Chapter Forty-Four: Effírië
'Gwathel einior!' came Eärendil's voice, floating through the corridor and finding Lalwendë at a candlelit desk, surrounded by papers. She straightened, put down her quill and rubbed her eyes.
'In here, melda!' she called, and the seven-year-old appeared moments later, his eyes rounding.
'What are you doing, Lalwen?' he asked.
'Counting expenses,' she said reaching over to smooth his ruffled blonde hair. 'It's very dull, so thank you for coming to save me.'
'Nana said I was to find you and remind you,' he said conspiratorially.
'Really? And what, pray tell, does your mother think I need reminding of?' Lalwendë asked, leaning down.
'Don't you remember?' he asked, laughing at her. She frowned, feigning confusion.
'Remember what?'
'It's the Gates of Summer tonight!' he crowed, and she laughed. His youthful jubilance reminded her so much of her nieces and nephews when they were his age – and their children, too. She hadn't realised how much she'd missed it.
'Gates of Summer!' she gasped, sitting up straight. 'How could I have forgotten?'
'It is almost midnight,' Eärendil said, taking her by the hand and pulling her out the door. She barely had time to blow out the candles. 'You need to dress! And find Glorfindel!' He let go of her hand and pushed her in the direction of her chambers. She laughed again, turning back to face him.
'I'll see you on the walls?'
'See you on the walls!' he agreed merrily, before turning and running away.
Her quarters were empty, Glorfindel somewhere else. She supposed it was around an hour until midnight; she still had some time. She found a dark blue dress in her cupboard and pulled it on before braiding back some of her hair, leaving the rest out. She placed a circlet on her head which had been made for her by Celebrimbor, and wove a few celandine flowers into her hair.
When there was only a few minutes left until midnight, Glorfindel came through the door, looking tired. He smiled when he saw her, before throwing himself down in one of the chairs.
'I wish we were allowed to sleep. I don't talk in my sleep, it wouldn't break the rules.'
'You do sometimes,' Lalwendë said, coming to stand before him with a smile. 'But if you are too tired, no one will blame you if you aren't there.'
'Of course I must be there,' he said, standing up with a sigh. 'I'll change.'
'What are you going to wear?' she asked as he went into the bedroom.
'I don't know,' he called back. 'A tunic?'
She laughed. 'I saved some flowers to make you a crown.'
'I would rather make conversation with a troll.'
'Where is your pride in your house, my lord?'
She heard him huff a laugh before he reappeared, wearing a tunic with the device of his house emblazoned on the front. 'How's this?'
'Terribly handsome,' she said, and she stepped closer to loop her arms around his neck. He kissed her briefly, and she smiled.
'How long until we aren't allowed to speak?' he whispered.
'A few moments,' she replied.
'I love you, Lalwen,' he said.
'I love you too, Laurë,' Lalwendë answered.
'I love you, Lalwen.'
She laughed. 'I love you, Laurë.'
'I love –'
Bells began tolling through the city, and they both fell silent, smiling. Glorfindel placed one more kiss on her lips before taking her hand and leading the way down into the city.
The only sound that could be heard in Gondolin was that of footsteps, as people made their way down to the walls. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the stars shone brightly on them. Though there were dozens of people around to see them, Glorfindel kept a hold of Lalwendë's hand.
They made it to the wall, where they were greeted with smiles. Turgon was there, a silver circlet around his head. Idril and Tuor were beside him, Eärendil waving at Lalwendë from his father's side. She smiled at him. The lords of Gondolin were there too, Ecthelion, Egalmoth, Maeglin, and the others. Celebrimbor was standing with Enerdhil a little way away.
They stood in silence for hours, watching the stars wheel overhead and waiting for the dawn to come. Lalwendë leaned against Glorfindel, relishing in his faint warmth. Before long, her favourite part came.
They were close to dawn. It was hard to tell if the sky was lightening from inky blue, if there was really a tinge of red at the rim of the horizon, or if it was just her imagination. It seemed as if the whole valley, the whole world was holding its breath with them, waiting for summer to break over them with the dawn, washing them with light.
It was in that moment of sacred, silent anticipation, that Eärendil first saw the light. He pointed to the horizon, and sure enough, there was a faint orange glow that was ever so gradually growing stronger. Lalwendë smiled when she saw it… but then her smile faded into confusion.
