Hi people!
Here's the next chapter that keeps telling us the terrible ending of Gondolin.
Waiting for your reviews, guys!
Chapter 69: A Feast for The Crows
Two Hours Past Sunrise
The world dissolved into red. He felt the fire surround him, knew that the dragon had been loosed upon them.
"Fire and blood!" he cried. "Take them all with fire and with blood!"
Out of the dancing flames, he saw the fire-drake rise. It laughed at Rog, and a furnace wind engulfed him. He could see bits of bones and charred flesh in its black teeth. Its eyes were like molten gold.
"Your house is no more," it said, carving the shapes of words from a single guttural sound. "Gondolin will fall ere the day is done, but you will not live to see it, little Hammer." It lowered its serpentine neck, fire glowing deep within its jaws.
Rog leaped onto the dragon's head, standing for one instance upon the great scaly surface before he brought his hammer down, and the skull crunched, cracking under the blow.
The dragon reared backward, beating black wings in a death agony, and Rog and the drake roared as one, as it came crashing into the flames, the Demon-Slayer crushed beneath its massive head.
So fire overtook the Smith.
Five Hours After Sunrise
Laura lifted her head, trying to seal away the pain. Corpses littered the ground on every side, the cruel and the just side by side in a final bloody masquerade.
Her recruits were gone. Claimed by dragon fire, Orc arrows, troll clubs, werewolf teeth.
She wiped the wetness from her eyes and pretended it was blood, not tears, and began to run towards the Lesser Market.
Rubble was strewn all about: great chunks of shattered masonry, burned beams, broken, blackened statues.
Wings cracked the air like thunder, and she watched a black dragon launch itself into the air, a jet-black, scaly mountain that had somehow learned to fly.
Fire roared somewhere in front of her and she rounded the next corner, she saw it. Flames swirled, now yellow, now red, now orange, and she saw three figures lying on the outskirts of the fire.
Laura considered turning back and taking one of the alleys before she saw how small two of the bodies were.
She ran nearer, near enough to see the charred corpse of a full-grown Elf, the flesh melting off the bones. The Elf had died covering two children with her body. Laura looked down at them in silence. They were burned, but not as badly as their mother, and she could recognize them. Glastor was dead, and for a moment, she thought Sulneth was dead as well, but then the girl's blue eyes moved ever so slightly. Her lower body was scorched away, but somehow, she was still alive.
Laura wanted to scream.
Instead, she crouched by Sulneth, drew out her claws, and brought a quick mercy. When the light had left the girl's corpse, she closed Sulneth's eyes, and silently vowed to never kill another Elf, unless under great need. An oath she would keep for three Ages.
A tear streaked down her filthy face.
Eight Hours After Sunrise
The Great Market was a tableau ripped straight from the heart of Hell. Somewhere off in the far distance, Glorfindel heard a dying Elf call out deliriously for his mother. His armor was dented, discolored, stained with blood of all sorts. There was a high, shrill sound, and although he could not make out the words, fear was plain in any tongue. Then the sounds of slaughter overcame it.
He had ten of his House left with him. A building to the right of him went up in a gout of flame, and through its smoldering remnants, he saw the tell-tale flash of a black axe. Then two. Then three.
"Fall back!" he shouted, his voice raw with smoke and thirst. "Fall back! The Harpers are not coming! We must fall back!"
Then it was too late, so he screamed instead, "Shield wall! Shield wall!"
The first phalanx of Orcs, the vanguard of the Balrogs, broke upon the remnants of the House of the Golden Flower. They slammed against the shields, driving the Elves backward with brute force, washing them away as a tsunami washes away a conch shell.
Then the Harpers were there, bursting into the Great Market, vengeance embodied and clad in black. The Orcs fell back under their sudden, savage onslaught, and Glorfindel caught the eyes of Machalon, Salgant's lieutenant.
"The King's Square!" Machalon shouted. "Now go!" And then he was in the thick of the foeman, moving like the Hand of Mandos.
Twelve Hours After Sunrise
The Square of the King was choked with bodies, lying face down on the marble or floating like ghastly pale lilies in the fountain. The only unsullied things were Glingol and Bansil, gleaming silver and gold, still untouched by the fire and ruin that surrounded them. All the springs in the Square were steaming, and a sullen mist shrouded the courtyard.
"Where are my children?" the King said. He was holding his side, where a dagger had raked him, and blood was blossoming there, dripping between the plates of his armor.
"Idril and Eärendil are safe," Tuor answered, although his heart told him Idril was in danger-was putting herself in danger even as they spoke. He stood between Egalmoth and Galdor, his blade running red, his sword-arm so heavy he could scarcely lift it.
"And what of Maeglin?" Turgon asked. He looked old and fell then, like a gnarled oak that has weathered too many storms.
Tuor held the King's gaze, but he could not speak. A speechless ball of rage and tears choked his throat.
"Where is Maeglin?" the King repeated.
After a moment, Tuor managed to speak. "He is fallen."
Now the King's face seemed only old, his voice a hoarse croak. "And did he die well?"
"There is no such thing," Tuor answered. "Death is a terrible thing, King."
Turgon straightened, and he held Tuor's gaze. There was a strain between them, a line of smoldering fire, drawn from eye to eye, that might suddenly burst into flame. Then the King closed his eyes, and said, "Great is the Fall of Gondolin." His voice was like the knell of a funeral bell, filled with a terrible grief.
"No," Tuor countered wildly. "Gondolin stands yet, and Ulmo will not let her fall."
"The Flower of this Plain will wither," Turgon answered, and taking his crown from his head, he cast it at the roots of Glingol. The circlet rolled across the marble, blood-red garnets catching the light of scattered fires. Then he turned away into his palace, and the Lords who stood below saw him climb to the topmost pinnacle of that white tower. There he stood in the window, a proud King, old and terrible, and he shouted in a voice like a horn blown among the mountains, and all that were gathered beneath the Trees and the foemen in the mists of the Square heard him:
"Great is the victory of the Noldor!"
And the hosts of Melkor screamed with laughter.
Fifteen Hours After Sunrise
"D'or! D'or!"
Glorfindel turned, peering into the cinder-choked air, flanked by the last two of his House.
"D'or!" The shout came again, and then Laura came running, racing through the ashes and fog and twisting flames.
"Manya!" he shouted, throwing caution to the winds, and running towards her. They met midway, knocking the breath from each other, holding each other, and crying.
"We have to get out," she whispered, holding onto his neck. "We have to get out. Where is everyone else? Where is Ecthelion? I thought he was with you."
"He has gone on," Glorfindel said.
"What do you mean?" Laura demanded, and then understanding sank in, like a stone falling through a deep pond. She closed her eyes briefly, and then looked up at him, her eyes wet and miserable. "But you're safe, D'or. I'm sorry I left you. I'm staying with you now forever, to protect you."
Glorfindel kissed her forehead, and her skin tasted bitter, like ash and blood.
One Hour After Moonrise
Laura and Glorfindel stood at the very back of rearguard, watching the Eagles snatch the climbing Orcs in their talons, dropping them to their doom. It was only when they saw one of those flying shapes burst into flame, becoming a wheel of fire that spiraled through the night, that they knew all was not well.
"Another Balrog," Laura said. Her clothes were stiff with blood, her claws out and gleaming in the pale light. "They just keep sprouting like daisies."
Glorfindel smiled, but there was no mirth in the smile. It was as thin and raw and hard as a dagger cut. "Then, Manya, it is well we are the January wind."
They looked at each other for a very brief minute, and Laura thought You are my sun, and I wish you knew how much I loved you.
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