The Fall of Gondolin

In Year 509, my favourite uncle went missing for while. He had been scheduled to leave the City to explore a valley Outside for a potential vein of mithril. It was an undertaking he often took alone so as not risk any other elf. No one thought anything of it when he did not return. When he did, I simply knew he had changed.

He smiled more and laughed along with the other nobles in the court, but I just knew he was not him, but something else wearing his face. His smile was different and very wrong. Everyone else seemed to like the new him. Grandfather even said it was a good thing he outgrew his shyness and started taking an interest in court matters. He no longer had time for a little boy. There was something about him that scared me. I think my Nana noticed too, but she was so busy then doing grownup things little elflings were never meant to know about.

There were no more visits to the forge or clever little gifts for the amusement of a child. Instead, the Lord of the House of the Mole threw grand parties that were the talk of the city. There were many gifts of fine gems, skilfully cut, to the lords and ladies who attended them. Even my grandfather and parents were given fine gems, though my parents locked theirs away rather than wear them in court.

Everyone was too busy to listen to a six-year-old boy. Well, except for Hendor the Weary. For an elf, Hendor was old in more ways than one. He only patted me on the head and called me away to the kitchen to be coddled with a bowl of sweet pudding. Perhaps he knew I was right. Everyone thought his mind was a bit turned after he encountered a troll so many years ago and had his head cracked open. His hair grew in white and his face became lined, so my Nana explained. His mind tended to wander off and all he could do was fetch water and chop firewood. No one listens to children and simpletons.

Sometimes I find it hard to recall what my uncle was truly like. Me being so young then and everyone else calling him a monster and a traitor afterwards. Did he love my Nana more than a cousin should? Perhaps he did, in his awkward, one-sided way. There was always an iciness between him and Ada. I understand that Avari ways differ from that of the Noldor when it came to marriage. Perhaps he was a tad jealous of my Ada but he never took it out on me.

The elf that returned to us was not him.

Gondolin's calendar was marked by grand rituals and ceremonies grandfather brought over from Valinor and adapted to out life in Beleriand. Among this was the Gates of Summer. I recall being extremely fretful that year as if I sensed some impending doom. I drove my nurse and parents to distraction. Lord Ecthelion even tried to bribe me with his silver flute. I finally settled enough for my parents to participate in the ceremonies. That was when our lives were utterly upended.

When news came of the first attackers, Ada ordered Nana to take me and run. What happened next was a confusion of screams, blood, and flame. Nana had prepared a secret tunnel leading out of the city. Together with the other refugees, we fled with orcs in hot pursuit as the walls fell.

Somehow, we were separated from the others of our household by the House of the Mole. That creature that wore my beloved uncle's face laughed as he held me over the void. I recall Nana's cries and then Ada was there. I watched my uncle's body tumble and break on the rocks as a bloodied Ada held me close.

I was handed over to Hendor and we continued our flight. We lost so many in the fall of the city and ensuing flight. Lord Glorfindel slew a Balrog and paid with his life. Many perished of their wounds along the way, too weak and spent to continue. Hendor carried me on his back most of the way, trying to distract me with his silly songs and tales in the wilderness.

It was a long time before we came to an Elvish settlement at the mouth of the Sirion. There we would settle alongside the survivors of another fallen realm. I was young, and resilient enough. The nightmares of fire and orcs that plagued me in the dark hours grew less frequent with the sunny days. Like my family and the other survivors, I started a new life. Being Mannish through my father, my memories of Gondolin soon grew hazy and distant.

Sometimes the dreams of Gondolin and its fall return as I sail among the stars. I still dream of my uncle or that fiend that wore his face that day. I do wonder if he has been released from Mandos and now dwells quietly in Valinor. Or perhaps he chose not to return ever, until the Second Music. I will not blame him for his choice if so.

One of my better dreams was of him at work in his forge, teaching me about the fire that he uses to craft his work. Fire to create and fire to destroy. He sternly chided me when curiosity got the better of me and I almost burnt my fingers on a hot piece of metal.

Perhaps my uncle was never the monster as painted by the loremasters. Perhaps he was just misunderstood and socially inept in a place like Gondolin. After all, who knew what happened to him during his final excursion?

Author's Notes:

Not really happy with how I am writing Maeglin. I don't want him to be the canonic evil traitor in Pengolodh's histories, but it will not be believable for him to be a total doormat as in my parody of Gondolin. Also in question is Earendil's own memories of his life in Gondolin. He was six, how many of us recall with any accuracy our early life?