Chapter 4
Chapter Three
The Hidden City of Gondolin, and Beleriand - The First Age of the Sun
The enemy had attacked on the eve of Tarnin Austa, the Gates of Summer, darkening the coming morn's welcome of the bright days. The vigil ere the feast of thanksgiving and song was cast into nightmare as the blight of the city's winter crashed down. For centuries on that special night, a solemn silence had reigned in that city, from midnight 'til dawn, but now cries of dismay rang from the white walls. Gondolin, fairest city of the Noldorin Elves in Middle Earth, last realm of the Exiled Amanyar¹ of Beleriand, had been revealed to the Great Enemy at last. ¹(Amanyar, Elves of Aman, those who had completed the westward march to the Undying Lands and seen the Light of the Two Trees that was before the sun and the moon. These were the Calaquendi, the Elves of Light, the Vanyar, Noldor, and Teleri who left Middle Earth and sailed across Belegaer, the Sundering Sea. Quenya)
The Host of Angband had assailed the Echoriath, the shield wall of Gondolin, o'ertopping the encircling peaks from their northern heights in a whelming wave of fire. They'd covered those highlands in a living rind, a writhing skin of foes, numerous as maggots lying thick upon a ripening carcass. By command of Morgoth Bauglir their master, the Urulóki, firedrakes sired by Glaurung, the Valaraukar, or Balrogs, 'neath the dominion of Gothmog, wolves of the kindred of Draugluin, lumbering armored Tor¹, and Yrch² beyond count o'erran the hidden kingdom. Ere the Gondolindrim could array their warriors or prepare their defense, the Guarded Plain was taken and the enemy besieged the city itself, encircling the high hill of Amon Gwareth. The plain of Tumladen lay 'neath a reek of steam and smoke, through whose clouds Morgoth's forces marshaled to destroy the city of Turgon, whilst the twelve noble houses of defenders fought in desperation and confusion. ¹(Tor, Trolls, pl. Sindarin) ²(Yrch, or Glam, Orcs, pl. Sindarin)
Yet even in defeat, the valiant amongst the Gondolindrim did many deeds worthy of memory and song. There in the Square of the King, Ecthelion battled and slew Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs and Captain of Angband, in single combat, though he was flayed and enveloped by the Dark Flame. Long they fought, neither of them yielding to wound or failing courage. Ne'er had any enemy struck blows so bitter against the fallen Spirit of Fire, though the Valarauko had laid low no less an adversary than Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in Exile. Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain, seeing the fall of his city and the jeopardy of his king, called upon the resolve of the doomed to bolster his courage. No fear diminished his heart in the face of his death, for here he faced the slayer of his o'erlord and the assailant of his liege. In his last defense before the Tower of Gondolin, the light of his eyes flared as he dealt the Balrog's death stroke with the spike that capped his helm ere he fell, burned and poisoned by his wounds, to drag his foe with him into the deep Fountain of the King. Thence to the Halls of Mandos did Ecthelion's spirit depart, rejoicing that even amongst the greatest of his forefathers he had won renown by avenging King Fingon and Fëanor the Proud.
Fierce was the fighting outside the city, even as 'twas within Gondolin's walls. Amongst those who battled still upon the Plain of Tumladen though 'twas already o'errun, stood Helluin of the Host of Finwë, called also Maeg-mórmenel, named for the star whose blazing blue light shone in the color of her piercing eyes against the night dark sky of her flowing jet hair. Noldo and Calaquende, she had seen the Stars of Varda Elentári in their first glory, and in Blessed Aman, the Light of the Two Trees. In her eyes that light shone forth as she did battle, retreating to the gates of the city and leaving a trail of fallen enemies to mark her passing.
She was a deadly warrior, though when asked, named herself an explorer first. In this First Age of the Sun, she was already o'er 4,400 years of the sun in age. She had fought Morgoth's Hosts aforetime, and amidst the great battles violence had ruled her in such measure that friend and foe alike had shied from her face in astonishment and fear. She had fought as one possessed of some unholy bloodlust, tapping a darkness within that was shocking to most of the Eldar, for they had known such reckless ferocity aforetime only from the minions of Morgoth. That darkness consumed her, ruled her, and yet derived not from some natal flaw of temperament, for she was neither vicious nor brutal save in combat. The source of it remained unknown to most of the Noldor, a mystery, for she had not learnt it with the martial skills she'd acquired from Eönwë, or the Maiar of Tulkas in Aman. Tulkas fought with laughter and a smile of pure joy on his face; Helluin fought with a sneer of intimidating menace. Her o'erwhelming violence came forth from a dark aspect she'd acquired en route to Endórë, and in Middle Earth it served her well.