There was something not quite right about this light, but she couldn't say what. It didn't quite have the right tinge for early dawn, and it wasn't quite where it was supposed to be… Glorfindel suddenly dropped her hand.
'It's coming from the north,' he said, breaking the sacred silence to face the King. It was like someone had shattered glass. Lalwendë turned quickly to look at the northern mountains, and she covered her mouth in shock. The glow wasn't the rising sun, but the light from hundreds of torches. An army was making its way over the sparsely guarded northern mountains and into Gondolin.
Before they had a chance to react, something huge sailed overhead, blocking out the starlight for a second. The pit of Lalwendë's stomach dropped.
'Dragons,' Ecthelion whispered. 'They have dragons.'
'They are here,' Turgon said, breaking his silence. 'It has begun. Gather your armies and prepare to fight with all haste. Sound the horns.'
Glorfindel stared down at Lalwendë, and she up at him, panic filling her whole body. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to die, to lose Glorfindel or her home or Turgon or Eärendil or Idril –
'Our quarters,' Glorfindel said. 'Hurry.'
He took her hand again, and they sprinted through the corridors as the horn began to sound, echoing over the city. The thousands of Gondolindrim broke their silences before the sun, running to find weapons or get to safety.
Glorfindel slammed the door shut behind them before striding to start putting on his armour. Lalwendë put on her belt and made sure Helcaruivë and Picarca were safe in their sheaths before turning to Glorfindel to help fasten the buckles. She wished she wasn't wearing a dress, and suddenly she began to cry.
Before she knew what had happened, Glorfindel was hugging her, his arms wrapped tightly around her. She embraced him in return, as tightly as she could over the cold armour, pleading silently with the Valar to keep him safe. After only a few seconds, he pulled away.
'Ready?' he asked.
'No,' she whispered. He brushed the tears off her cheeks.
'Yes you are,' he said. 'Yes you are. Do you have your key?'
'Here,' she said, pulling out her locket. The key to the escape tunnel clicked against it. He nodded once before suddenly pulling her tightly against him again.
'Stay alive,' he whispered into her neck. 'Please, stay alive.'
'I love you,' she whispered. Then he pulled away once more, and they left together.
It was less than an hour before Morgoth's army reached the city. The sun had barely risen before they were overrun by orcs, wolves, and the dreaded balrogs and dragons. The fighting began.
Lalwendë lost sight of Glorfindel and his army early on, and decided instead to try to find Idril. She sprinted, her dagger drawn and the key clenched in her other fist, down towards the cellar door.
She made it there without trouble, but found it locked, and Idril and Eärendil nowhere to be found. She cursed and turned, squeezing the key so hard it was almost painful.
'My lady!' came a whisper, and she whipped around to see two women crouching in the shadows. One of them half-stood. 'What are we to do?'
Lalwendë whirled to unlock the door. 'In here!' They followed her in, and she pointed to the tunnel entrance, half-hidden by an old barrel. 'Run through the tunnel, fast as you can. Head south to the Havens of Sirion. Tell them what has happened here!'
The women nodded, and without another word, they disappeared into the inky blackness of the tunnel. Lalwendë turned and ran.
The streets were littered with bodies, most of them elves. Lalwendë forced herself not to look at them, dashing tears from her eyes as she went, calling for Idril. Without warning, she was knocked on her back by a wolf as she turned a corner. Her dagger flew from her hand, and she was too late to draw her sword – but before the wolf could finish her, it lost its head.
'Tuor!' Lalwendë exclaimed, and he pulled her to her feet. 'Where is your wife?'
'I wanted to ask you the same thing!' he said, and she could see real panic in his eyes.
'She hasn't left yet,' Lalwendë said, searching futilely for Picarca before drawing her sword. 'She must be further up in the city. Let's go!'
They ran together, dispatching orcs as they went. Adrenaline pulsed through Lalwendë's veins as she fought, and in the back of her mind buzzed the thought that she hadn't seen Glorfindel in nearly two hours.
'Lalwen!' came a cry, and she turned to see Egalmoth, blood pouring down the left side of his face from a cut near his hairline. He pointed up at the west wall. 'The princess and her son, they're at the balustrade!'
