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And Borte Did Gather Her People
Dec. 13th, 2018 02:07 pm"What Happened to the people of Bór after the Nirnaeth Arneodiad - Please Tell Us This Time."
And before the Sun had fallen far from the noon out of the West there came a Great Eagle flying, and he bore tidings dire.[1] His great voice was harsh and unpleasant as it echoed down to the plains of Thargelion, smoke and ash trailing off his feathers. The people in the land below the lake of Helevorn knew the Eagle came from the battlefields to the far north where still they could see dark smoke and smell foulness on the wind. And they knew that the Fifth Battle of Beleriand was over, and it was not victorious for some.
A small woman stood outside a large yurt that had the most beautiful and colorful decorations in this large and well-ordered camp. Her face was lined with age, but her stance was straight, and her thick, glossy black hair held only two strands of silver. A crown of gold-plated bronze inset with many red stones and gems shone brightly above her sloping brow, and anyone that looked upon her would know she was a princely woman of high status and regard. Her upturned face watched the Great Eagle circle above the camp of her people and proclaim dark words, tidings that she had already guessed at within the unease of her heart.
“Sing not and lament,” the Great Eagle of the Sky King instructed them, “for the Armies of Angband have prevailed, and slain or scattered are all the hosts of the High King of the Noldor. Sing not and lament, for it is time to weep tears unnumbered for your dead, by the Treachery of Men were they betrayed, surviving people of the Faithful Bór.”
The wife of Bór, mother of his three sons who had led their warriors under the red banners of the Noldor host to besiege Angband, keeper of the tents and leader of her people when the warriors were away, watched the Great Eagle circle her camp once more. Long she stared at the brilliant blue of the sky, at the whiteness of the clouds, at the still smoldering feathers falling from the injured eagle. Then the Lady of the Bór closed her eyes to weep, and all around her the people joined her cries of grief.
To their voices joined the mournful howling of the mighty hounds that guarded their herds and homes, and the cries of the hounds unsettled the horses and white-grey cattle. Great clouds of dust rose around the settlement, drifting into the bright blue sky, the sight accompanied by the sound of sorrow of women, children, and the old.
Then the Lady of the Bór stood from where she had knelt weeping and wrenching the grass. She removed the golden band from her head and carefully undid the many braids of her long thick hair. She pulled off the outermost coat of her garments, tossed aside the red coat with its many fine beads and golden embroidery, and stood clad only in the innermost white tunic and pants. Her people cried to see her new display of grief. Then she turned back and went into her tent.
Inside her tent the Lady of the People of Bór waited for yet more dire news, knowing she would never more see her sons, knowing that the Great Eagle had been but a kind forewarning by the King of the Great Blue Sky. She wept because she knew that she had little time before such weeping would be a luxury.
An ill omen it had proven, that her husband the Great Soul had died before the muster of troops - though it had been a peaceful passing in his sleep. Bór of the Great Soul, wise and strong and respected throughout the homelands of the Folk, had been greatly mourned by his people and the allied tribes. Even Ulfang had sent mourners to the death of his rival, and one of his sons had spoken sweet words during the funeral. The funeral songs had been sung long into the nights, new songs composed with each retelling of Bór’s wisdom and generosity, cunning and wealth. The sons of Bór had wet their own scarred cheeks with many tears of grief, but Borte had begged her people to not allow their sorrow to overshadow them. She demanded her sons lead their warriors to battle as their father would wish, so that he would smile down on them from the Great Blue Sky to see them defeat the evil Dark King. Borte’s sons, joyful Borlad and cautious Borlach and Borthand who could compose sweet and clever poetry, marshaled the cavalry of the Folk and rode away with horse and bow and sword to the army of the Bright Ones. Under the elven lords, the ones with too-bright eyes named Maglor and Maedhros, did her sons and their people fight, according to the oaths of loyalty first proclaimed by Bór that fateful night that the Great Soul decided that the offer of the elves in the lands west of the mountains was better than the tyranny known under the Dark King. Borte’s sons had dried the weeping from their eyes and left her with promises of glory and honor. The black horsehair of their war-standard had floated in the breeze as her sons and their warriors rode away.
No riders would be returning.
"Grandmother," a young girl whispered, kneeling beside the much older woman, "Grandmother, they call for you. Someone approaches from the river-side direction. Grandmother, I am afraid."
