L.L.L.L.M: As the summary suggests, this fic is an account of Gondolin. It spans from the fall of Fingolfin to the fall of the city itself. It is told from a variety of different perspectives, with two characters per chapter. The fic is co-written, by myself and the amazing CrackinAndProudOfIt. I wrote a few paragraphs, then Crackers did, then I did... etc.
Crackers: ...which explains why you'll hit a bad spot every few paragraphs- those'll be mine. :] At any rate, comments and feedback are much appreciated! But now I'll be quiet and let you read: we hope you'll enjoy!
Thorondor
The sky is limitless as it stretches out on all sides of me, endless, untouchable even by the vile taint of the dark king. The air at such heights is clear and cold, though the temperature's icy fingers do not bother me. I enjoy the strain of my flying-muscles as my wings drive me north towards the shadowed fortress of Angband.
My Lord's words echo in my mind. I must travel with great haste northwards to the black fortress, to try to stop the folly of the eldest son of Indis. His despair must be great to even consider duelling Morgoth. The dark lord is a Vala fallen from grace, and his power is strong. Nolofinwë, though the High King of the Noldor in exile and one of the most powerful elf warriors the Almighty One created, is but an elf. He will be crushed under the tide of Morgoth's wrath.
White clouds turn grey then black as I approach my destination and my eyes perceive the three peaks of Thangorodrim piercing the underbelly of the clouds. The foul fumes expelled from the fortress pollute the air: a bitter taste is in my mouth. I wish with all my heart to fly away to the clear air of the south, but the trust my Lord has in me keeps me on my path.
A great scream can be heard, piercing the firmament, echoing to set the earth below trembling; it is the seventh of its kind that this fell day has brought to my attentive ears. I increase my speed at the sound of it, beating my vast pinions with an intensity seldom required of any bird of prey. What has caused that hideous cry, I do not know, but what is clear to my mind is that the king's challenge was taken up.
Faster and faster I fly, until the sound of my own feathers against the fierce wind rushes in my ears. Over the thrice-cursed peaks my road leads me, but even at my current velocity I fear I have not been quick enough, for no more cries are heard. This token bodes well neither way: if they belonged to Morgoth, he has not been hit again, if to Nolofinwë, he has been silenced.
At seemingly long last, Thangorodrim lies behind me, and I begin descent from my great altitude to examine the fight outside Angband's gates. A great sable cloud has ominously blocked my view of the ground below, but plunging through its choking shadows, to my farseeing eyes is revealed a harrowing scene.
Sorrow strikes my heart; for all the haste I have put into this grave journey, I am too late. The duel is finished, with the result I had foreseen with such regret. There he lies, Nolofinwë the Valiant, High King of the Noldor in exile, held in place under the black foot of Morgoth. Yet he has not passed: I can see his body struggling and the pain on his face. I beat my wings ever faster. There is still hope that he might be saved from a fate no Elda should suffer.
Morgoth is speaking; his words come from a face bearing seven great wounds. Though spoken in the Black Tongue, his words are still understandable. He mocks Nolofinwë, ridicules his attempts to take on himself, the true master of Beleriand, Middle Earth and all of its peoples. His words of bravado seek to hide his true emotions: shock at being challenged and maimed, and the flash of fear that had pierced him momentarily, that this valiant young Elda could have actually killed him. His words, distracting him from emotions, also serve the duty to distract him from the movements of the body crushed below his foot: Nolofinwë reaches for his fallen sword.
Morgoth begins to grind his foot down, crushing the once-beautiful body into the dust. Nolofinwë's cry of pure agony pierces my ears, followed by the monstrous sound of the Black King's laughter. Then; in a movement of desperation, using the last strength held in his broken body, the son of Indis slashes his sword, slicing open Morgoth's foot. The Dark Lord reels in pain as Fingolfin's fëa flees his body.
Black blood gushes steaming from Morgoth's eighth wound. Out it flows, filling the chasms only just formed by the contact of Hell's hammer with the tortured earth and covering the still chest of the king in its hideous venom. Two proud lords, humbled beyond reach of deepest fear, I see below me: one gone where dignity no longer is of account, the other left furious and humiliated in the land of the living- if Angband deserves such a name.
Despite his disfiguring wounds, my altitude, and his failed attempts at hiding it, evident on Morgoth's countenance is the incomparable wrath of one whose boasts have proved empty and whose nightmares have just barely been kept from fruition. From the pits below, the abode of innumerable thralls and vassals imprisoned sadly to toil in Angband's black depths, no sound is heard. Watching, waiting are Morgoth's servants; at their lord's command alone will they celebrate the apparent victory.
Morgoth bends, stooping to lift Fingolfin's empty hröa with both hands. More sable blood leaks onto the king's corpse, but despite his wounds, the Dark Lord laughs, a contained, mirthless sound that I know would be inaudible to me were I not so rapidly nearing him. And then he pulls. The hue he bears is like his noble kindred's in stature, no taller, appearing to be no stronger, but this latter assumption is soon proved false. The muscles beneath that ebony armour must be great indeed, for to my lasting horror, I behold a sight which my clear vision will ever curse. Nolofinwë is torn in two.