Tuor and Lalwendë turned together, climbing the steps two and three at a time to the wall. Sure enough, Idril and Eärendil were there – with Maeglin.
'Tuor!' Idril shouted, her face tear-stained and dirty. 'Help!'
Maeglin had her arm in a vice-like grip, and Eärendil in the other. When he saw Tuor, he shoved the boy back with a snarl and drew his sword.
'Let them go, Maeglin!' Lalwendë cried as Tuor stepped forward, his teeth bared.
'He betrayed us,' Idril said, crying. 'It's because of Maeglin that Morgoth found us here. It's all because of him…'
'Let – her – go!' Tuor bellowed, lunging for Maeglin. Their blades shrieked against one another, and Maeglin was forced to let go of Idril. They began fighting in earnest.
'Idril, come on!' Lalwendë yelled, but Idril shook her head, scrambling to get a hold of Eärendil.
'I'm not leaving Tuor!' she shouted back. 'Go, get yourself to safety!'
Lalwendë growled in frustration, ready to march over and drag them down to the cellar. But at that moment, one of the dragons flew overhead, breathing acrid flames over everything, friend and foe alike. Once again, Lalwendë could only think of Glorfindel. She ran.
She made it to the square before she was forced to stop and fight again. She managed to disarm the orc before thrusting her sword into its belly and yanking it back out. It fell to its knees, then died in the dust at her feet. Somewhere nearby, she heard the sound of a building crumbling to the ground. It was then that she saw Ecthelion.
He was sitting still, slumped against the rim of the great fountain, his hand pressed to his stomach and his face raised to the sky. In the fountain behind him, there was a balrog, its massive form face-down in the water.
Lalwendë sprinted to him, panic filling her at what she knew was inevitable. She skidded to her knees beside him.
'Ecthelion,' she said. 'Ecthelion. Ecthelion.'
He opened his eyes. 'Hello, Lalwen,' he said, sounding almost normal. She glanced down at the hand on his stomach; blood was pulsing from under it. He was going to die.
'Have you seen Glorfindel?' she asked, tears spilling down her cheeks and making tracks through the soot. Ecthelion shook his head, his eyes drifting closed again.
'Is it dead?' he asked faintly. She looked up at the balrog, utterly unmoving.
'Yes. It's dead.'
'It was their king,' Ecthelion breathed. 'I killed their king…' He grimaced for a moment, then summoned the energy to speak once more. 'Do you think they will sing… sing songs about this?'
'I know it,' she whispered, reaching up to cup his face in her hands, but suddenly he was utterly still. He was dead.
Gasping for breath through her sobs, Lalwendë began running again. Somewhere in the city, another building collapsed, burned through by the dragons. Another of them flew overhead, igniting the building to her right. She coughed.
The Tower of the King had collapsed into scorched rubble, and the space where it had stood was empty except for corpses. Breathing fast, she searched the faces, looking for a familiar one – until she found him, still wearing the circlet of silver over his dark hair.
She fell to her knees beside Turgon's body. His eyes were open but unseeing, and unbidden, the memory of Fingolfin's broken body surged to the front of her mind. Now, Fingolfin's last surviving child was dead too.
'Lalwen!' came a sharp cry, and she looked up to see a pale Glorfindel standing a little way away.
'Thank the Valar,' she choked out, and ran to him. He was moving gingerly, and she blinked away her tears to look him up and down. 'Where are you injured?'
'I was stabbed,' he said. 'We need to go.'
'Turgon is dead,' she said. 'And Ecthelion.'
Glorfindel glanced bitterly at the wreckage of the King's Tower before turning his back on it and tugging her with him. 'Everyone is dead,' he said hollowly. 'It's a massacre. We have to escape while we can.'
'Idril and Tuor?' she asked as they began to run. 'Eärendil?'
'They're leading the survivors through the tunnel,' Glorfindel said. 'The only people left in the city are you, me, and Morgoth's army.'
Somehow, they made it most of the way to the cellar unseen by the orcs and wolves, cloaked perhaps by the choking smoke that covered the remains of the city. They were almost there when one of the wolves began howling at them. The orcs caught sight of them, and the game was up.
