Introduction:
Some may wonder what inspired me to go to the effort of expanding on more than 50 typed pages of existing text, notes, and commentaries pertaining to such a small chapter of the Silmarillion. Know that the long and exhaustive comparative study for the writing of this single story was done out of the simple joy and love that I have for what is one of my favorite of all of Tolkien's deeply developed and richly descriptive stories. J.R.R. Tolkien wrote several versions of script for different parts of the story of Gondolin through his life that are known fairly well separately by most HoME fans. I, however, sought to expand upon small mentionings in scenes and fill spaces, and to refine his text in order to make one cohesive story between all that I have found; and I hope, with some grace from above, that I have succeeded in doing so.
The main body of the following text is based on and rewritten from "The Fall of Gondolin"in The Book of Lost Tales 2, and "Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin", The Unfinished Tales, with additions from The Silmarillion and modifications from other mentionings of Gondolin and Tuor's father and Rian from "Narn i Hin Hurin", as well as my own knowledge and perception of Eldarin culture through language study and observation throughout The Silmarillion. Much of the text will follow the original narratives, and so before you lambast me with charges of plagiarism, I take no credit for that which Tolkien wrote, only for the work to put it together and stitching the holes as it were. For that reason, do NOT take this story and republish it anywhere without asking me and please do not flame me.
Prologue
The cry of gulls and the soft whisper of the sea wind sighed through the open window facing the East. The last pale pink hues of day were beginning to fade, and the first evening star could be seem blazing in the coral sky, and all was settling into night when the voice spoke. "Master Ilverin," a young voice spoke, piercing the shadows of his sleep. The Noldo lifted his head from the pillow of the couch he lay upon to see a dozen faces about him, and the fire stirred at the hearth where he had left it hours ago to die whilst he slept. The youth who had called his name smiled to see that he had awakened, and offered him a goblet of clear water. Ilverin regarded his student for a moment, then the faces of the assembled, as he took the goblet from Ninan and sat up, his dark hair falling unbound down his shoulders in a manner unlike many Elda of the cultured lands. But he was not of Valinor, and his kin had known different ways.
Three Sindar, aside from himself and Ninan now occupied the Hall of Logs, the sturdy wooden hall of Tol Eressea which had withstood many a storm beside the glittering limestone Watchtower of the West that had guided hundreds of ships to the hither shores. As he had slept, their hushed voices had been in his ears, with stories of his kindred, although he could remember no details.
"Welcome," Ilverin bade to his companions, sipping the cool drink fresh from the island springs. To the worlds of some, perhaps it was not as precious as wine, but any weary seafarer surrounded by the salty tide could attest to the mercy of a few simple drops of clear spring water. Here on Eressea, it was the elixir of life. "Have the stars shone well upon your journey West?" he asked politely.
Quiet laughter rippled among the Sindar, and one—a tall silver-haired male who reminded him of the folk of Lothlorien—spoke up above the others. "Indeed, they have, my lord. Pray tell us, are you the same Master Ilverin whose people survived the fall of Beleriand?"
The Noldo raised one dark brow slightly, surprised by the boldness of the question. He had been so long in the shadow of Valinor now that he had nearly forgotten how straightforward and unpretentious the people of Ennor were in comparison to those of the Calaquendi. It was refreshing. "I am," he answered, wondering to where these questions turned.
More quiet chattering passed between the companions while the one spoke again excitedly, leaning forward. "Ai! We have heard of your people, the Noldor of Beleriand and the people of Turgon! Many a night as a child I was lulled to sleep by such terrible and wonderful stories!" Ilverin sighed patiently, sipping again at his goblet. Ah, another one... Unfazed, the young warrior continued, his eyes as bright as the circlet of Varda in the heavens. "I am Hindor of the Golden Wood. These are my brothers in arms, Rúmil and Aronnén. We come in the ship before Lord Celeborn, but we heard you were here on Tol Eressea and could not help but see for ourselves."