Bile rises in my throat at the sight. Foul indeed is Belegurth that he dishonours the body of his fallen challenger in such a way. The dead should be honoured, not mutilated in the abhorrent manner Morgoth has demonstrated. Red blood seeps from the broken halves of Nolofinwë, red as the mist descending over my eyes. I have failed my Lord. I have failed Nolofinwë. He is dead; his body broken. My Lord's trust in me has been broken; the shame courses through me almost as strongly as the fury. Recovering Nolofinwë's body and seeing he receives a suitable farewell is my task now.
Morgoth has noticed me, his pit-less black eyes focused on my form in something almost like amusement. He shows no apprehension at the velocity of my approach.
"Greetings, little birdie. Have you a message from my thrice-cursed brother Manwe, or do you seek to feast upon the corpse of this foolish Firstborn like a carrion crow?"
His words only act upon my fury as oil to fire; it explodes within me, burning white bright and red hot. I extend my talons and release a piercing battle cry, soaring towards his maimed face, noticing how his eyes widen at my sudden attack. Perfect. I dive, swerving at the last moment so my extended talons scrape along the unprotected flesh of his eyeballs. Morgoth howls in pain, dropping the corpse halves to clumsily rub at his maimed face. The wounds will heal, for I have not the power to permanently wound a Vala, though for the sake of the one whose corpse halves I carefully capture in my claws I wish I could.
The empty hröa of Nolofinwë seems to weigh nothing as it rests in my talons. Gently I carry him, so as not to further rend the once-proud flesh. Up I bear him, rising higher and higher while Morgoth's curses echo harmlessly off the surrounding rocks, the immense mounds of slag, the black mountains' adamant faces. With the wind in my face I break through the layers of clouds once more and find myself soaring once more above Angband's shadowy mist.
The sky around me is blue once more, and cold but clear the fresh wind that urges my flight westward. Untainted, established, permanent, are the heavens; no refuge like the firmament remains in the Hither Lands. I inhale, a deep draught of pure air fills my lungs, and I simply glide. No urgency remains in my quest now, and I take my leisure traveling the one place in all the world where darkness can never follow me. No matter how high rise Morgoth's fumes of ash and clouds of smoke, how loud the echoing lamentations inescapable sprung from his works, there will always be sky above, somewhere, without stain, without grief, without shadow: free.
Such thoughts flit through my mind, light and careless as the air beneath my wings, even as I straighten my course for the one place to which my burden can be borne in safety: Gondolin. Turgon and I have ever held tight correspondence- I wonder if I serve him more directly than Manwë at times- but never have I taken unto him tidings more tangible, more grievous, more near to his heart than this. But even with my speed, there are several days between my present locale and my dreaded destination, and for now, I concern myself little with the future or the task yet at hand. There is grief; there is pain- that in my very talons bears testimony to it- but when is there not? Here is here; now is now; the wind is soft around me, and I fly.
Turgon
Steel. Maeglin often tells me how useful the alloy is: a metal that can be made to different strengths and forms and used for many different purposes. And steel is what I see when I look in the eyes of those gathered before me. Pure strength. Pure steel.
Almost the entirety of Ondolindë's forces is gathered here in the plaza named for me, the Square of the King. The largest square in this hidden city, it is the only place large enough for the entire army to gather, though there is space to spare today, as there always is at the time of parades. The morning guard is absent, keeping watch over the plains and Encircling Mountains. The eye of Morgoth ever searches for the Hidden City: we must be vigilant.
The missing guard does not diminish the forces of Gondolin who stand before me, alert, to attention. They paint an impressive portrait, the morning sun glinting off polished armour, the fantastic array of scarlet, sable, ivory, silver, gold, emerald, navy, azure, amber and indigo displayed on shields and cloaks, with the wide open plains, towering mountains and soaring eagles providing a resplendent background.
I feel a surge of emotion for these valiant people, who followed my family into exile across the wasteland of the Helcaraxë, or left behind their homes in Middle-earth and followed me into hiding. I am truly blessed to rule these people.
Those faces, all of those earnest, hardened faces, stare up at mine expectantly. Now is the part where I make a speech to them, something, anything to precede the imminent festivities, and I want to. Looking out over this beautiful display of Eru's Firstborn, the desire of my heart is to tell them that they are just that: a treasured blessing to their king. I open my lips to begin, but from my elevated balcony I see, flying leisurely from the north on a cold winter breeze, an eagle.
He makes good time for his apparently effortless ambulation, and it is soon clear to my eyes that this he is Thorondor, doubtless come bearing yet more grievous tidings of the tempestuous war that rages around our tranquil island in Beleriand's stormy sea. This has been a winter long and difficult, though we in Gondolin have been little affected by the woes outside these adamant white walls, and the Windlord's arrival has come to be a sign of dread to me and to these people I so dearly love.
Thorondor has still several miles to travel ere he reaches the palace, though, and I would, quite honestly, rather dismiss the people to their celebration and parade before his news- whatever it may be- can pervade the jovial occasion and cast its melancholy pall over the jubilation of the holiday. I clear my throat, averting my eyes with some reluctance from the Eagle before me, and begin to speak.
