The Meaning of Forever
In Gondolin, the 1st Age
The white city was wreathed in smoke and it seemed as if a dark crown had been set upon the head of the mountains. For many years had Gondolin stayed hidden, but for the treachery of Maeglin it was revealed. What would have been the rising sun was instead the fires of the orcs and demons of Morgoth Bauglir. The keening of silver trumpets announced the morn, as they had for many years. The great walls were then breached, and those loyal to Turgon were forced to retreat to the inner levels of the city.
Ecthelion, a young palace guard, watched the growing fray from far above. The harsh stench of smoke reached him and stung his eyes. He grasped his spear and his heart began to pound as the orcs wound higher and higher. He had never fought in a true battle before. During his entire life Gondolin had been at relative peace, and the stories of the war growing outside of its borders were always far too removed to cause him much concern. Yet now, the very steps he had played on as a child were stained with blood. His city, he thought, would never fall. Yet, as he looked down and saw Gondolin burn, he knew with a dreaded certainty that it would.
Even as he gazed, a part of level below him collapsed. He swallowed back the feeling of sickness, for he knew that many faces he had grown to love had just been masked forever. A dark arrow whizzed by his face, close enough for him to feel the air from its passing. Ecthelion stepped back; the tears that fell from his eyes were no longer from the smoke. His spear clattered to the ground at his side. The screams reached him now. He turned as another cry split the air. One of the other guards, who also was his close friend, fell with an arrow in his chest. There was a great hiss as the lowest level was engulfed in a sea of flames.
He fell to his knees, and lifted his face to the sky in defeat. Silver tears coursed down his face. Above, he saw the spiral atop the great city. Even now, it stood above the havoc, not conquered yet. A sudden feeling grew in the young Elf, pride. His city would never fall. Its memory would be preserved in the songs which would be sung for ages, even though their meaning be long forgotten and their words be in language which was no longer uttered upon Earth. His city would be woven in the tapestries of time and drawn in the immortal ink. Legend it would become, and myth, and then a story. Only a story which children would be told before they lay down to bed. Yet, it would live on. Gondolin, his city, would never fall.
Ecthelion, turning, drew his sword, and faced the oncoming orcs. They wavered, in fear of the Noldo unveiled in his terrible glory. Fury caused his eyes to burn like the eyes of the Valar. With a quick glance back his eyes met those of his long friend, and near brother, Glorfindel. They both were mere door wardens – unseen and unlooked for, yet both would be cause of song forever.
Arda, the present day
The girl sat on her bed, in her hands was a thick book. She read silently to herself, 'Of the deeds of desperate valour there done, by the chieftains of the noble houses and their warriors, not least by Tuor, much is told in The Fall of Gondolin: of the battle of Ecthelion of the Fountain with Gothmog Lord of Balrogs in the very square of the King, where each slew the other. . . .'