Notes: This story continues an earlier fic, but will stand alone. Gil-galad does not figure here because I've sort of mashed the versions together. Although he's the son of Arothir, he was sent to be fostered by Círdan after the Nirnaeth.
The notion that Lúthien's secret way was fashioned by the petty dwarves is only a theory, but it seems logical, and if there was one secret exit, why not two?
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien.
A Pitiable Remnant
...All Beleriand will fall beneath his shadow before many years are passed, and then one by one he will smoke you out of your earths. And what then? A pitiable remnant will fly south and west, to cower on the shores of the Sea, caught between Morgoth and Ossë. (1)
Their Lady had prepared for a siege, trusting the doors more than she trusted Túrin. No one anticipated Glaurung. Had Finrod been there, he might have held the dragon with enchantments long enough to align their finest Sindarin archers. But Finrod was gone and their finest Sindarin archers dead at Tumhalad. In hindsight, the cave proved a great liability - so long as it was secret, and had strong magic to seal the doors, it made a secure shelter and fortress. Once breached, there was no escape.
Arothir's squire came to warn them mere moments before Glaurung's fire took the doors. Guilin and Gildor left their posts, following the King's orders: if all were lost, they were to safeguard his wife and daughter.
Meril would have none of it.
"The passages of the Noegyth Nibin - what do you know of them?" she asked, turning to Celebrimbor.
"Too little, Brennillen. I know how to reach them, but I would be a poor guide." (2)
"I fear all chances are fraught with peril." She paused to still the tremble that threatened to overtake her voice. "Gather those you can find and lead them thither."
"What of Finduilas?"
A great thud shook the ground above them and screams echoed in the hollow corridors.
"If my daughter is above...she will save herself, or she is already lost. We have no time left to us. Go - save those you can save."
"Brennillen!" Guilin protested. "Your husband would want you to take heed for yourself."
"My husband would not fly while his people remained in peril, and in his place, neither shall I. Go! Now!"
They paused in the passage. "Finduilas?" The three elves looked at one another. Yet, already there was no question of obeying their Lady's orders, for from above them, hobnailed boots rapped upon the stone stairs. They shut and barred the door to the upper stairwell and fled to the lower levels, gathering frightened elves as they went.
The tunnel doors were on the level just above the storerooms. The one by which Lúthien had escaped led - Celebrimbor assumed - north and into the victorious Orc horde.
He had little time to think. Finrod had told him about the passages many years ago, but Celebrimbor's interest had been mostly in the doors. He had not asked about the tunnels themselves.
He would have to hope that the southernmost passage would, in fact, go south.
They were coming. The stairwell door had slowed the orcs, for it was thick and well made, but now, the guttural shouts grew louder. Celebrimbor counted the paving stones, murmured a desperate prayer to Aulë and spoke the password.
For a moment, nothing happened, and the elves looked at one another in confusion. Why were they standing here, in plain sight, waiting for the orcs to arrive?
At last, the door moved, opening smoothly as if ennin had not passed since their last use.
"Into the passage," Guilin ordered.
Once inside, they shut the door against the orcs. Metal clanked uselessly against the now invisible door. For the moment, the elves were safe.
A dark shadow moved in the corner. Horrified, Celebrimbor saw the lone orc raise his scimitar behind a child who knew nothing of his danger.
An arrow whistled and lodged in the creature's eye.
A young elf, not more than 40, held his bow, frozen in shock. A Sinda, Celebrimbor thought absently - probably the son of one of the fine archers dead at Tumhalad. Celebrimbor was glad to have him, child or no. Looking around, he saw that their company numbered less than six dozen, and among them were but seven at arms. In Himlad, all would have carried knives, but here, safe within Nargothrond, they had no reason to worry for their safety.