Here she dealt a death stroke to a Torog¹ though his claws tore at her armor in his fall and her sword was shattered in piercing his hide. She snatched an abandoned Orcish scimitar and hewed the Orch² Captain Glog, but the jagged blade caught in his spine-bones and snapped when she wrenched it free. Tossing aside the haft in disgust she flung the dead captain's company a feral laugh as she drew her dagger and planted her feet. ¹(Torog, Troll, sing. Sindarin) ²(Orch, or Glamog, Orc, sing. Sindarin)
"Surely Morgoth Bauglir has emptied his fortress of Angband to lay this siege. Thy entire nation against but one city," she cried out as she taunted her enemies. "Noble company I shalt have and plenty when I meet Námo in the Halls of Mandos this day. Death to us both then, but better my reward than thine, thrall!"
Yet even as she said it, a thing occurred that could only have happened in the midst of a battle. The falling body of a dead Elf smashed headfirst into the Yrch company, crushing many 'neath its ruin and scattering the rest. The Yrch could well understand bombarding an enemy with the bodies of the fallen, and so they looked up the sheer wall of Amon Gwareth in fearful anticipation. Helluin did as well, after noting that the fallen body belonged to none other than Maeglin, son of Eöl, an ambitious whippet of whom her only feelings had been a long-growing antipathy. The final part of the unforeseen event was the fall of a sword, in truth, just what Helluin needed at that fateful moment. It landed blade first in the upturned eye of the Orch Lieutenant, sparing itself from crashing onto the paving stones by sheathing itself in his body. As he pitched forward she snatched the weapon from his corpse, only mildly surprised when it clove him asunder. Then she twirled it in her hand, noting the fineness of its balance. She had no difficulty slaying the remaining seven Yrch of the company ere she made her way through Gondolin's broken main gate.
Later she would come to learn that the sword had a will of its own, for 'twas an unadorned black blade, very unusual in its lack of decorative traceries or inlays, and it seemed to seek blood. 'Twas in this a perfect complement to her spirit, for when Helluin had won renown in the Dagor Aglareb and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, she had slain countless of her lords' enemies in a murderous frenzy. Maniacal laughter had welled up from her throat. Indeed her own allies had feared to approach her in her wrath for she was fell, her eyes blazing with blue light, black hair whipping with the violence of her strokes, and as she slew she screamed, "Beltho Huiniath!"¹, at the top of her lungs. Many of the Noldor respected her, but many feared her ungovernable violence as well. A dark sword had fortune delivered to a heart well acquainted with darkness. Though she had ne'er aforetime held it in her hand, Helluin knew this sword, for she had seen it many times. ¹("Beltho Huiniath!" = beltho(kill, imp. -o) + huiniath (huin, them, coll. pl. -iath, all of them), lit. trans. "Kill all of them!", ver. trans. Kill 'Em All!, Sindarin).
Without a doubt this was Anguirel, the blade of meteoric iron that the twisted and secretive Maeglin had stolen from his father, Eöl of Nan Elmoth, and it was one of a pair. In truth, Helluin had come to loath the young miscreant who'd lusted for years after his cousin, Princess Idril Celebrindal, the golden-haired daughter of Turgon the king. She spared scant sorrow now for his death, but she rejoiced in his weapon.
Little did she know that 'twas a mortal man, Tuor son of Huor, who had slain Maeglin, casting him from the walls of the city with a mighty stroke of his axe whilst rescuing his wife, Idril, and their son, Eärendil. Maeglin's corpse had bounced thrice off the rocky Hill of Watch ere crushing the Yrch, a great shot that the Man had not remained upon the wall to celebrate. Later Helluin would thank him effusively. At that moment she thankfully clasped the hilt in her bloody hand and strode into the court behind the gate, finding it a scene of chaos.
