Dorthonion

I dreamt last night, an unforeseen change from the usual aridity of my slumber as my dreams are mainly comprised of dark corners and caliginous hallways; of endless rivers and unfathomable abyss; of dead birds and charred timber. But last night was different… at least it appeared so…

I found myself on the back of the great Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. Soaring at great speed at an even greater height, above the clouds, Thorondor took flight. My vision was blurry amidst the mist and the gargantuan elevation of the voyage was alarming, to say the least, hence I politely requested the magnanimous Lord…

“Great Thoronder, your chivalry is without a doubt unchallengeable. By allowing me to accompany you in this grand flight, you have brought a mortal too close to the heavens and I fear the wrath of the Higher Gods. A mortal needs the veil of the clouds and the skies above its head. I request thee, oh Great Lord, to put this mortal where he belongs”

Thorondor, the epitome of altruism, began descending and I found the clouds above me again. The Great Lord was now flying over the plains of Ard-Galen. I politely inquired about our destination and Thorondor spoke, for the first time…

“Dorthonion”

Behind us, I could see the prodigious Angband, the Iron Prison of the vicious Morgoth the Ainur. I was happy to know my destination lied on the opposite side of Angband, in the mystical pine highlands of Dorthonion.

Thorondor dropped me at a quiet spot in between the pine forests and took flight again, above the clouds, in the realm of the Higher Gods… Thorondor, the most benevolent beast of the Middle Earth….

I gaited the wondrous landscape of Dorthonion, walked on the rustling leaves, escalated mountainous rocks and leaped over yawning crevasses. The dawn of night now addressed the land, as I emerged out the pine forests.

Beneath the pristine moonlight, I came across a ridge overlooking the numinous lake Tarn Aeluin. The Moon appeared like a glimmering pearl in the intense blue hue of the lake as I walked up to the apogee of ridge to witness this bewildering panorama.

From there I saw Beren burying his father, Barahir. Alone beside the grave he stood, valiant and adamant, heart-rendered and desolate ― “but he wept not, for his heart had turned to ice” ― A flood of emotions raged a storm inside Beren’s heart; vengeance, envy, love, wrath… and a name inside his head ― Gorgol the Butcher, the Orc who slayed his father.

The coming night Beren will embark on a mission fuelled by vendetta but before that he must lay his Father to rest. Under the brilliant white blanket of the Moonlight, Beren himself will rest a little, before Gorgol’s blood can drape the sheen of his blade, Dagmor.

Driven by Beren’s valor, I swore an oath to help him through any means necessary. Both I and he will spill Gorgol’s blood and turn the cerulean Tarn Aelium’s water crimson red. Both I and he will drink in the name of Barahir and sing verses of his honour.

Amidst this thought, a sudden cacophony resonated in the environment, a thunderous lightning bolt struck the Lake and a grand wave of water surged up the ridge where I stood. In the wake of this event, the fibres of my phantasmal dreamworld disintegrated and I awoke to find myself incarcerated by reality.

Cold, barren and bureaucratic reality, a world of corporate sheep and office herds, of interview queues and coffee breaks, of global corruption and peace propagandas, of capital income and communal riots. I woke up with this heartache… only to realise waking up with it is one thing, living with it is another… and I have to live with it… an eternal heartache…

Beren will embark on his quest alone, and slay the mighty Gorgol. He will bring back Barahir’s ring that Gorgol stole and keep it as heirloom, but not in this world, but in the chimerical world of Middle Earth ― a fabric of imagination yet so much more vivacious than the real world.

Godspeed Beren… I pray for thee ― May your aim be steady and your blade sharp… I pray for the eternal glory of Dorthonion and Middle Earth… I wish for the sheep and herds to succumb and the stallions to rise… I wish for the dark silhouette of apocalypse to engulf this real world…

And if not…

I wish that I never dream again…

“…Dark from the North now blew the cloud,

The winds of autumn cold and loud,

Hissed in the heather; sad and grey

Tarn Aeluin’s mournful water lay…”  

          

The Lay of Leithian ― J.R.R. Tolkien