( Read more... )
And before the Sun had fallen far from the noon out of the West there came a Great Eagle flying, and he bore tidings dire.[1] His great voice was harsh and unpleasant as it echoed down to the plains of Thargelion, smoke and ash trailing off his feathers. The people in the land below the lake of Helevorn knew the Eagle came from the battlefields to the far north where still they could see dark smoke and smell foulness on the wind. And they knew that the Fifth Battle of Beleriand was over, and it was not victorious for some.
A small woman stood outside a large yurt that had the most beautiful and colorful decorations in this large and well-ordered camp. Her face was lined with age, but her stance was straight, and her thick, glossy black hair held only two strands of silver. A crown of gold-plated bronze inset with many red stones and gems shone brightly above her sloping brow, and anyone that looked upon her would know she was a princely woman of high status and regard. Her upturned face watched the Great Eagle circle above the camp of her people and proclaim dark words, tidings that she had already guessed at within the unease of her heart.
“Sing not and lament,” the Great Eagle of the Sky King instructed them, “for the Armies of Angband have prevailed, and slain or scattered are all the hosts of the High King of the Noldor. Sing not and lament, for it is time to weep tears unnumbered for your dead, by the Treachery of Men were they betrayed, surviving people of the Faithful Bór.”
The wife of Bór, mother of his three sons who had led their warriors under the red banners of the Noldor host to besiege Angband, keeper of the tents and leader of her people when the warriors were away, watched the Great Eagle circle her camp once more. Long she stared at the brilliant blue of the sky, at the whiteness of the clouds, at the still smoldering feathers falling from the injured eagle. Then the Lady of the Bór closed her eyes to weep, and all around her the people joined her cries of grief.
To their voices joined the mournful howling of the mighty hounds that guarded their herds and homes, and the cries of the hounds unsettled the horses and white-grey cattle. Great clouds of dust rose around the settlement, drifting into the bright blue sky, the sight accompanied by the sound of sorrow of women, children, and the old.
Then the Lady of the Bór stood from where she had knelt weeping and wrenching the grass. She removed the golden band from her head and carefully undid the many braids of her long thick hair. She pulled off the outermost coat of her garments, tossed aside the red coat with its many fine beads and golden embroidery, and stood clad only in the innermost white tunic and pants. Her people cried to see her new display of grief. Then she turned back and went into her tent.
Inside her tent the Lady of the People of Bór waited for yet more dire news, knowing she would never more see her sons, knowing that the Great Eagle had been but a kind forewarning by the King of the Great Blue Sky. She wept because she knew that she had little time before such weeping would be a luxury.
An ill omen it had proven, that her husband the Great Soul had died before the muster of troops - though it had been a peaceful passing in his sleep. Bór of the Great Soul, wise and strong and respected throughout the homelands of the Folk, had been greatly mourned by his people and the allied tribes. Even Ulfang had sent mourners to the death of his rival, and one of his sons had spoken sweet words during the funeral. The funeral songs had been sung long into the nights, new songs composed with each retelling of Bór’s wisdom and generosity, cunning and wealth. The sons of Bór had wet their own scarred cheeks with many tears of grief, but Borte had begged her people to not allow their sorrow to overshadow them. She demanded her sons lead their warriors to battle as their father would wish, so that he would smile down on them from the Great Blue Sky to see them defeat the evil Dark King. Borte’s sons, joyful Borlad and cautious Borlach and Borthand who could compose sweet and clever poetry, marshaled the cavalry of the Folk and rode away with horse and bow and sword to the army of the Bright Ones. Under the elven lords, the ones with too-bright eyes named Maglor and Maedhros, did her sons and their people fight, according to the oaths of loyalty first proclaimed by Bór that fateful night that the Great Soul decided that the offer of the elves in the lands west of the mountains was better than the tyranny known under the Dark King. Borte’s sons had dried the weeping from their eyes and left her with promises of glory and honor. The black horsehair of their war-standard had floated in the breeze as her sons and their warriors rode away.
No riders would be returning.
"Grandmother," a young girl whispered, kneeling beside the much older woman, "Grandmother, they call for you. Someone approaches from the river-side direction. Grandmother, I am afraid."
( Read more... )