Ilverin's lips turned in an amused smile, if a touch wry. "And here I sit, my friends. You will find as you stay here, whether on the land of Valimar or the isle of Eressea, that there are many who dwell here from your stories, a great deal of whom are older than I."
"But of the Gondothrim?" Aronnén asked, unable to hold back his curiosity. "Do they still live here as it says in the stories? As you do?"
The sudden utter of that word sliced through the room like a cold knife, and a tense silence fell between them, broken only by the wail of gulls bedding in for the night in the cliffs below the window. Ilverin felt as though the very air in his breast had been sucked out by death itself, and it was a long moment before he could even move. Then, shadows of grief clawing at his heart, he drew a reluctant breath. "Gondolin," he whispered, sorrow veiling his grey eyes as the evening mist of the sea. "Ai, there are a few who made it back into the West from Gondolin."
Ninan looked uncomfortably between the Sindarin warriors and his mentor who had taught him many things about Gondolin along with the dialect of her people. Before he could speak, however, he was interrupted by Hindor.
"Would you tell us of Gondolin?" His voice was quiet, reverent, but imploring. "Is it true that a man sailed to the Undying Lands? Is it true that she was the most beautiful city in Ennor, and that her walls were made of pure white marble?"
Ilverin walked to the window, closing his eyes with the weight of memory. It was a memory he himself had never truly recalled, but it was deep in his soul, passed along in the blood of his people never to be forgotten. Stretching out his hands to lay his palms on the white sill, he looked out across the shimmering twilight sea to the dusky horizon. Never had anyone asked him to speak of Ondolindë with such earnest. Among the Noldor and Sindar in Valinor, the sadness was so great surrounding the story that it was generally known never to speak of it. The tale had been avoided, like the mere covering of a wound by a bandage without attending to the infection. Perhaps it was time to open the gates of history and let Gondolin be spoken of once more.
"You wish to know of the shining city?" he said at last, turning to face the three travelers and Ninan.
"Yë, we have dreamed of its beauty since we were children. Alas to have been born so late and never to have a chance to see it," Rúmil replied quietly.
Ilverin crossed the room once more to sit upon his resting couch and gestured that the three seafarers come closer and sit. They did so on the carpet, not taking their eyes from him. "Well, my friends..." he began with a sigh. "I suppose that... the real story begins with a man." He studied each of their faces as his apprentice moved to make some tea, then he continued. "He was not quite like the men of Middle Earth that you have met. He was taller, stronger, brave and beloved to our people. He was born in a time of great darkness, after one of the bloodiest battles in Beleriand, when the shadow of Morgoth had all but destroyed his kin."
"And his name?" young Aronnén asked.
Ilverin smiled slightly. "Tuor. His name was Tuor..."
Rían, the young wife of Huor, Lord of Men, dwelt with the people of the House of Hador when rumor came to Dor-lómin of the end of the Nirnaeth Anoediad. As would be long count in history, that battle was the greatest of all losses of Elves and Men in the known world—a grievous defeat through the cunning and cruelty of Morgoth, the Black Foe of the world, and as such it was known in the common tongue as the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. In the few who fled to Dor-lómin with the tidings of that battle, much news came to Rían of grief and death, yet she could hear no news of her lord no matter how she pressed, and fear struck her heart that he had perished or been lost in the wild. Thus distraught, she set forth into the wild alone. The pain of her travels over earth and leaf and stone none knows, but she searched for him long in unknown country until fate or perhaps a greater destiny cast the days of her greatest pain upon her – an event that brought forth both life and death, for Rían was heavy with child.
It so happened that on a cold night in the foothills edging the barren mountains of Mithrim, Rían fell, weary and sore. Yet the pain of her heart tortured her more than her lack of food and aching body could, and she wept as she lay beneath the cold light of the stars. Although some still had hope who had heard no tidings, in her heart she knew that her husband had fallen to a dark fate and so she wept from the grief that had welled up within her, too weary to go any further. There on that mound of turf under the stars she would have perished, but it so happened that a small cluster of the Eldar dwelt in the mountains about Mithrim west of the lake, and she had come to the foot of their land. Upon seeing her, the small company of Sindar were stricken with compassion and came to her aid. They climbed down to the foothills from their towers and caverns of watch in the silent hills and carried her with them to their home. There they gave her food, drink, and much-needed shelter from the predators of the night.