'Sprint,' Glorfindel gasped, even paler from his loss of blood. They flew through the dark corridors, hand in hand, Morgoth's army in close pursuit. They raced into the cellar and through the dark hole in the wall, into the tunnel.
'Pirindë,' Lalwendë choked out, and she drew out the glowing blue lantern crystal from her locket before clicking it closed again. She held it aloft, and it lit the way for them as they sprinted through the tunnels. They could still hear the enemy close behind them.
'I might not – make it,' Glorfindel said, his breathing laboured and choppy.
'Yes you will!' Lalwendë growled. 'You will!'
Before long, they began to hear the sounds of people ahead of them, refugees escaping like them.
'Oh no,' Glorfindel muttered.
'Run!' Lalwendë shouted ahead. 'Run! They're coming!'
There were cries in the darkness ahead, and the sound of footfalls as people began to run.
'We have to face them,' Glorfindel gasped.
'No – we can make it –'
'There aren't many of them, only a wolf and three or four orcs. We can do it, come on!'
They skidded to a halt and turned to face the enemy. Lalwendë held up the crystal, suddenly dazzling them as they turned the corner, and Glorfindel quickly dismembered two of the orcs. Lalwendë took on a third as he fought the wolf. The tunnel was narrow, robbing the orcs of the advantage of their greater numbers. Before long, it was over.
'Let's go,' Lalwendë panted, taking Glorfindel's hand. 'More of them will follow.' His hand was slick with blood, and when they finally reached the end of the tunnel, breaking into light, she could see it was red. The blood was his.
Tuor and Celebrimbor were waiting for them when they emerged, and Lalwendë put the crystal in her pocket. 'We are the last,' she said breathlessly. 'How many escaped?'
'I don't know,' Tuor said heavily. 'Not enough.'
'Your wife and son?'
'They're with us,' he said. 'I killed Maeglin.'
'The King is dead,' Celebrimbor said. 'I – saw him die.'
'We need to move,' Glorfindel said, and they began jogging to catch up with the rest of the escapees.
Morgoth's dragons had unwittingly worked against him. Their fire had evaporated the water from the many fountains in Gondolin, and now a thick mist cloaked the valley, hiding the passage of the Gondolindrim from enemy eyes as they crossed the plain to get to the mountains.
They made it into the foothills without being seen from the city, and then further still. The climb was hard, and Tuor helped Lalwendë support Glorfindel as the climb became steeper. Glorfindel was quiet, breathing raggedly, his head down. Lalwendë prayed again that he would be alright, that he wouldn't have made it this far only to die from his wounds.
After a few hours, they were in Cirith Thoronath. It was a brutally difficult passage to traverse; on one side of the narrow, rocky path was a sheer wall of stone, disappearing into cloud. On the other, the path dropped away into nothingness.
They were barely halfway across the pass, strung out in a long line, before cries came from ahead. Morgoth had set a watch on the mountains; they were under attack yet again. People began falling as orc-arrows whistled through the air, some finding their mark. The elves began to run.
Lalwendë and Glorfindel, bringing up the rear of the line, had just made it to a broader part of the path when the ground shuddered beneath them as something huge landed. They turned, both brandishing their swords, and came face-to-face with a balrog. The breath froze in Lalwendë's lungs, and Glorfindel shoved her backwards.
'Run,' he said, staring up at the monster.
'Laurë –'
'Go,' he said, and she'd never heard him sound as cold and deadly as he did then. She turned and ran, the cold air tearing through her throat. After a few seconds, she couldn't bear it anymore. She turned back to look down the path to where her husband was facing the balrog.
If she hadn't already known he was injured, she wouldn't have been able to tell. He wielded his sword with terrifying strength. The balrog was immediately beaten back, but Glorfindel's upper hand didn't last for long. Their battle was brutal. Behind her somewhere, Lalwendë heard someone call out that the eagles had arrived. She barely noticed.
They fought for only a few minutes, Glorfindel ducking under the balrog's deadly swipes and hacking at any part of it he could reach, but to Lalwendë and the others watching, it felt like hours. The horrifying, infuriated shrieks of the balrog filled the air, and seemingly impervious to the sound, Glorfindel spun under its reach, cut its whip short, and buried his sword in its belly.
