4. Mithrim: victory over fear
And just what do we do here, beset as we are by these foul creatures that Moringotto has twisted from the will of Eru? Ay—how my body trembles and my bowels melt within me as they approach! Their very stench is an assault upon the senses. Surely they shall slay us all, to the very least of us!
Yet our lord would bid us face them in defiance. I must steel myself.
I loosen my sword in its sheath, gripping its hilts with reluctance. The last time I drew it, it was against my own kind, there in Alqualondë, when the Teleri would not grant us the use of their ships. Bright was their blood as it was shed by this blade, there beneath the glimmer of the unfamiliar stars and the crystalline lamps that burned to illuminate the quays. Will the blood of these beasts be as red, think you? Although it is more likely, I deem, that my own blood shall be drunk by them.
How can he stand so steady, our Lord Fëanáro? How can his gaze remain so true, his eyes gleaming in his wrath?
But, can I do any less? Nay, I shall stay my desire to flee—his example heartens me!
They draw closer, and I feel the skin upon my scalp shrink, my very hair standing up as the terror seeks to fell me even before the enemy closes with us. I draw the sword I bear, raise it….
Ay! But how is it we prevail? Never mind that—we move forward, and the blood of these creatures of fell spellcraft lies not red but black upon the ground as our blades release their fëar from their hröar. My terror is now overwhelmed with the realization that we may yet—nay, are, in triumph over our foes!