"Gondolindrim." All eyes are upon me, from the soldiers to the civilians, the advisors and the tiny elflings with silken flags grasped in star-shaped hands. "If Morgoth were here in my stead his black heart would quail at the sight of you valiant people."
I pause, and the people cheer, the elflings waving their little flags. A smile graces my lips. My peoples' joy is my joy. The crowd hushes, mothers coaxing their infants to be quiet. They do not quite succeed, though it bothers me not. In times such as these, the delight brought on by a child's laugh is more than welcome.
"Long and hard has this winter been. Snow and frost, though fun to frolic in -" A few appreciative laughs echo in the square as the image of their king frolicking through the snowdrifts graces the minds of the people. "- turn work in the fields to toil." Here, the farmers nod seriously. The winter has been hard for them. "Now, however, comes the spring; a time of new life; new growth; of full tables and full stomachs; of plenty. Gondolindrim, let us welcome the spring!"
A great cheer rises from the joyful crowd, and with a wave of my hand, I gesture for the parade to commence. The throng dissipates, clearing the streets for the horse-drawn floats and gaily-attired marchers and riders to snake their leisurely way down the wide white avenues. I smile; such celebration is only beneficial in dark times such as these.
The constant toil, incessant grinding at the stones of vigilance, of mining, of such food production as we perform in our secluded fashion, wear away at the hröa and fëa alike. These occasional respites from the daily labour serve not only as simply such: a rest- but as a reminder of why we work as we work and as motivation of sorts to do so to the best of our ability. They do not need some long, grand, and tedious oration from the lips of their king to recall these things to mind, only each other's company and the enjoyment of their toil's myriad fruits.
I lift my eyes from the fluid throng and the first line of the parade's musicians in their vibrant array to mark once more Thorondor's path. He is close enough now to meet my gaze; his intelligent golden eyes speak of the tragic tidings I have learned to anticipate from Manwë's vassal. I nod to him, pointing as nonchalantly as possible to the other side of the palace roof's encircling balcony: I would much prefer to meet with him away from the people's assuredly anxious gaze, and he takes the cue, further elevating himself so as to be positioned to fly above the palace. I sigh, and turn to make my way to the backside of the citadel. As I do, my keen eyes cannot help but notice the blood staining the Eagle's talons.
"Will you not be watching the parade, Father?" The voice belongs to the light of my life, my beloved daughter Idril. She stands beside my sister-son, Maeglin, and though at first glance owning completely different visages, there are moments when their shared ancestry is obvious. Now is one of those moments: identical expressions of confused curiosity observe me from one golden and one dark head.
I respond by raising my arm to point at the incoming eagle. Two pairs of eyes, one pair light, the other dark, move to examine the sky. Their eyes widen with comprehension. No words are necessary about my destination now. Expressions that were only moments ago confused have become grave. The gaiety brought on by the parade has vanished.
"We shall take your place in the parade, Sire, and ward off any questions." Maeglin answered my unspoken questions. I felt instantly grateful. Maeglin can perform the duties Idril cannot – he is as a son to me. A place by my side is one he has truly earned.
"Call an emergency council, my daughter. Whatever has happened in our once-fair Beleriand must be grave indeed. The Lord Thorondor only appears in times of great danger. The security of the city itself may have been compromised."
"Shall I summon any of your Captains, Father? Their advice may be necessary." Idril glanced out at the half-crowded square, looking for a captain whose presence would not be missed. I considered the notion. Another's presence would be appreciated to calm the reckless response my ancestry was famous for. I nodded in affirmative.
"I will bring Ecthelion, then, and Glorfindel, Father?" Her response takes shape as a question, in both tone and imploring eyes.
"Thank you, Celebrindal," I respond with a small smile as I- almost involuntarily- lightly caress her cheek. Idril returns the touch as she briefly covers my hand in hers. I cannot help but notice the feel of her fingers on my skin, so slender, so white, so soft and gingerly. She turns away from me and joins Maeglin at the door onto the balcony with swift steps. The last thing I see of the pair ere their disappearance into the palace is my sister-son's placing of a brotherly hand on her shoulder, guiding her down the stairs ahead of him.
I myself turn about now, and resume my walk to the other side of the balcony, noting with interest that Thorondor is no longer aloft. Before I realize it, a knot has formed in the pit of my stomach. Though the Eagle's tidings may be nothing more personal than word of yet another band of flames and attackers surging forth from Angband, what I have been told is purely elven intuition somehow warns me that this could be much worse.
Who, though, is not paranoid in times such as these? I try my utmost to dispel the feeling in the short period remaining of my jaunt to the other side. I focus on the music, the refractory trumpets, the eminent drums, the flutes' shrill, momentous notes that seem to rend pockets in the firmament itself, and I cannot help but smile. As Thorondor comes into my view, and the music's volume seems to diminish due to my distance from its jubilant sources, I roll my shoulders back, prepared to face with dignity and joy whatever the Windlord should say.