Elves had an innate sense of time, for so life at Nargothrond carried on more or less in rhythm with the rise and set of the Sun. Celebrimbor preferred to work at night and sleep during the day to avoid the awkward and annoying necessity of polite conversation. He did not fear others so much as find small talk wasteful. He had better things to do than murmur, 'Manwë be with you' each time someone sneezed at a stirring of dust. Yet, his irregular hours made him less sensitive to the passage of time, or perhaps he kept irregular hours because he had never had that sense. Certainly, he had been surprised more than once by a servant summoning him to breakfast, when it seemed he had only just started work.
Still, he was not alone in his disorientation. Perhaps the slow and difficult passage made the hours seem longer. The Petty-dwarves were even shorter than their stunted cousins, and his back and legs ached from stooping so long.
One of the marchwardens had his standard ration of lembas, but that was soon shared among the half dozen children, barely a mouthful for each. Celebrimbor wondered at the parents who had borne them in these days of war. The children were wan, pale little things. Most likely, they had never set foot outside the caves. He recalled that Meril had obstinately taken Gil-galad and Finduilas for walks in the forest by day and to the river at star-opening. Whatever dangers might exist, she counted them less than a life underground. "Young Elves must have fresh air and starlight," she insisted.
He wished that he had explored these tunnels in days of peace, and not only that he would be a better guide now. He knew something of the ways of Dwarves and could read their runes, but the secretive Noegyth Nibin had left precious little guidance in these tunnels. Every so often, they would come to a fork and a choice. His heart told him that he was on the right path. Less sure he was of the outcome. Given their slow pace and the winding of the tunnels, he had no idea how far they had travelled or in what direction.
His instincts told him to follow the underground stream; the water was sweet, and a stream must lead somewhere. In any case, they must have water.
"Do you know where you are leading us?" Guilin asked.
Celebrimbor grimaced, slightly annoyed by the question, but of course, he did not know. "I can tell you what is behind us," he said. They rested, for a moment, in a larger part of the tunnels. Rather than sit, most of the Elves stood, stretching their cramped limbs. "We should have anticipated the dragon."
"We cannot change what has passed."
Celebrimbor hesitated. "One may hope that not all were lost at Tumhalad."
In the dim light, he saw Guilin shake his head. "Arothir's squire left no hope. Gwindor was mortally wounded."
The betrothal delighted both families. True, Finduilas had only just come of age, and though ordinary folk might wed at fifty, the nobility preferred long courtships; the severing of a betrothal could never be a private matter.
From the simplest of servants to the favoured lords, elves would stop in the passages to watch the lovely elf-maid and her beau as they strolled together. In the shame and despair following Finrod's death, the happy couple was a single ray of sunshine peeping through the clouds at dusk. They could not forestall the coming night, but they promised a better morning.
Finduilas had never returned her ring of betrothal.
"I am sorry."
"I am not. My son knew he would meet death this day. He is with Námo."
He envied Guilin his faith, his certainty in the Valar. Belief, Celebrimbor thought, was hope without reason - Ingoldo's estel. "I am glad for your strength," he said at length.
Guilin gave a half-smile. "If I am strong, it is because life has made me so. When I left my wife on Balar, I promised her that I would return. I intend to keep that promise."
The wider areas, such as the one in which they had rested, and the squared-off rooms told Celebrimbor that the Noegyth Nibin must have lived here while they worked on the caves. They had not the skill of the great Dwarves, or so they claimed, but he marvelled at the smooth walls and the magnitude of the work they had done. Only Dwarves had the single-mindedness and endurance for such delvings.
"I do not think you will see much that is different," Telchar grumbled, putting on his gloves. "After all, our Maker was your Master, was he not?"
"My grandfather, actually," Curufin said shortly. (3)
'Better less said about that,' Celebrimbor thought.
"But he must have learnt from Mahal, no?"
They nodded. They had come to see how the Dwarves made their swords, and Telchar's grumbling aside, they knew he did them great honour. The making of their axes, he would not show.
"That is known only to the Children of Mahal," Telchar said firmly.
