The day was fair. Lofty clouds scudded across a bright sky and gusts of petal-bearing wind shimmered over the moat. Húrin checked his borrowed steed and nudged Húor in the ribs. The city gates were upon them at last. Húrin sighed apprehensively.
Húor (who had the enviable ability of being able to sleep on a moving animal) blinked and stretched. He'd been dozing noisily behind Húrin, arms clasped about his brother's waist, forehead resting upon his shoulder.
"Come, you sluggard," Húrin said affectionately, "We're finally here!"
Things had actually turned out unexpectedly well given their shaky start to the day (anything involving goblins is never pleasant)...But this now? This was an unknown quantity. The brothers exchanged wary glances. Much had transpired since dawn and they weren't willing to wager that the day had nothing further to fling at them: After one has been chased by orcs, rescued by a Vala and then whisked through leagues of air by giant eagles - all before breakfast, no less - nothing feels impossible.
The gates of Gondolin loomed before them like the folded wings of some magnificent roosting bird, pale and luminescent. The walls were wrought of marble inlaid with mithril and gold - and manned, Húrin could now see, by several sharp-sighted elves clad in shining armour. A clear voice called halt to the progression of the four travellers, who were seated in a peculiar arrangement of two to a horse.
They waited upon the threshold for several moments as the wardens conferred amongst themselves. Somewhere above a skylark burst into song.
Finally, one of the gate-wardens addressed them in what Húrin recognised to be Quenya - a tongue seldom heard and of which he understood little. Yet Sindarin also he discerned, and of this language he was more knowledgable.
"Amatúlie, Voronyeldë*, we welcome you with joy! Long has our Lord Turgon anticipated a homecoming. I am Saelion, first lieutenant to Captain Ecthelion. But we were expecting only two. Here are four. Who are these men that travel with you, brennil nin**?"
Húrin glanced at the elves who had witnessing their rather flamboyant entrance that morning. To their credit, the only indication of shock they exhibited at seeing men swoop from the sky in the clutches of two giant eagles had been a raise of their shapely eyebrows. Several minutes and several drafts of miruvor later, Húrin learned that the elves' road lay with theirs.
They made for Gondolin together.
Húrin had quickly surmised that their new companions were kin of some kind, for they seemed very close. In appearance, though, they were strikingly dissimilar. One was flaxen-haired and unmistakably feminine (for she was soft-featured and becomingly enveloped in a robe the colour of autumn wheat) whilst the other was taller, dark of hair, pale of skin and more slender - yet powerfully athletic and clad in a flowing warrior's tunic. Both were surpassingly fair - as was the wont of elves - but for the life of him Húrin could not confidently claim to tell whether the dark elf was elleth or ellon. Húrin's own limited experience of elves had taught him that to human eyes their beauty was often quite androgynous (indeed, he cringed to recall how he'd learned the hard way the folly of assuming that every smooth-faced elven beauty was a female!)
But the moment the dark elf fixed him with a golden gaze and spoke in a melodious, lilting rendition of Westron, he knew she was a maid. Her name was Almárien. Her sister's, Lalwen. They were merely journeying to see their kin, they said, though at the mention of 'kin' Húrin thought he saw a flicker of anxiety pass over Almárien's fair face.
It was she who now dismounted smoothly and greeted the warden with hand over heart:
"Hanatanyel órenyallo***, we are glad to be back. These men we met at the foot of the mountain pass. They were rescued from orcs by the mighty Thorondor in the Vale of Sirion. I am certain that my Lord Turgon would be gratified to hear their tale first-hand. I will vouch for them, so I pray you let them pass within."
At this news the gate-warden's eyes widened. It was becoming clear to Húrin that the gate-wardens held the sisters in higher esteem than they themselves had implied. Húor mumbled as much in his ear.
"Aye, brannon nin," replied Saelion, "If you both vouch for these men 'tis not my place to interfere. They shall pass."
Lalwen nodded in confirmation and smiled, "We do, Saelion sadron****, and gladly."
And so it was done.
The mighty gates slid soundlessly open and they passed over the boundary into Gondolin. Húrin winced and shielded his eyes against a shaft of sudden sunlight. Behind him he heard his brother gasp - and as he turned his gaze upon this elvish mountain realm, his own breath caught in his throat.
They were upon the lip of a broad valley. Below them, gleaming bright and jewel-like, dwelt the very heart of the city. A smooth, wide path descended the gradient in a line that disappeared beyond the limits of his sight. Of these there were seven, like the spokes of a great white wheel, about which the rest of the city had been raised in luminous spires and domes. Other paths both small and large divided the city through sculpted archways and courtyards edged by gardens.
An abundance of verdure blossomed upon the walls and roofs - which was remarkable given the altitude of the hidden valley. All beyond the circling walls of the city was spartan - the rocky land yielding little more than scrubby grass and thistle - yet here the greenery hung from almost every building in lush abandon, the twining tendrils of rose and jasmine and wisteria enclosing the very structures that supported them.
Every way Húrin turned he heard the murmur of playing water - for fountains were the delight of Gondolin. Like silver sentinels they dwelt on every street juncture, carved of alabaster in graceful renditions of the natural things that all elves hold dear. The canals that fed them flowed briskly to the centre of the valley and spilled into tiers of broad, translucent pools flanked by rows of mallorn. The palace - tall and many-spired - stood at the centre of all, it's uppermost towers breaching the spring-tide clouds.
And as the brothers gazed in wonder at all they passed on the road to the citadel, Húrin could not find it within himself to regret the misfortunes that had led them to a place so fair.
They must have travelled for a quarter-hour at least before they reached the centre of the valley, but to the brothers everything passed as if in a dream. They did not mark the attentions of the elf-folk who lined the road, welcoming their kin home and wondering at the sight of men in their realm; neither did they mark how the great palace grew to fill the very sky as they approached its tree-lined entrance.
"Take the horses - we will hasten to the King."
He was following the sisters mutely, shadowing their silent footfalls. His heels clicked upon the marble floor in a steady rhythm, his mind saturated and dreaming. Over a shimmering bridge they walked and on into a vaulted courtyard open to the heavens. A burnished fountain sang at its centre beneath a play of golden sunlight.
They passed it and moved on.
Then, poised beneath a high canopy of coloured glass, he heard the soft and laughing voice of Almárien in his ear, coaxing him from his reverie.
"Come, Húrin; this is not the time for a waking-sleep. The King awaits us within. Do not let the silver voices of the fountains lull your mind too soundly!"
And, as if surfacing from deep water, he came back to himself. And he felt refreshed. Húor was grinning at him, speaking sentiments he had felt a hundred times already that day: "Brother - this is a place of wonders! I am glad indeed for our poor fortunes this morn!"
They stood shoulder to shoulder and breathed the fragrant air. The doors parted, the guardsmen bowed, and together they strode tall into the Halls of Turgon the Wise.
ENDNOTES:
*'daughter of Nerwinië' - Nerwinië being the non-canon, half Vanyarin wife of Voronwë (derived from old Noldorin for 'January', 'Nerwinien'); Quenya
**honorific; Sindarin; 'My Ladies'
***Quenya; 'thanks from the heart'
****Sindarin; 'loyal'
Irimë: the youngest daughter of Finwë and Indis, sister to Fingolfin and thus aunt to Turgon. In this story, I make Voronwë the son of a union between Aranwë and Irimë, and so he is Turgon's cousin. Voronwë's twin daughters Almárien and Lalwen are therefore the 2nd cousins of Idril and Maeglin.
