[Estelyn Telcontar]

A thin black smoke trailed out of the cracked earth where the Troll had fallen. Nothing else was to be seen; the vale all around was empty. (Why the orcs, whose biorhythm was normally active at night, had retreated, no one knew.) Grief at last wholly overcame the companions, and they wept long: some standing and silent, some cast upon the ground.

Then they laid their fallen comrade on branches, lashed together with vines, obligingly supplied by the Thorns, as were the torches that surrounded the bier, stout branches which Chrysophylax had lit. The flickering movement of light and shadow gave the Lord’s noble face a deceptive appearance of life, more intelligent and expressive than anyone could remember seeing whilst he yet lived.

Even Kuruharan, who had spent much more time on the battlefield collecting valuables than fighting, was so moved by the Hero’s death that he freely offered those precious relics that he had found: the tin whistle and the great sword, l’En’viey Piennhas. Merisuwyniel gently combed his magnificent hair one last time, then arrayed the cloven tin whistle upon his mighty chest and laid the sword across his lap. It had assumed a magnificent size, as if to honour in death the Lord whose hopes it had too often betrayed in life. Beneath Gormlessar’s feet lay the sword Stumpy and assorted orcish trophies, demonstrating his prowess in battle.

One by one the company dispersed, seeking shelter to get what rest they could for the remainder of the night. Only Merisuwyniel was left, keeping watch over Halfullion’s lifeless body. Her tears and her hair mingled, both flowing freely as she wept for him whom she had once loved. She had felt his thoughts turn to her in the moment of his death, and regretted bitterly that she could not give him back what he had sought for. Now their parting was final, for none of the learned, neither on old thread or new, nor on the New Silmarillion forum, could determine what the fate of the Half-Elven Lord would be.

Softly she began to sing:

Through Rohan forum’s RPGs where the long stories grow
The West Wind comes walking, and about the Inn doth go.
‘What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Gormlessar the Tall by moon or by starlight?’.
‘I saw him ride o’er seven threads, o’er discussions long and fey;
I saw him walk in many posts, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the Books. I saw him then no more.
The Shire his whistle may have heard; knock at the Dragon’s door.’
‘O Gormlessar! From the high threads westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty Mayhem where no deep thoughts are.’

In the realm of the Shire the Green Dragon lies, with many a cheerful guest.
The quaffing there of ale is heard; they come from east and west.
‘What news from the Shire, O drunken wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Gormlessar the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.’
‘Ask not of me where he doth dwell – his Pile o’ Bones there lies;
In Barrow dark he treasure guards that ne’er will see the skies.
So many Wights and Shades have passed that Newly Deceased began;
A Skeleton or Spirit becomes Ghost Prince of Cardolan.’
‘O Gormlessar! Thy existence lies in the Perilous Poet’s hand;
Since he has now disposed of thee, in thy grave thou must land.’

At the Gate of Gondor the Seventh Star stands; the Innkeeper there doth dwell.
And from Ecthelion’s Tower there doth ring a warning bell:
‘Take heed, o ye who here would write, for standards ye must hold
That merit highest quality, like Gormlessar the Bold.’
‘At Gol Dulldor I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven whistle, his magic sword in olden times were wrought.
His hair so proud, his face so fair, his limbs we lay to rest;
His comrades mourn the death of one who was the very best.’
‘O Gormlessar! Thy Doom was hard, thy Fate a Hero to be,
And nevermore thy sword shall cut the coiffures flowing free.’