Vain Glory

We piled rocks on the cairns, red-streaked by our own raw hands.

Past exhaustion, we kept working, so filled with pain it numbed us. Backs burned, arms ached, our minds screamed with overwhelming anger and grief until it all merged and faded into an endless haunting wailing.

Thangorodrim paid well for each head, more for a slave. Arrogant woodland-sulking cowards, he'd said, bring them to me.

We'd profit by clearing our woods of the so-called 'Firstborn'. We'd no longer share limited game and forage or listen to songs of enchantments carried with the night's breezes.

We'd been sure of victory.