Combat flowed all about and the dead, both friend and foe, were piling up on the blood slickened masonry. Battle calls, screams of pain, and cries of woe assaulted Helluin's ears. Orders yelled and the tramping of boots, horns blasting notes distorted by waves of heat as they echoed through the streets, crash of masonry and whoosh of flames all added to the clamor and confusion. Dragon fire exploded into the comely South Fountains beside the Way of Running Waters; clouds of steam erupted skyward obscuring much of the surrounding melee. The necrotic stench of the wyrms' flesh assailed all. Harsh shrieks of triumph, the unearthly hooting calls of the Glamhoth¹, the guttural bellows of Tor, and the roars of the Urulóki punctuated the din. ¹(Glamhoth, Orc Host, lit. trans. "Din Horde", coll. pl. Sindarin)
Somewhere up the King's Way from where Helluin stood, fanfare of silver trumpets calling the King's Guard to retreat yet again rang through the air. Many foes no doubt stood 'twixt her and Gondolin's defenders. Like many others, she was cut off from the main host of the Gondolindrim, and yet, she thought, what did it really matter? The city was revealed at last, the Echoriath breached, and Tumladen o'errun. Gondolin could not stand. Death for them all seemed but a matter of time, for with the fall of the Hidden Rock, there would be no place beyond the reach of the Dark Enemy of the World. Yet the Fall of Gondolin would come at no small cost even to Morgoth. One already of his lieutenants had fallen in a fateful and historic combat. Gothmog, the Captain of Angband and Lord of Balrogs, lay dead by Ecthelion's hand, having traded his life to slay the noble Lord of the Fountains.
Now Morgoth's minions were running amok with no certain battle order. Ne'ertheless they were numerous enough to carry the day. The main gate and the north gate had both fallen. There was combat in the King's Square, in the Great Market beyond it, and in the Square of the Folkwell. Repelling the invaders looked hopeless to Helluin's practiced eye; already firedrakes were converging to undermine the Tower of Turgon, and e'er more of the enemy were charging into the city. Most of the mansions and halls were consumed in flames. Helluin shook her head. Ondolindë had been her home for 384 years. As she negligently slew any that approached her, she thought Gondolin as good a place as any in Middle Earth to die…better than most places, in fact. Námo awaited her, but once in the Halls of Mandos she would have to question him, if such could be done, concerning the words of a certain doomed Man.
Then out of the corner of her eye she spied a second thing unlooked for, and on such a day of infamy, the observation seemed fated. There, disappearing through the arched side entrance into a building that she knew housed 'naught but a stable, were the fleeing forms of Tuor, Idril, young Eärendil, Galdor, Glorfindel, and many more of the noble folk of Gondolin. What could they possibly want with the few horses stabled in the Hidden City? Within the encircling mountains the beasts were a ceremonial indulgence at best. But the stable was 'nigh the house of Tuor and Idril, its owner no doubt in their confidence. Helluin smiled to herself; if there was an escape attempt in progress, then 'twas for the better to join and support it. Perhaps they'd need a rear guard, for after living 4,411 years of the sun, she could plainly see that the whole attack had reeked of treachery. She could not know that she clasped the evidence of that treachery's redress in her hand.
At that moment words spoken to her long ago came again into her mind, but now for different cause. "Thou shalt in days ahead repay this sacrifice we make for thy lord," Huor of Dor-lómin had declared with the foresight of the doomed, "for thou shalt succor the sons of my house yet to be." After thinking she'd be questioning Námo about those very words, she recognized her fate. Whither Tour and Eärendil went, Helluin was bound by debt and honor to follow. No less could she do for Idril, the only child of her king. There was nothing more she could do here for Turgon, last son of her old lord, Fingolfin.
Shrouded amidst the miasma of the burning, Helluin quickly fought herself free of the nearest of her enemies and then slipped through the arched door. In the relative quiet, the blade in her hands seemed to thank her for the anointment of blood. On the stable's floor, faint footprints in the straw and dust led her to a trapdoor. After quickly opening the stalls to free the horses, Helluin descended through it into a tunnel.
Above her the milling horses erased all traces of their passage. Below in the dark, only by the acuity of her hearing did she discern the telltale sniffling of young Eärendil and the slight scuffling of Tuor's mortal footsteps, the only clues to the secret way 'neath the Guarded Plain. She hastened to follow in absolute silence, hoping against hope that they weren't planning to collapse the tunnel in the wake of their passage.