Her stay with them was not long and during that time she told no more than her name to them. Then, as the seasons had begun to wane toward the winter and bitter cold seeped into the stones of Mithrim, Rían cried out one night in the first pangs of labor. Long and hard was her toil into the deep night until at last she delivered a child with the aid of Annael, the captain of the company. As he lay the child in her arms, tears fell from her eyes when she looked upon that which she had left of Huor—their fated son. His eyes were a perfect, pewter grey with a blue tint as are often the eyes of babies and shaded by long, pale lashes, as fair as his father's. And as her son lay suckling upon her breast, Rían looked solemnly to Annael and all those who had come to see the child. "His name is Tuor. That was the name his father chose if we should have a son, ere war came between us."
"Which war do you speak of, my lady?" Annael asked, his eyes shadowed with sudden knowledge and deep grief.
"He went away seasons ago," she answered him, her gaze turning away and mouth tightening with sorrow beyond her years. "To Nirnaeth. And now I am loathe to ask of you what I must. Take care of my little Tuor, I beg of you with all of my heart. Please foster him and keep him hidden in your care, for someday I feel some great good for Elves and Men will come from him." Her fingertips traced over the child's features for a moment of silence filled only with the sound of his swallows. Rían drew a shuddering breath and met the elf's gaze. "As for me, I cannot stay here. I must go in search of my husband. I must know what has become of him."
"Pray, tell me his name, my lady," Annael asked quietly.
"Huor," she replied, searching the many faces for answers. "Huor of the house of Hador."
Sighs and murmurings stirred among the company of the Eldar. Only Annael spoke, however, and his words were grave. He alone of his people had returned from Nirnaeth. "Alas, lady," he said softly. "Huor fell at the side of Hurin his brother, and he likely lies in the great hill of the slain that the Orcs have raised upon the field of battle. You will not find him." Then Rían fell silent and one by one the Eldar left her to her grief; all save Annael, who took the child into his arms and stayed beside the young mother through the night.
Therefore it was that Rían arose after days of grieving with nary a word spoken to anyone and left the dwelling of the Elves, and she passed alone through the land of Mithrim and came at last to the Haudh-en-Ndengin, the wretched hill of slain in the waste of Anfauglith. Under the thin light of a pale sun, she laid upon the hill and placed her hands on the mound with the last strength left in her. There her broken heart at last failed her and she died beside the body of her husband upon the soil of the waste. Tuor, however, lived on. Annael took him as his own and the Sindar of Mithrim cared for the infant son of Huor with much love and sorrow. He grew and lived among them until the time of his sixteenth year, when their paths would part—though for what good or doom none could imagine...
Part 1: Tuor
He was fair of face and golden-haired after the manner of his father's kin, and strong and tall and valiant by the word of all of his people. Fostered by the Elves, he had lore and skill no less than the princes of all the realms of men. Little escaped his keen glance as far as it could see, though he still felt the difference between his own senses and the keenness of the watchmen of his company. They were family to him, and yet he could never entirely forget that he was not one of them. When the time came for swiftness of running and sharp sight, he always fell short of his companions in the hunt, although his senses were far more honed than those of any ordinary man in the ability to listen to the messages of earth, water, and the wind that sighed over the plains and the lake of Mithrim.
Such it was that he pondered with dissatisfaction as he crouched low upon a rock on one of the high peaks of the mountains, his clothing of grey and brown leather seeming part of the stone with the hood of his cloak drawn up to cover his face, lest the servants of the Enemy spy his hair glinting in the sunlight. Beside him were a company of two Grey-elves, and neither of the three spoke or moved even a sinew. Their dark eyes were upon the plain below, for moving through the fields of green like a herd of ants was a cluster of men. Nay, more than a cluster, but a company that Tuor spied further off when he lifted his gaze to the eastern foot of the winding mountains.
