Flame of Gondolin, book 1: Love Story

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Early Summer of 510, FA
The Fall of Gondolin

Tuor was the first to move.

"A council! My lord, we must assemble!"

Turgon was forced out of the stupor he'd fallen into at Duinhir's arrival:

"Captains! Lords! To the King's square!"

Gar Ainion rustled as if a breeze had rushed through the leaves on the willows beside the Great Lake; men moved, hastening out, following the orders of their respective liege-lords.

Idril stretched her arms forward: "Eärendil!"

Anárië handed the boy over to his mother then turned, catching Glorfindel by the sleeve of his shirt.

"Anárië, follow the Princess and help her as much as you can," her husband said, briefly turning back to her. His hands touched her hips, his lips ghosting across her forehead. She trembled, eyes large with fear of the unknown as she looked up into his face.

"I must gather my warriors and secure the gate – stay with Idril!"

And he slipped through her fingers, like quicksilver, taking only three steps before breaking into a run out among the pillars.

Someone tugged at her side, and the elleth turned to face her father.

"Atar!"

"Anárië, it is as we've feared."

His voice was a breeze, a murmur so fast she barely heard him, and his lips were pressed close to her ear.

"Run home, find the gifts from your off-age ceremony. The ones from Egalmoth and Tuor, do you remember them? Try and find something else to wear, if you can."

There was a screech from outside suddenly, and the women within the temple cowered; Anárië shrank against her father's chest on instinct.

"Idril, gather the women and children and return here!" Tuor's voice rose over the commotion. The golden-haired Princess nodded and turned, still holding her son close to herself.

"Anárië, I will need your help."

"I must go home, I will go by the Road of the Fountains and send the women here," she replied, already turning, as her father also ran from the temple with the speed of wind.

Idril nudged her: "Go!"

And Anárië ran – like so many others. The women streamed from Gar Ainion out onto the streets while a hasty council was called by the men upon the King's Square. Tuor's angry voice could be heard even among the commotion, though none could discern the words. The voices of the conversing warriors rose and fell in cadence, as if in song, despite the song not being gentle at all.

Another horn was blown, and a cry rose from the lower levels. Anárië skidded to a stop by the wall, palms landing against it harshly and she could feel her skin protest, but she leaned over to try and see.

The fields of Tumladen were black with the spawn of Morgoth.

Dread filled her heart, and she turned and ran, cutting through a side alley and sending whoever she could find towards the center of the city. Her slippers were not made for such cruel work, and she could feel her feet complaining as they hit the pathway over and over again in her quest to get to the Fountain abode.

With a hammering heart, she plummeted through the gates and found the mansion in chaos.

"My lady!" Elwen cried when she saw her. Anárië was glad to see her handmaiden had some sense about her – she'd been trying to fasten the clip on a young boy's cloak.

"Elwen, how many are here? Never mind – gather all you can find, all of them, and run for the temple. Look for princess Idril, and stay there!"

"Yes ma'am," the raven-haired elleth replied and tugged on the boy's hand, hastening away, calling names as she went.

Anárië mounted the stairs, bursting into her rooms. Where had she put the gifts? The boots would come in handy now, at least. And the cloak … there was also the bow and arrows, those were in the stables.

There was a roar that shook through the foundations of Gondolin, forcing her to grip the table for support, and horns were blown in reply, a challenge –Rog had assembled his men, the heavy-clad knights of his House. But something red filled her vision from the right – turning her head, she screamed.

Fire.

Dragons had somehow scaled the walls; Rog and Duilin could not hold with arrows alone, and even though the Lord of the Hammer of Wrath made a desperate attempt to push the monsters out, they were advancing quickly. Much too fast for the defenders to group properly. The horns rang out in desperate cries of retreat to gain better fighting ground.

She saw the brilliance of the Enemy's plan then: they had been ambushed during the festival, when even the guards on the gates were absent and none carried weapons. Before they could properly place defences, Morgoth's minions were already upon them.

Tears rose in her eyes, but she shook her head and forced her body to move again. So little time, so much to do.

Thankfully, by some hidden foresight, she'd placed most of the gifts into one bag, and this she now snatched, even as she pulled her wardrobe open. There was no time for laces, she only yanked a pair of leggings under her dress, and slipped her feet into the soft boots. The hairpin was tossed into the bag, before she ran out of the room upon a call.

"My lady! The walls are overrun!"

"No time, do not think of that!" she replied, flying down the stairs again only to bump into Lasgow, "Run, to my father! I go to find Idril. Run!"

They parted ways and she slung the satchel over her shoulder, dashing towards the stables. The horses could feel something was wrong; Gwaiforn was trying to bring down the walls of his stall when she reached him.