The balrog stumbled back, and then roared. The sound shook rocks from the mountains around them. Pressing his advantage, and now weaponless, Glorfindel kicked the balrog square in the chest, sending it backwards and over the cliff.
Many things happened in the span of a second. The balrog began to fall. Glorfindel, breathing hard, turned to look for Lalwendë. His eyes found hers, and the shadow of a victorious smile crossed his face. Then the balrog whipped its arm up, grabbed a handful of Glorfindel's long, golden hair, and pulled him over the cliff with him. They disappeared from view. There was silence.
The breath was gone from Lalwendë's body, and her sword clattered to the ground. She stared into the abyss, disbelieving.
The orcs had been frightened away by the eagles, and now one of the huge birds hurtled down into the cleft after Glorfindel and the balrog. Lalwendë watched numbly. Was it going to save him? Was it too late for that? How much time had passed?
Someone took her arm, and she turned to see Egalmoth, his face still covered in his own blood. His mouth was moving, but Lalwendë couldn't hear anything but her heartbeat. She tried to breathe properly, tried to concentrate. How much time had passed?
Egalmoth led her up to the end of the path, where it finally broadened, and the cliff face softened into a mountain slope. The rest of the refugees were gathered there, and at their centre, there was an eagle. As Egalmoth led her through the crowd, the eagle took flight, disappearing into the clouds.
The people parted for her to get through. At last, she came face to face with Idril and Tuor. She stared at them, not comprehending the look in their eyes, until Idril's gaze flickered downwards to the ground. Lalwendë saw what she hadn't seen before.
It was Glorfindel, plucked from the chasm by the eagle and brought back to her. His face was turned away from her, and she fell to her knees by his side and turned it towards her with shaking hands.
It was bloodied and scratched, almost unrecognisable. His dark blue eyes were open, staring past her and into the sky. He was dead.
Lalwendë gasped for air, pulling his body against her. He was still warm, but he was limp.
'Lalwen,' someone said, but she barely heard it. There was something horrifically wrong with Glorfindel's body, he was too – too limp. Was it just that his muscles had relaxed, or was it the dozens of broken bones from his fall?
She was shaking, her arms trembling as they encircled his lifeless torso. Reality was setting in. He is dead. He is gone. There is nothing left. Her breathing was growing faster. She couldn't bear to look at his face.
She had never needed anything as desperately and as absolutely as she needed him to be alive.
People had been calling her name, but she hadn't been listening. She couldn't hear them, couldn't see them over her panic. She wanted Fingolfin. She wanted her mother. She wanted Glorfindel.
Hands took her gently from behind, and pried her away from her husband's body. The tears came as soon as her arms were empty, and she began sobbing so hard she couldn't breathe. Someone hugged her – Celebrimbor. She couldn't move.
They buried Glorfindel under a cairn of stones on the mountain, while Lalwendë watched on with a broken heart. Grief hit her like it never had before. She felt like someone had torn out her inside. The only person who was able to fix something like this was Glorfindel, and he was dead, under a pile of rocks.
They had to keep moving, she understood that, and the train of refugees, after looking sadly on Glorfindel's cairn, had begun to leave. Lalwendë stayed at the head of the cairn, on her knees, unable to force herself to move. It was Idril and Egalmoth who came to find her.
'Lalwen –' Idril began, but Lalwendë cut her off.
'Don't call me that,' she said hoarsely. Egalmoth and Idril exchanged a glance.
'It's time to go,' Egalmoth said gently, offering her his hand. She shook her head.
'I can't,' she whispered. Her heart, her whole being, was broken. 'I can't.'
'We aren't leaving you here,' Idril said firmly.
'I'll drag you if you can't walk,' Egalmoth added. 'Come on, please. It's too dangerous here.'
The shaking returned, and she pressed a hand to her chest. A hollow, empty feeling was creeping over her, making it hard to breathe. 'I can't – can't leave him here…'
'You must,' Idril said quietly. Egalmoth took Lalwendë by the elbows and bodily pulled her up, forcing her to her feet. Then he tucked her arm under his and began walking steadily down the path, away from the grave.
The mountains near Cirith Thoronath were rocky, windy and inhospitable. But until the day that those lands were swept under the water, travellers said that little yellow celandine flowers grew on the stony grave of Glorfindel, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.
