A Fragment of a Lay from the War of Sundering:



Spake Cuaneth to his bride:

‘No more to ride with thee shall I go

No more shall horse hear silver horn

Blown from my lips-for deep depths

Enclose about me, and shadows cling

My lips shall soon slake cold

And death lie over my face.’

Spake his bride to him:

‘Alas! for the Twaining lies over thee

And thy wound is deep my dear

Doom lies about us and round

Our fate is grief and death

Gloom fades to gloom and bleak

Shall day ever come again?’

And then, while moon waned in

Darkling sky as smokes rose

From raging fire and pit

Cuaneth did die, breathed his last.

Great was his bride’s grief

Fair Elenaira long did mourn

And wandered wide eastern waste

And deathly wood- but no fear

Fell upon her, for she was fate-fey.

To eastern seas she wandered

Where stars where dark and strange

And upon some forgotton shore

So the bards sing Elenaira

Died of grief, and found no grave.