The Battlements of Gondolin
By Blodeuedd
'…and there in his house upon the walls Idril arrays herself in mail, and seeks Eärendil.'
-- The Book of Lost Tales II
It is four hours from midnight, and a red glow, like some fell fire, shines upon the hills, a bloody beacon in the night that drowns out even the stars. The forces of Morgoth are upon us, and the great heart of Gondolin, our shining city, is seized with fear, a fear that permeates even the spirits of the bravest of our men. But how did the blighting, probing reach of dark Angband find us? That is the question that troubles all our hearts. Gondolin has long been kept a secret, and none of the valiant Gondolindrim would dare betray us to the Enemy. The Gondolindrim. My people. I can't imagine any one of them even considering the profane thought.
From the courtyards below, I can hear the voices of the men as they call to one another and muster the warriors of their houses. Somewhere—and as I think this my heart pounds painfully with a mixture of worry and love—somewhere, Tuor must stand as well, rallying his followers beneath the bright standard of the House of the Swan. Faintly, amid the din of steel and voices, I can hear the sweet, clear trilling of flutes, and I know the House of the Fountain, led by Prince Ecthelion, must be near.
But the silvery, tuneful sound fades as quickly as it came, and from behind me, I hear the sound of small feet running to my side. I turn to see my son, Eärendil, and only catch the briefest glimpse of his round, tear-streaked face before it is hidden in the folds of my long gown.
"Is Morgoth coming?" I hear him ask in a voice muffled by brocaded blue velvet. "Meleth said that if I was bad, Morgoth would come and—"
"Hush, my little one, my Eärendil," I murmur, tearing my gaze away from the open window and its view of the bloodstained mountains, "All shall be right in the end. Don't be afraid." My tongue feels dry and bitter with the untruth of my seeming certainty.
"Where did Father go? Is he going to fight?"
I suppress my rising tears and sit with my son on a bench facing the window. Seeing his gaze waver to the red-lit hills, I gently turn his face to me.
"Yes, my little love. But he'll come back." Eärendil rubs at his eyes with a chubby hand, his own tears ebbing, and I stand to my feet and tenderly pat him on the head, smoothing out his unruly gold curls.
"Where are you going, Mother?" He asks, voice containing a slight tone of panic as I walk to a trunk lying at the foot of the bed Tuor and I share.
"I'll be right back," I promise as I open the trunk and take out its contents. Pushing aside books of poetry and cases of letters, I pull out two hauberks of fine chain mail, wrought of matchless silver and stronger than the heart of a mountain. I don the larger one over my gown, shaking out my long, fair hair as I do so, wondering how the men are able to move, let alone fight, with such a heavy burden.
"That's for Father!" Eärendil protests, dismayed but smiling, as if I'm attempting to play a joke on him by distorting the unspoken rules of society that children have.
I manage a bitter laugh and reply, "No, I had it specially made for me. And the other one's for you." Eärendil's face brightens at once and his eyes widen in awe.
"Am I a warrior now? Am I going to fight Morgoth with Father and Ecthelion and Glorfindel?" He asks, face aglow with pride as I pull the small hauberk over his head.
"No," I tell him gently, patting the mail into place about his small shoulders. "It's just for—for protection, in case—" I can't finish those dreadful words.
I collapse heavily on the bench, feeling my shoulders shudder with sobs, and the tears manifest themselves at last. Though I try to hide my helpless grief for Eärendil's sake, every time I try to stop weeping I think of Tuor and my father and Gondolin and what's going to happen, and I start all over again. My heart squeezes tighter and tighter, into a husk of misery, and when the last tear falls, I'm exhausted by the force of my anguish's exit.
"Mother? Mother?" Eärendil is asking over and over, and at last I take him in my arms and hold him close, whispering a song I have sung to him since he was in the cradle, and in a few minutes we're both singing it together, in faltering, shaking voices that crack and tremble. When we finish, Eärendil lies down on the bench, his head in my lap, and falls asleep almost immediately. His small hands are bunched up into tiny fists even in slumber, as if he dreams of fighting in the first defenses of Turgon's army.
Quietly, I find a pillow to slide beneath his sleep-heavy head and walk to the window again, dreading and yet yearning to see the battle outside. However, my dread wins when I see that the great monsters of fire and the machines of war, sent by the Enemy from the North, have reached the first wall of Gondolin and are making steady progress despite the rain of arrows from the Eldarin Houses arrayed on the ramparts.
Hope rises with surety into my heart as I see that the demons of Morgoth seem unable to climb the spires or scale the walls of the city. But suddenly a great wave of uncanny heat strikes the entire city, and I see that below many of the warriors, brave and stouthearted as they are, are crumpling to the ground for the burning agony that sweeps the defenseless courtyards.
A colossal beast, seemingly made entirely of fire, steps forth from amid the shining steel and dark flame of the black army, and I know at once that is Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, a demigod spoken of with dread by many a warrior's lay. Gothmog bears a fiery scimitar in one blazing hand and a burning, many-flailed whip in the other. His eyes glow white-hot, like iron heated in the most hellish of furnaces, as he roars a challenge. At his call, a number of serpentine, fiendish demons rally at his feet. I shudder in apprehension to see that they are wrought of a fierce metal that gleams darkly in the Balrog's fires. Beneath my window, all is silent, and the city hardly dares even to draw breath.