Had they been of his kin, the Eldar would not have been so concerned, but these men were not of his line. These men were fell and they wore black. He had seen few close, having had one narrow brush with them, yet he had heard enough to know them as the Easterlings, men from far regions whose kings had long ago pledged their allegiance to Morgoth. Their hair and eyes were black, and their skin was pale. Their swords were curved and quick and their ways cruel, even among their own women and children.
Had they been merely a passing company as well, perhaps the sighting of them would not have seemed so grave, but the Easterlings were spreading in the same manner as all of Morgoth's fingers across Beleriand. Rumor from the birds of Hithlum was that the Easterlings had broken their alliance with the Enemy, though most still served him out of fear. Morgoth had disavowed his pledge to the men who had served him and he had denied them access to the lands beyond his own, and so in anger the fell folk of the east had been driven into the barren country of Hithlum to terrorize all that they found there. Food had become more scarce, and no longer was it safe to hunt in any open country, even for the Eldar whom the Easterlings feared of witchcraft. Rumor of the powers of elves had kept them thusfar away from the mountains where the last companies of Sindar still lingered, and so far the Easterlings contented themselves by terrorizing the lands of Men and stealing their wives for their own.
"And so they are coming," Tuor murmured softly aloud, although more to himself than for the benefit of his companions.
Handor, the pale-haired Sinda who crouched to the young lord's right, touched his hand to Tuor's shoulder. "And so we must go. Even our cloaks may not hide us from so near a foe. Come," he bade.
The small company of three climbed cautiously up the slope over paths unmarked along the ridge of the hills toward the caves known as the Towers of Androth that gaped no more than a quarter of a league away in the side of the western mountains of Mithrim. They pocked the surface of the hard rock of the mountaintops like pores in the surface of a sandstone. Many of these were leftover from the violent beginning of what was still a volcanic region in nothern Beleriand, and most had remained unoccupied. Here Annael had led his small people a few years past, and here they had lived a hard and wary life. Still, some felt that the natural formation of the land was not enough to hide them from roaming companies of the Easterlings, and neither were the rumors that kept them at bay. Not forever. Many felt that the time to leave would soon come.
"What could they possibly want?" Tuor said angrily, daring to let his voice rise a bit louder as they ascended the slopes carefully, bow in hand. "Surely the land is not valuable enough to warrant this. And to run away and never fight back while they take the women and children of Hithlum makes me feel all the more ill. Why must we be idle? We are caught between companies of Orcs and the stronghold of Angband, driven back into the mountains because of it, and now the Easterlings tramp their foul feet upon our earth! How much more suffering will we and the Houses of Men endure before we fight back?"
"We are but a small company, Tuor," Handor replied. "Remember it well. We alone cannot hold back the power of Morgoth."
"Yet my blood burns hot for the screams I hear in the night. Are they not my own people?"
Handor turned and met his gaze with fierce pale eyes of his own. "And were they to hear you now and thrust an arrow through your chest from afar, what good would your tongue do for your people or us? They would no longer fear us if they knew our true numbers; indeed, precious few we are. Those who would not be slain would suffer worse in Angband."
Tuor's eyes narrowed at his friend's back but he understood the elda's meaning and followed obediently in silence until they came unseen into the mouth of the largest of the caves of Androth. Then he cast back the hood of his cloak and breathed a sigh that echoed all around him in the comfortable company of Sindar. He then answered Handor. "Are we to do nothing? To sit idle?"
"Alas, for the moment," said Annael. He came to Tuor and laid his hand upon his shoulder, the grip of his fingers and the keenness of his glance speaking volumes more. He dismissed Handor with a nod, who bowed with courtesy, and then the elder Sinda beckoned that his foster son follow. Tuor did so obediently. As they entered the smaller dwelling of Annael through a doorway in the rock between two caverns, he spoke and it seemed to Tuor that a new grief had been laid upon him. "The fear of fell men for the Lady Morwen and for us has all but waned to a shadow. I foretell much darkness will come all too quickly."