Long they walked in the darkness, and long Helluin followed. How far beyond the Echoriath did the tunnel extend? 'Twas a league and a mile from the precipice of Amon Gwareth to the encircling mountains. 'Twas perhaps another quarter-mile from the stable to the outer walls of the City of Gondolin. The mountains of the Echoriath were more than three leagues in breadth, in places as much as nine, depending on where the tunnel breached the surface and issued forth again into the light. She knew 'naught of its course save that it ran to the northwest; her unfailing sense of direction told her that much…obliquely towards Angband, of course she thought, and the highest peaks of the Echoriath. And probably into an encampment of Urulóki and Valaraukar, she mentally added with a groan. For reassurance, she clasped tighter the hilt of her new sword.
Eventually she let her mind slip into the waking dream that passes for sleep amongst the Eldar. Thither, whilst one foot silently followed the other, she beheld again the Light of the Undying Lands, standing on the blessed Hill of Tuna where she could with but a turn, espy Varda's comforting stars in the darkened sky through the Calacirya, the Pass of Light. Soon it seemed she heard ahead of her the whispering of the company, and she withdrew from her memories. Helluin perceived that she would soon come upon them in the darkness, for they had stilled their steps and stood together taking counsel.
"Soon must we find our way hence," declared the unmistakable baritone of Galdor, Lord of the House of the Tree, "ere summer's early rising of Anor betray us yet. But whither indeed have we come?"
"Here the way issues from the Echoriath into a high vale, and many miles still lie before us ere we find the way to Taur-Nu-Fuin," a voice Helluin recognized as Idril's whispered.
"Surely Dorthonion is held in force against us," a worried voice she knew was Tuor's replied. "We shalt be espied long ere we reach the plain."
"Perhaps a distraction could aid our flight," Galdor suggested.
"A distraction greater than the burning of Gondolin I have difficulty to imagine," Tuor responded dryly, "but we shalt be as naked to the eyes of Dorthonion."
"Yet still we may come unseen, by the favor of the Valar, to the Pass of Anach at the headwaters of the Mindeb," Idril continued hopefully.
"Nay. The Host of Morgoth must hold all Dorthonion, for though they have assailed Gondolin in might, they would not chance being themselves flanked from the east, for not all evil there counts itself in Morgoth's service," Glorfindel's unmistakable musical voice disagreed. "We dare not take that route with so many amongst us wounded. Even coming to the plain and the pass as thou suggest would end not our jeopardy."
Helluin eased her way forward, into the rear of the crowd whose attention was so focused on their leaders that they paid her no mind. She was familiar to them all. She looked 'round and noted that, save Turgon himself and Ecthelion and the others who were dead, she'd have chosen these same ones herself to save. She nodded in the dark.
"There lies no hope in the eastward course," she offered, "for even were thou to win free 'cross Dorthonion, then the Ered Gorgoroth would thou face to the south, and beyond it Nan Dungortheb, the Valley of Dreadful Death…dramatic, yes, unless thou favor spiders and spirits yet more fell."
Idril, Tuor, Glorfindel and several others turned to face her, surprised to hear her voice.
She glanced 'round the circle of faces and gave counsel of war. "The Pass of Anach is surely watched. Even Morgoth's host must guard against the spiders and worse that darken that accursed land. Yet were thou to gain the River Mindeb, whither then? Yrch now roam in the land of Dimbar."
The group saw the truth of her words though they were still astonished by her presence.
"Helluin, how came thee hither?" Idril asked in amazement. "We had given thee up for dead, knowing thou fought beyond the walls."
"'Tis a tale for later, though one of good fortune from the sky," Helluin assured her. "I would counsel thee to seek a path west. Perhaps the way that lies hidden there will bring us safely to the Pass of Sirion and thence south? Even were we to pass the horrors of Nan Dungortheb and the enemies in Dimbar, still we would find no succor. Nargothrond lies in ruin, and has Thorondor not reported the fall of the realm of Doriath?"
The others nodded in agreement.
"Once long ago I chanced upon a way," Helluin began, recalling a harrowing journey she had made o'er 400 years aforetime whilst scouting the eastern flank of the Pass of Sirion. Her mission had been for Prince Finrod, ere his stay in Doriath and the building of Nargothrond, in the days when he still held the tower of Minas Tirith on the isle of Tol Sirion. "And though that way is hard, 'tis unexpected that any should flee thither and it may yet be unwatched. Thereabouts lies a high pass called the Cirith Thoronath, the Eagle's Cleft."
Here Glorfindel groaned out loud.
"What?" Asked Idril and Tuor almost with one voice, married couple that they were.
