pack's strength. Of driving hunger, and the pleasure of the kill, of screaming prey perishing in his bloodied jaws. It is these last emotions that carry into his waking, as he opens his eyes. They descend past the first dark, stunted pine trees, little more than bushes. There is no time on their journey, only the cold white stars wheeling overhead. When the trees thicken and grow larger, they find a route along the top of a sharp ridge. They follow it, bounding one wolf behind the next in a strung-out line, until it broadens into a tiny rocky plateau. There, they pause before trying to find a way to resume their path downward. The lead werewolf stands at the western edge of the little plateau to gaze downward, and sees their destination. Below him stretches the vast land of East Beleriand, black with dense forest under the starlight, stretching away uncounted leagues into the darkness. Following his instinct, he sniffs the air, inhales only the fragrance of pine. No trace of Dwarf or Elf. There, in the lands held by those who follow the Enemies, his pack must go. Only to probe, not to do battle unless they must. Nevertheless, the bottomless hunger that always moves him stirs him now to a small, hidden hope that they will have an opportunity to taste Elf-flesh before they return. Some time in the undreamed future, there will be the last great Battle, when all who must now wear wolf-forms join countless others in a final triumphant assault upon those who foolishly spurned his Liege. In that hour, they will savage sentient prey until they grew weary, glorying in the screams of their foes, drinking their fill of blood and agony at last. The werewolf feels an urge to howl, to join his song with the darkness between the stars yet again and hear the others singing with him. No; it would alert those below. He suppresses it. A single snarl from him rouses his subordinates from their own musings. Finding the narrow path that leads from the plateau downward, he takes it, his fellows falling into place behind him as they descend toward the forests below. Direct comment and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com.