"Who is she?" the young man asked curiously as he followed his foster-father into their home.
"The Lady Morwen is dark and fair they say, and her pride has spared her much torment. She is a lady of Men, and as such the years have made her thin and more frail than she once was. Men once feared her, thinking her one of our kind. Now dark tidings come of her house and her husband, but more I would not say to you. Not at this time," said Annael, and for a moment it was to Tuor as though a thousand shadows lurked behind those words. Things that he must know that were hidden from him, and his heart only sparked hotter within his breast for the frustration of his helplessness.
"Ada," Tuor spoke then, unable to restrain himself as the anger welled inside of him. "I cannot abide this long wait. If I must starve because the Orcs have driven away all the food then I would starve fighting for the freedom of those who have none!"
Annael's lips turned in a faint smile, for he looked upon Tuor as his own son. Yet, he knew deep within him that their paths would part for good or ill one day and this knowledge pained his heart greatly. "You are brave Tuor," he answered. "And noble, that you care for their needs over your own. But I do not want you to do anything at this time."
Tuor stood again from where he had crouched beside their small fire and cast down the burning stick into the firepit as he did so. "Why?"
Annael's countenance hardened. "You are brave, Tuor, but you are young. If the might of the Eldalië cannot hold back the fires of Angband, how might you, son of Hithlum?" he said.
Tuor's chin lifted. "I do not seek to cast Morgoth from the throne of Angband; I only seek to avenge the pain all around us!"
"And I forbid it!" said Annael. "Hence, I fear, your doom lies Tuor! This land shall not be freed from the shadow of Morgoth until Thangorodrim itself be overthrown by Manwë and He whose Name we revere. Therefore, we are resolved to forsake it, and to depart into the South upon the next waxing of the Moon; and you will go with us."
"But if we depart, how are we to escape?" Tuor countered. "So many together will surely be marked by dark watchmen."
The Elda bent to stir the fire, and the light of the flames danced in his eyes like the ages-old wisdom of his many years. Tuor respected and loved his father dearly, but his heart rued his words. "We shall not march through the land openly," Annael answered. "And if our fortune is good we shall come to the secret way which we call Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor made by the skill of that people long ago in the days of Turgon. There we will pass into the safer lands of our kin."
Tuor fell silent, for at the name spoken his heart stirred, though he knew not why. He mulled the name over in his thoughts for a few moments and then spoke it aloud. The word sounded odd upon his tongue, and he felt stranger yet for it. "Turgon... Who was he?" he asked.
"He is a son of Fingolfin," Annael answered after a moment of surprise. He had forgotten how few precious years he had truly known with Tuor and how little he knew. "He is now accounted High King of the Noldor, since the fall of Fingon at Nirnaeth. He lives yet, most feared of the foes of Morgoth, having escaped from the ruin of that battle when Hurin of Dor-lómin and Huor your father held the passes of Sirion behind him."
"He knew my father?"
Annael bowed his head once in a nod. "Ai, your father saved his life, a debt I am certain that he has not forgotten in these few years."
Tuor looked at his hands, wondering perhaps if he resembled Huor enough that one of the Noldor, would recognize him, or whether he truly would be orphaned in a strange land among a people who would live and die and not mark that he had ever lived. Leastwise, he could use such a debt to his father, if not lightly. "I will go and seek this Turgon," said Tuor finally. "Surely he will lend me aid for my father's sake, and then if I cannot halt the fingers of Morgoth, I can at least bring them pain with his aid."
"By yourself?" the Elda said skeptically. "His stronghold is hidden from the eyes of Elves and Men, and no one knows where it is. Of the Noldor some, maybe, know the way, but they will speak of it to none." He met Tuor's gaze and lifted a hand to brush flaxen-colored hair from the eyes of his son of sixteen years, and then sighed, troubled. "You worry me so, Tuor. But if you feel that you must try to find help, then come with me. In the far havens of the South you may meet with wanderers from the Hidden Kingdom," he said, and his son looked aside. Annael laid his hand on Tuor's shoulder and forced him gently to meet his gaze before he spoke again. "Abide with patience, Tuor, and your destiny will find you, wheresoever it might lead. For now, I ask only that you accept my decision."