Celebrimbor picked up the tongs. The weight and grip felt strange to his hand. Of course, they were made for a smaller person, but still... . Fëanor had determined a child old enough to learn the smithing arts when he could hold the tongs properly. There were no child-sized tongs in his forge. Yet, those full-sized tongs had never felt as awkward as these did.
Examining the grip more closely, he saw a slight groove - not developed from wear, but deliberately moulded into the metal. Telchar had made these tongs, Celebrimbor realised. That a master smith would make his own tools was a revelation. From now on, he resolved, he would design and forge all of his tools.
"Master Elf!"
He looked up guiltily. His father gave him a bemused smile.
"Elves!" Telchar shook his head in exasperation.
His finger traced the relief of runes carved on the wall of the passage. He marvelled at the perfect alignment of the cirth.
"Can you read it?" Gildor brought him back to the present.
"Yes. It is a memorial, actually." He smiled self-consciously. "Not much help to us."
Gildor shook his head in a remarkable imitation of Telchar. "We need you to think like a Dwarf. Not to be one."
He had led them straight, despite his doubts. The outer door stood at the top of a short flight of stairs. What would they find outside? Would the enemy have already overrun these lands? The orcs would not be able to find the door, of course - that would be invisible - but they might be scouring the lands for survivors. Even if the way were unguarded, the elves would have a long and perilous journey to the Havens. In the tunnel, at least, they were safe.
He sent Gildor up to scout the area. Celebrimbor could hear a murmur of anxiety among the company; to leave the tunnel seemed almost folly. From time to time, he peered out from the spy-hole. Already, leaves were turning. Winter would come early.
At length, Gildor returned. "It is well," he reported. "I saw no sign that Orcs had passed this way. But the day grows late, and we should await the dawn."
Celebrimbor assumed that once he was no longer needed as guide, he could also relinquish leadership. He knew nothing of the region south of Nargothrond.
"Gildor has long scouted these lands, and you have carried messages to Doriath and the Havens. I am a smith, Guilin."
"The people look to you."
He was a scion of Finwë, and dispossessed or not, he would do. Gildor might lead the way, but decisions were left to Celebrimbor.
The first of these would involve food, for there was little to be found. Game was plentiful, but they dared not risk a fire. They ate nuts and such roots as were edible, feeding the children first, and then the Sindar and younger elves.
"We who came by the grinding ice can go long without food," Guilin said, not quite looking at Celebrimbor.
"All of the Calaquendi should have more strength of spirit and body. Food to the children first, then to the Moriquendi."
"Umanyar," Guilin corrected him. "They do not care to be called 'Moriquendi'."
"They do not?" Celebrimbor was astonished, but only slightly. It had not occurred to him that the word his father preferred might be an insult to 'lesser elves', as he deemed them.
"And they would probably prefer to be addressed in Sindarin," Gildor added with a grin.
As they passed out of the Taur-en-Faroth, still dense with evergreens, they way became more treacherous. They stayed close to the Narog, but the trees along the banks were poor cover.
At night, while they slept, Gildor went on, scouting the way ahead. Celebrimbor dreaded the morning he would not return, but he always did.
They found the two elf-maids and child the third day out from the tunnel. From the state of their hroar, they had been dead some days, but he could not tell whether they had died of injuries from the attack or an ambush on their path.
"We should make a cairn," he said, "that their bodies should not be disturbed."
"We have no time. They will fade soon enough, and their fëar care not whether the hroar are disturbed now."
He did not like it, but he knew Guilin was right. This was no time for sentimental gestures. "We must move on," he heard himself say. "We can do nothing for them."
He heard murmurs of protest, but none came from his father's people, who looked resolutely straight ahead. The corpses were too familiar to them.
To Celebrimbor fell the task of finding those overcome by the smoke out of Dorthonion. When his father, in the forefront of the battle, at last succumbed, Celegorm declared the field lost.