Suddenly, with a shriek of metal, one of the automatons rises up like a striking viper and throws itself harshly against the fair white wall of Gondolin. The pale stone groans in protest, but then the rest of the snakelike, writhing monsters raise themselves up as well and begin ferociously pummeling the walls as one. At this point, the warriors of the Gondolindrim remember their cause through their horror, and an assault of boulders, arrows, and molten metal falls upon the monsters of the North, but to no avail.
I bend my head, tears running down my cheeks in new despair, and though I am girt in the strong, steadfast hauberk, I feel small, weak, and alone. The only sound in my ears is the crumbling of Gondolin's glorious walls. Never again, I know, will the walls rise strong and proud over the whispering grasses of the Tumladen. Never again.
Having achieved their awful deed, the metal serpents fall to the ground, and for a moment all is still. Only the wind whispers among the proud ranks of the city's warriors as they lower their weapons in surprise. But the moment passes, and suddenly the serpents open across their middles, as if rent asunder by some divine warrior, and untold thousands of Orcs spill out like a black storm upon the vulnerable Eldarin armies. I step instinctively away from the window, hand flying to my throat in shock. My heart beats only once before there is a knock at the door of my chamber.
"Tuor?" I whisper, knowing it is impossible, yet daring to believe it nonetheless. Eärendil stirs and awakens, then runs to my side. I clasp his small hand tight in my own, knowing he shares my hope. Blinking, I wipe away the last trails of my tears as I walk to the door and open it. Of course, it isn't Tuor.
"Maeglin?" I exclaim in surprise and coldly stunned annoyance, "What brings you here? It is an hour of war, and your House should be fighting on the walls as well."
Maeglin ignores the rebuke, his dark, fathomless eyes glancing at the window. Outside, battle is now openly raging among Orcs and Elves, with the Balrogs standing tall and fierce among them, smiting down any that would contest them. The sight is one to strike horror and sorrow into anyone's heart—anyone, it seems, but Maeglin, my strange, hated cousin. He smiles at the sight; it is more like a grimace of pain on his pale, handsome face than an expression of delight, but it frightens me nonetheless.
Eärendil presses closer to me, and I put a protective arm about him. "Go to the bench," I order quietly, bending close to my son "Sit there until I tell you to come."
"But—" He almost whimpers, but I shake my head. "Go, my little one." Eärendil walks reluctantly to the bench and sits, turning to watch Maeglin and me with wide, frightened eyes.
"I will ask once more," I say in a steely voice, gaze never leaving Maeglin's quiet, emotionless face, "Why are you here?" He meets my fierce, angry eyes with his cool, level stare. It is all I can do keep from flinching away, but he remains silent, almost shy.
"Coward," I spit furiously, losing patience, "Craven! All of Gondolin will perish without your House's aid!"
"Not you, Idril," Maeglin counters in his quiet, reasonable voice, "Not you." His gaze flickers over to Eärendil, and my cousin's face is filled with both envy and longing as he walks leisurely over to the bench. Eärendil meets his kinsman's eyes stubbornly, sensing my dislike of the man and reacting just as I do.
"If you hurt my mother, Father will come and kill you," Eärendil threatens, chin lifting defiantly as he looks up at his unperturbed kinsman.
"I will not hurt her," Maeglin chides softly, almost gently. "But you should fear more for yourself." Without another word, he snatches up Eärendil easily in one hand, ignoring the boy's struggles as he turns back to me.
It is as if he had seized my very heart. I run to him, hands outstretched pleadingly for Eärendil.
"Don't you dare harm him!" I cry, "Don't you dare!" Maeglin regards me, face emotionless, and I can't stop more tears of sheer misery from trailing down my face. Eärendil weeps with me now, beating furiously but without effect at Maeglin as his kinsman holds us apart. Through my powerless grief, anger rises like blood to a fresh wound, and I strike Maeglin hard across the face.
"I hate you," I whisper, voice low and choked with hot tears, "I hate you."
Maeglin cringes as if my words struck him as well, as if the words had struck the harder blow. I see his weakness and lunge for Eärendil again. For an instant, our hands brush, and I cry aloud in painful joy.
But suddenly Maeglin's strong hand grips me by my unbound hair and wrenches me backward, knocking me off my feet. He drags me bodily along behind him, like some hunter's trophy, and I fight and scream for help as we pass his soldiers at the door of my house. But they do nothing, watching their lord with repulsed devotion in their faces, standing motionless in the corridor that echoes with Eärendil's sobs and Maeglin's steady footsteps.
Exhausted by the force of my rage, I go limp and slack, letting myself be dragged across the stone floors of Gondolin, tears running silently down my face. I am disgusted with my own fatigue, but there is little else I can do. The day's onslaught of emotion added to the struggle has drained me, and I am helpless in the grasp of my heartache, empty of further strength. As princess of Gondolin, I am no warrior. I cannot fight for hours and days and years on end, until the earth itself is torn apart. For a time, I let my consciousness fade, and ignore everything, listening only to the cries of my son.