Helluin grinned. "Lord Glorfindel is right to loath that road. It winds amongst the precipices above the snow line for a ways, a single-file path, and no provisions but much toil shalt we find there. Scarcely a thing lives in those lands, and for that reason it may serve us, for hopefully no spy watches the way."
"Yet after three leagues of hardship it begins to fall, and then by steep slopes finds its track after six leagues into the foothills above Sirion," Glorfindel reported. He displayed a grimace of distaste. No flowers grew on that sere and frigid height.
For a while none spoke, giving thought to the choice of the road ahead. There were no comfortable alternatives. Uncertainty and tension lay thick in the still air.
"Well, we certainly can't go north," Tuor muttered absently to no one in particular as he leaned on Dramborleg¹, his long-hafted axe. ¹(Dramborleg, "Thudder-Sharp", UT, Part 2, Ch. I, ADotIoN, Note 2, pg. 172.)
Only the Anfauglith, the desolate wasteland that lay before the pits and gate of Angband 'neath the smoldering peaks of Thangorodrim stood to the north of the trackless mountains and Dorthonion. North would be the least expected and most suicidal direction they could take whilst fleeing Gondolin. No one in their right mind fled north towards Morgoth's realm. 'Twas an example of what Helluin perceived as mortal humor and she'd always found such amusing. She chuckled at the absurdity of the thought.
About her others did likewise. The tension abated apace and clearer thought took root.
Of all the mortals she had known in Beleriand, Tuor, tall, dark-haired, handsome, and noble had become her favorite, for in him lived again the courage and valor of his father and uncle, Huor and Húrin of Dor-lómin, whom she had known only for a short time. Later, when she discovered that it had been Tuor's timely slaying of Maeglin that had delivered Anguirel to her hand at need, she regarded him even more highly, for she felt the hand of doom guiding their relationship. She had been delivered apurpose. In honor of the heroic brethren of the last generation and his providing for the preservation of her life in Gondolin, Helluin resolved to guard his house whilst his years lasted.
'Twas with misgivings but no more favorable options that the remnant of Gondolin issued from the hidden way and took their path westward towards Sirion. For a while their steps led upwards, and this was disheartening to all. A league and more they ascended ere coming to the pass. Chill winds grew and gripped them, and no food did they find amidst the barren rock of those mountains. All about them peaks rose, snow-capped and forbidding, and if any blessing was granted them, 'twas the very desolation of their surroundings. 'Twas inconceivable that agents of the enemy would linger 'nigh.
Disheartening too was the view south. There lay the burning ruin of Gondolin, wreathed in fumes, the prominent pearly spike of Turgon's Tower notably absent after its fall. 'Cross the miles came the roaring of the dragons and the intermittent cheers of Morgoth's host celebrating their victory. Their home now hosted the billowing black smoke and bursts of reddish flames that marked the passage of Valaraukar as they strode the avenues in triumph. Punctuated by the crash of falling stone, the city's ruined visage haunted the refugees 'til it disappeared at last behind a high ridge.
Misery and privation were their road fellows for two slow days of travel and hardship. Much suffering befell the wounded amongst them, struggling on in the bitter cold o'er that narrow and slippery path. Thin seemed the very air, sapping the strength of the company. To the north upon their right, a face of granite rose sheer and unbroken, many hundreds of feet above their heads. Southwards on their left, a chasm fell down into nothing, for in that place a rift 'twixt peaks plummeted at last to a dry gulch, called of old, Thorn Sîr¹, that lay distant to their eyes. At each moment the chance of a misstep threatened to send one o'er the edge, and many were the times a boot would skid and a gasp of panic would be heard. Tuor soon took to carrying Eärendil on his back, trusting not to fate to guard his son's steps. Few thought their plight could worsen save Glorfindel who brought up the rear, and perhaps Helluin, whom the host had insisted join Galdor in the lead. 'Twixt them the survivors were strung single-file along more than two furlongs of trail, with the children and those most injured amidmost. ¹(Thorn Sîr, Falling River. See, "The Fall of Gondolin", in TBoLT, Vol. 2, pg. 194.)
'Twas on their second day of suffering that the unthinkable befell them. Out of a dark gap in the cliffside a company of Glam issued from some underground lair to block their way and assail them. Helluin, Galdor, and those warriors at the front of the column fought desperately to drive them back. Glorfindel, trapped at the rear of the column, could only listen in horror, for he and his warriors were unable to come to their aid. The battle raged fierce on the narrow path, caught 'twixt the rock wall and the abyss. Bodies fell; both Glamog and Elda, and the dead of both races were pushed aside by the living.
At last it seemed the Eldar were gaining the upper hand, for the Elvish warriors fought desperately for their survival whilst the Glam fought only to indulge their malice. Galdor stove in the iron cap of the Glamog Captain with his steel studded war club and kicked his body into the abyss. Then with a mighty slash, Helluin swept three of her enemies into the chasm and the rest edged back, shying away from the flaring blue light of her eyes and the violence of her wrath.
But now the stench of sulfur and roiling flames issued from a new formed fissure in the rock wall. The cliff cracked asunder with a shrieking groan of tortured stone. A second company of Glam rushed upon the rear of the refugees, embattling Glorfindel and the warriors with him. And yet even worse was to come. A Balrog issued out of the mountain, wrapped in Shadowy Fire, and snapped its whip sending four of the Glam and two Elves to their deaths. A wash of flames leapt up as the Valarauko met the free air, and smoke rose into the sky. Behind the Balrog, more Glam poured out of the mountain to join the battle.
Helluin saw the black fume rising and knew what had happened at the opposite end of the column. In desperation she looked back, and the black sword, Anguirel cried out in her hand for blood, but there was no way to pass those behind her and come to that battle. In frustration she charged those few Glam still remaining in front of her and drove them screaming in a rout 'til they lost their footing and plunged to their deaths.
Now the Battle of Glorfindel and the Balrog upon the frigid heights of the Cirith Thoronath is memorialized more dramatically elsewhere in story and song. There each fought the other with masterful strokes and the unbending strength of their wills. The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower contested with the fallen Maia, and though his sword sang with light, still he could not o'ercome the Dark Flame, nor could he be o'ercome by it. Glorfindel was burnt beyond healing; his enemy he slashed with sword and gut-gored with dagger. Wounds each dealt and wounds each bore, and the smoke and lashing fire of the Balrog went up to the heavens. Thither 'twas marked by farseeing eyes that had long watched o'er the Hidden Kingdom of Gondolin.
'Twas only as Glorfindel and the Balrog, each clasping the other in a shared death grip finally pitched o'er the edge of the path, that a sortie of Eagles stooped upon the remaining Glam and drove them shrieking to their deaths. Not a one survived. They fell like cinders from a grate, down into the depths of the ravine 'twixt the mountains. And so no whispered word reached the ears of Angband to report on the flight of the refugees.
In the aftermath the Elves counted their losses and sorrow wrung songs from their lips in a requiem for the fallen. The body of Glorfindel was borne up from the depths of his ruin by Thorondor himself, and thither 'nigh the high pass they buried him with honor 'neath a cairn of stones. 'Tis said that in latter days a verdant turf and flowers of gold, elanor perhaps, came to grow upon that funeral mound, a memorial to the valiant sacrifice of the Lord of Gondolin's House of the Golden Flower.
Now Helluin, having been at the front of the column, had played no part in that battle. But after the entombment of Glorfindel, she allowed the column to pass her by and she took up a guard upon the rear, knowing that danger could come as easily from behind as before. Tuor and Galdor now led the reduced company, one guide being as good as another, for about their path there were no choices to make, for there were neither turns, nor sidetracks to find.
A day after the fall of Glorfindel the way began to descend, and on that eve the path gentled and opened onto a high sward of rough grass. About them the first stunted trees clung to the rocky ground and a meager trickle of snowmelt found its way, haphazard amongst the boulders. Here the refugees rested, finding running water and food for the first time since taking their flight. Helluin looked down from the outcrops bordering the small field and saw pine-clad slopes and the Pass of Sirion laid out below her as with the sight of the Eagles themselves. The bright ribbon of running water twinkled in the sun's light, beckoning with promised surcease of their torment. Soon the others had gathered behind her for a look and their spirits rose in hope at last, though a long road still lay ahead ere safety could be found. They had been then three days in the mountains.