The enemy pursued them, and they could not stop, even for a moment. Fortunately - for Celebrimbor, if not Celegorm - his father came to his senses and the brothers argued uselessly whether it would have been better to fly east. They lost the orcs in Nan Dungortheb, either because even Morgoth's creatures feared Ungoliant's children or because they knew pursuit was no longer necessary - few would emerge alive. And they were nearly right, for the spiders gave them no rest, and those who bore the wounded were at last exhausted. The dying were left, and many who carried them dropped beside them in grief, unwilling to let a loved one face death alone. Grimly, the living stepped over the hopeless. When they came into the choking smoke of Dimbar, fully half had fallen.
And then, one morning, Gildor did not return. At the last, they prepared themselves to go on. "We cannot wait on him," Guilin advised.
"I know it. But whatever peril he met awaits us also."
"Then we shall meet it."
As Celebrimbor finished his meagre breakfast, he heard a shout and saw Gildor loping toward them.
"A great company approaches." Gildor stopped to catch his breath. "We are in a low place, and even from a tree, I could not see far. But yesterday, I thought I heard a rumble in the earth. Last night, I could feel it, as well, so they are travelling with speed, and perhaps by day as by night."
"It would be strange for Orcs to travel by day," Guilin said evenly.
"Listen," Gildor said, laying his head to the ground. "Do you hear it?"
Of course, he heard it; he had learnt to listen to the earth from the people who could hear the faintest disturbance in its crust, but he had not Gildor's experience, nor the woodcraft of young Tindil.
"Hooves?" The Sinda tilted his head uncertainly.
"Then, they are Men, and warg-riders if Orcs are among them," Gildor said. "Either we are known to them, or they hurry north for some evil purpose."
Celebrimbor looked up. "The trees still hold enough leaves to hide us."
"If they are looking for us, they will find us," Guilin said quietly.
Nonetheless, Celebrimbor decided that they would halt here and take to the trees. Breathlessly, they waited, but not long. Well before midday, Gildor gave a low whistle of warning. Celebrimbor could see dust rising from the ridge.
From a branch high above, Tindil gave a shout. "They are Elves!"
"Elves from Balar," Gildor added, as a tide of sea-grey cloaked riders upon silver steeds came over the ridge. "We are saved."
Saved. Celebrimbor slid from the tree and found his legs suddenly boneless. He had not realised - had not felt - that fear alone had served as muscle and sinew in their flight. He met the Falathrim captain on his knees.
"So few," the captain said in dismay. "We hoped for more.
They expected to find the Vale of Sirion overrun. Yet, though the river carried soot of fire and blood of the fallen, the lands were unsullied. Minas Tirith yet stood.
"How is it that the weakling Arothir holds the pass of Sirion, yet we could not hold Aglon?" Curufin raged.
"We would have perished, and our people enslaved."
"It is well, then, that we have saved what - perhaps a quarter of them? What did it serve?" The fire went out as suddenly as it had blazed. Curufin slumped forward. "What did it serve, Turko?"
He had never before seen his father weep.
Saved, indeed, but for what? To be but fodder for another battle? Was his own wretched life worth so much? A pitiable remnant, Túrin had foreseen, and in that, at least his words had proved true.
An Elf either believed or fell to grief...or madness. Celebrimbor rose to his feet. There must be something beyond the Doom. There had to be.
(1) All Beleriand will fall beneath his shadow...
Unfinished Tales, 'Narn i Hîn Húrin' p 150 pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition
(2) Brennillen (S)
'My lady'. (Constructed from brennil, 'lady' and -n, possessive singular suffix. The l doubles according to Sindarin orthography and the e is inserted as a helping vowel, as attested by guren.)
(3) 'My grandfather, actually.'
This would be Mahtan: And Fëanor made a secret forge, of which not even Melkor was aware; and there he tempered fell swords for himself and for his sons, and made tall helms with plumes of red. Bitterly did Mahtan rue the day when he taught to the husband of Nerdanel all the lore of metalwork that he had learned of Aulë. (The Silmarillion, 'Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor' p 61 pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition)