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"Aure entuluva!"
The cry ringing yet fierce and desperate through the storm, the voice clear and fair above the harsh horns braying the triumph of darkness.
"Aure entuluva!"
above the clash of sword upon sword, above the yells of the orcs, above the screams of the wounded as their bodies are trampled and broken by the iron-shod feet of their foes. Blood runs in streams to paint a sickened watercolor with thick chaotic stripes of red and black, heavy, hurried brushstrokes overlapping to form a senseless storm of horrible color, the color of carnage, of death, upon a burning canvas.
"Aure entuluva!"
though he is beset from all sides, enclosed in a sea of enemies, though his friends can no longer hear his cries. As he stands, bathed in stinking blood, he flames red-gold in the last feeble rays of the dying light, and his blade rises and falls in rhythm to his call in defiance of the Shadow.
The air is a sordid brown, the wind a long, howling arm of poisonous vapor. The field is a hideous, rotten carpet of twisted corpses and mangled limbs. Fingers stretch out from dismembered arms as though searching for lost life, solitary hands of Elves and Men yet clutch broken blades. Everywhere, spent arrows, shreds of limp and bloodied rags that were once the cloaks of Kings. And yet through it all he shines with that fierce light that cannot be quenched, and even as they reach out black, scaly fists to sieze him, his foes are afraid.
For even when he is inevitably overwhelmed at the last, even when he finally stumbles in weariness and is buried in a gruesome pile of clutching, sneering orcs, the voice of Hurin son of Hador, full of pride and defiance and hope in the face of the utmost despair, will not die.
As he is dragged with chains and whips through the gates of Angband itself: "Aure entuluva!
Day shall come again.