The flight of the remnant of Gondolin has been sung in many lays, and therein it has been told how Tuor, with Idril and Eärendil, came in stealth down Sirion, 105 leagues to the willow meads of Nan Tathren above the mouths of Sirion. There, as that fateful year waned, the survivors made a feast and sang songs of sorrow and memorial, remembering all their fallen comrades and kin, and not the least of these Glorfindel and their king, Turgon son of Fingolfin son of Finwë. And at the last, these survivors took their way downstream again, 25 leagues to Ethir Sirion where the great river met the sea at the Bay of Balar, joining their host to the remnant of Doriath. There the peoples merged, scions of Beren and Lúthien and Turgon and Huor. And the blood and the hopes of the Eldar and the Maiar, and of the Edain, ran in the lines that flowed down to Elwing and Eärendil on the shores of the Sundering Sea.
Many years did those people dwell in the lands of Avernien, 'twixt the mouths of Sirion and the Cape of Balar, and it hath been told how the mariners of Círdan the Shipwright taught them seacraft and the building of ships. During all those years Helluin remained amongst them, and at their backs she made her defense against the agents of their enemies, be they Orch, or Man, or Elf. Many she slew in the delta and the woods 'nigh Sirion's banks, and for all the years of Tuor's life no word revealing that folk came to hostile ears, whether Morgoth, or Easterling, or son of Fëanor.
Yet in the waning of his life, Tuor finally followed the sea-longing that had grown in his heart, and he built the fair ship Sea Wing, Eärrámë in the Quenya tongue. In it he took his beloved Idril and set sail into the west. It is told that by the grace of the Valar and the presence of his wife, a princess of the Noldor, that his ship found the sea roads that no mortal sailor can find, and navigating 'cross the Shadowy Seas, came at last to Aman the Blessed. There, according to the bards, he was joined in eternity with his beloved Idril Celebrindal, and is numbered amongst the Noldor 'til the end of days. Yet if this fate be so, then they were received despite the Doom of Exile, and ne'er were they seen by the mariner who came after to Aman.
Now ere the time of his sailing, Helluin spoke with Tuor, saying that in her heart she felt the desire to see again her ancient home of Vinyamar, though perhaps it had fallen to ruin in the years since the Gondolindrim had followed Turgon son of Fingolfin hence to the Hidden City. Time was passing, but memory remained. Tuor had nodded in understanding, for in his 24th year he too had come to Mt. Taras, and by the aid of signs from Ulmo, had found Vinyamar and the arms left behind by Turgon at the sea god's bidding. Dear to him as well was the memory of that country, though he had endured it alone ere he found Voronwë of Gondolin, for it had brought him to his destiny and his beloved. Beside him Idril had smiled into his eyes, their love undimmed by a century together.
In early summer Helluin began her journey, taking leave of Tuor and Idril, and Eärendil who had grown to manhood and learnt to sail. She made her way northwest, crossing Avernien through the Birchwoods of Nimbrethil, and striking the coast again midway to Eglarest. These lands had once been the southernmost part of the Falas, the holdings of Círdan, where many of the Sindar and some even of the Laiquendi had taken refuge ere the ravaging in the year that followed the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Now the lands lay empty save for roaming bands of Easterlings, sparse companies of Yrch, and those few amongst the Sindar and the Edain who still resisted them.
Helluin passed swift and silent through that land, recalling the stealth of the hunters and sentries who had once kept watch o'er the realm of Nargothrond, past Tar-en-Faroth to the north. To her sad eyes, West Beleriand had become a wasteland, depopulated and ravaged by war. Soon she crossed the River Nenning, turning inland from the sight of ruined Eglarest. Here the land bore more severely the evidence of the destruction of the Falas. Scars of burning and of battle were still to be seen, a scorched homestead, a broken bridge, or a fallen wall, cold memorials to ruined hopes and lost lives.
Just as swiftly she passed through the hills 'twixt Nenning and Brithon, finally coming down through the foothills to the ruins of Brithombar. There, amidst the fallen stones and broken walls, she espied the smithies and pits, and the siege engines left behind by the Glamhoth that had assailed Círdan's people. Many had died here; friend and foe alike, wiped fore'er from Middle Earth by the malice of Morgoth.
The way from Avernien to Mt. Taras ran for 125 leagues, and after passing through that scarred and wounded land Helluin's spirit cried out for peace. At her journey's end she stood on the strand, hearing the cries of wheeling gulls as if they were the souls of those first lost in the crossing of the Helcaraxë, calling plaintively to her from the Halls of Mandos 'cross the Sundering Sea. The land of Aman and the city of Tirion had been her home for 3,620 sun years and Eldamar was still home to her heart, for she had dwelt there in peace far longer than she had dwelt amidst the heartbreak of Middle Earth.
To Be Continued