"That I cannot with my whole heart," Tuor said quietly, bowing his head with a sigh. "But for my love for you, I shall do as you say."
It was in the evening time of undomë, the unveiling of the stars upon the canvas of a smoky violet horizon, when Tuor emerged from the dwellings of Androth to look out across the far plains in the gathering dark. In the south, mountains rose jagged and purple, their rocky peaks flecked with snow that caught the glint of a thin crescent moon. It hung like a shard of silver in the night sky, illuminating the cold hills of Mithrim along with the pale light of the cold, clear stars. In the vale below Tuor glimpsed several small golden lights flickering out of the blackness from the campfires of the Easterlings. The wind rose and fell like a beckoning swallow, whistling a mournful sound across the craigs and uttering a soft, grieving sigh it seemed in the rustling grasses below in the foothills.
And somewhere beyond the reaches of his knowledge and all the lands with which he was familiar, Turgon lay, a name that called to him somehow. Yet he almost feared it, for he sensed darkness in the future, though he had not the foresight of his Sindarin kin. Perhaps it was this same sense of uncertainty that held the Eldar of Dor-lómin in enough fear that they had now chosen to flee from the ravaging companies of Orcs and men. In a count of eight days, as he observed the moon, they would pass from that land like shadows, leaving only silent stones that would divulge no cruel secrets in their lonliness of where the Eldar had gone. Inside, Tuor knew that Annael was wise and this was the best course. If only they could bring with them the captives who served the black men and give to them the same freedom.
Far would their journey bring them from anything he had ever known. The leagues of Beleriand were endless, and only the legends and stories told to him in his youth counted them. Tuor had grown tall in the past years, lean and lithe and strong after the manner of his Elven kin. His hair was long, and he had learned the pains of young men such as the roughness of their stubble in comparison to the fairer Children of Arda. He had learned of many far off battles and folk of legend, and of the land beyond the great Sundering Sea whose name they had never told him. He had learned of the Noldor and their kings and sorrows, and of the fall of the sons of Fëanor; yet, there was much that he did not know and when faced with the pathless wilderness beyond those hills he felt naked without such knowledge.
Tuor gazed down at the fires, and the desire crept into his fingers for a blade to slay the slavedrivers. It still felt so cowardly to leave on the eve of destruction, and to abandon the people whom he knew little of, who were his people. Yet he had given his word to follow Annael, and for love and obedience he would follow to the unknown end.
Tuor searched the heavens then for comfort, finding the familiar stars. Wilwarin he saw, and Menelmacar, the swordsman of the sky with his shining belt, who chased ever his prey across the skies in westward fashion, circling the heavens time and again. Menelmacar was a hunter as he was, with little known history, only legend formed because of the curious arrangement of the stars that painted the image long ago to the Eldermost Calaquendi that he was indeed the eternal guardian of the world. Like a token of good will to all warriors throughout the land, when Menelmacar shone from above it was believed by some to be a night of prosperous hunting, and that his light would hold Melkor's servants at bay. Now even that token would not disguise the pangs of their bellies as animals grew more scarce in the northern plains and their enemies crept in upon them.
Annael was right; the time had come to leave at last.
With a sigh on the wind, the son of Huor stepped down from the rock of carag-tirn, a sharp tooth-like projection of stone that pointed West where the Sindar often watched for signs of foe from all sides, and he returned to the safety of their dwelling. Annael was holding a discussion in the main hall, and the lilt of his soft words was touched with a weight that warned Tuor not to interrupt, and so he passed into their private chamber. Tuor stripped off his boots and laid down upon furs close to the fire, his head resting upon his arm as he watched the dancing flames for a time. When at last he closed his eyes, he slipped into a deep, solid slumber and dreamt of many dark things that he would not recall for many days to come.