I rouse myself as I feel cold wind sweep through my hair and hear the clamor of the battle come terrifyingly near. We are on the battlements that overlook Amon Gwareth and the courtyard of Tuor's house, I realize. Maeglin's hand releases my hair, and the pain in my scalp fades to a dull throb. Unused to standing after letting myself be dragged for so long, I stand weakly.
Maeglin, his grasp on the weakening Eärendil still as tight as ever, stands over looking the battle without any pity or hate, his features strangely softened by the eerie red light.
"Do you care nothing for your people?" I ask. He starts and turns to me, looking mildly surprised, as if he were not being asked a question by the furious, terrified mother of his hostage on the walls of the besieged Gondolin.
"They—" he jerks his free hand furiously at the dying Eldar below with a gesture filled with contempt, "—are not my people. They must all die, regardless. Otherwise, my name would be disgraced, and they would seek me in vengeance." Even Eärendil grows quiet at these strange words, and looks up at his dark but comely abductor.
"What do you mean?" I ask over the rising wind, suddenly breathless.
"I told the Enemy where Gondolin was. I told Morgoth himself." Maeglin's face grows troubled but fierce. I freeze in horror. How could he be so calm? So aloof?
All at once I remember how drastically Maeglin had changed in the years past. One day, while seeking fresh ore for his forge, he had disappeared and had not returned for many nights. When he at last returned to the city, he refused to metalwork any longer, but grew kinder and willing to join in the merriment of the people he had shunned for so long. Many had learned to like him, and said in private that he had softened, but I had feared Maeglin the more for his odd metamorphosis.
Now I know why. He had sought solace in the songs and dances and revelries to try to heal his tormented, guilt-riddled heart, but clearly in vain. I almost pity him for the grave violation he has caused.
But then I look down upon the raging war. It is all Maeglin's doing, that so many should die and so many should grieve. My pity fades and I find myself trembling with newfound rage. Suddenly, from below, I hear a wordless cry of wrath and fury from a voice I know well. It is Tuor. Maeglin's expression changes from suffering to malice as he looks down upon the courtyard. I follow the piercing line of his gaze and see the banner of the Swan whipping elegantly in the bitter wind as Tuor's warriors crash among Maeglin's, who had been guarding the citadel. I try to find Tuor among the men, but the night is dark as pitch save for the fickle firelight on the mountains.
Maeglin raises his eyes from the struggle below and looks to Eärendil, who is also straining to catch a glimpse of his father. Again, the same covetous yearning enters Maeglin's face, and he draws a long, shining dagger from his belt.
"No!" The cry is torn from my throat, and I run towards them to save my son, but Maeglin absently, almost tenderly, pushes me away, sending me against the wall. I sink to the ground, the wind knocked from my chest, sobbing, crawling on my hands and knees towards where Maeglin raises the glimmering blade high to stab my son, who is crying in terror and reaching in vain toward me.
The blade plummets downward, seeking Eärendil's heart.
Suddenly, resolution comes to the boy's eyes and he twists his head, sinking his young teeth deep into Maeglin's hand. Maeglin doesn't cry out, but staggers. The dagger still plunges downward in a weakened blow, and glances harmlessly off Eärendil's hauberk.
Eärendil is dropped to the ground, and he runs to me, hugging me tightly as we hold each other close. Maeglin turns to us, face venomous with anger, and he advances steadily toward where we kneel together on the ground. Thinking that this is surely the end of us both, I try to bury Eärendil's head in my shoulder, so he will not have to behold such a frightening sight, but he slips his head out of my grip and points behind me.
"Father!" He cries elatedly. I turn my head, and joy thrills in my heart as I see who has come to our aid. It is Tuor, my husband. But for the moment his heated gaze is fixed on Maeglin. Sword in hand, he walks almost lazily to my cousin. Like most of the Gondolindrim, Maeglin is tall and slight like his mother Aredhel, but his Moriquendi blood and years in the blacksmith's forge have him well-muscled also. I fear for Tuor, but in vain.
Tuor grasps Maeglin about the wrist on the hand that bears the dagger, and Maeglin barely has time to struggle before the mortal man wrenches the arm into an impossible contortion. With a dry crack, the arm is broken, and Maeglin's keen blade clatters to the floor. Again, Maeglin utters not a sound. Eyes full of rage, Tuor then looses his grip upon Maeglin's hand and pushes the other man backward, up against the battlements overlooking the Amon Gwareth's rows of sharp, jagged rocks.
Maeglin looks quickly over his shoulder, seeing the steep precipice below, and he goes slack at once, as if he knew this was to happen.
Then, with a strength that comes unexpectedly, Tuor lifts Maeglin up over the walls and throws him over the edge, onto the blades of rock that wait below. I hide Eärendil's eyes and look away as well, even though Maeglin falls soundlessly, even though his name has gone out in dishonor among the Eldar.
When I look up, Tuor stands over us, and lifts me to my feet. Eärendil leaps to embrace his father, laughing with delight. Tuor smiles gently down upon his son, then raises his gaze to me.
I try to smile as well, but all I can do is weep.
The End.