"Shh shh!" she soothed the beast, even as she untied him and let him loose. There was no way she'd be able to save him. Grabbing Duilin's bow and arrows, Anárië hastened out into the streets again.

Darkness had descended now; it only added to the fires that now rose to the north of the city. They licked at walls and ground, breaking into Gondolin and swallowing it whole. And among them rose a tall, dark form, its nostrils coated with smoke. When it opened its jaws, fire burned out.

Paralysed, she couldn't move for a moment, until a scream broke through to her thoughts.

Turning, Anárië ran in the direction where Idril and Tuor had their abode.

Her body was screaming loudly, trying to make her stop, but she pushed it harder, her long legs carrying her swiftly through the many Elves on the streets. They let her pass, too busy with their own agendas. Morgoth's attack was thorough, thought-through. None would escape him this time. Turgon and his line would be broken.

She tripped and fell, landing hard on her knees and crying out; but Glorfindel's words roused her again and she scrambled, resuming her run.

The house was eerily quiet when she reached it, so that when she banged the door open she scared herself.

"Idril? Idril! Eärendil!"

Her voice echoed down the empty hallway; panicked, Anárië ran down the whole length of the house before she suddenly saw a sight that turned her blood to ice.

Maeglin had Idril by the hair with one hand, his other holding Eärendil to his body. In the courtyard, the few men of the House of the Wing were fighting their own kin of the Mole.

"IDRIL!"

This time, the dark Elf heard the scream and turned; he let go of the Princess momentarily as a fury flung herself at him in a flourish of white skirt and golden hair.

"You monster! She is your COUSIN!"

Anárië's hand collided with Maeglin's cheek, her nails drawing blood as she forced the Elf, through her body weight, to release Eärendil, who sobbed as he landed on the stone.

"Witch!" the King's nephew snarled, and flung her aside, but tangled with her belt and only managed to pull her back to him. By this time, Anárië had already pulled Tuor's birthday gift out. The dagger slashed through the air and through Maeglin's clothing. He screamed and yanked aside, tearing something in the process. The knife had gone through his arm.

"Kinslayer!" Anárië screamed and flung herself at him again. There was no other thought in her mind, no other vision before her eyes than her protecting her Princess and the little half-Elven boy.

"Anárië!" Idril called, but Ecthelion's daughter ignored her.

Her fist smacked against the side of Maeglin's face loudly, but by then he'd grabbed her by the hand, and yanked her head back by her hair. She screamed in pain, trying to kick him but her legs tangled with the skirt of her dress.

He spat in her face and flung her aside: with a thundering crack, she landed against the wooden summer table in Idril's garden, and it collapsed under her weight. Her head met the ground hard among the table's remnants, and Anárië's world turned black.

Eärendil cried in anger as Maeglin slapped his mother aside and grabbed him again, intent on tossing him over the walls.

But suddenly there was a shout, and Tuor jumped over Anárië's immobile form, storming towards his kinsman, his men following in his wake. They grappled and fought even as Anárië groaned, eyes opening again. She saw shadows wrestling for dominion, but her thoughts were sluggish from the blow. There was a metallic taste in her mouth, a ringing in her ears, and the side of her face felt sticky.

"Atar! ATAR!"

Eärendil!

Anárië flung herself forward without so much as a second thought. It was chance more than design that she managed to grab hold of the boy's ankle and tug him out of Maeglin's hands, down against her. Vertigo hit and she could barely see, but she could feel the boy's form as he curled against her and she wrapped herself around him, closing her eyes against the waves of dizziness and nausea.

Suddenly there was an other-wordly scream, and then silence. Then …

"Tuor!"

Idril's voice cut through and a strong, but gentle pair of arms was dragging Anárië off the little Prince.

"Anárië, it's me!" Tuor exclaimed as she snarled at him and her hand came up in a slap. Her vision cleared enough to see the man's face, but she had to shake her head a few times.

"Maeglin flung her against the wall," she could hear Idril explain, "she came just before you, and tried to stop him. Your knife wounded him."

Through the ringing, Anárië managed to focus enough to see the blade they were talking about, and she curled her fingers around the hilt.

"Valar, her face!"

She couldn't take the taste anymore and so she spat to the side, stumbling to her feet.

"I told you, she hit the table and then the ground," she heard Idril explaining while a gentle hand wiped away at the side of her face. Anárië cringed lightly, but with another shake of her head, she managed to stay alert.

She lifted a hand, touching the sticky substance there, and when the flickering light of flames touched her fingers, she saw it was almost black.

Blood.

Her stomach churned, but she fought to keep herself steady, focusing instead on the conversation of her Princess and her husband.

"Gar Ainion," Tuor rasped, turning to his wife, "go to the temple and wait for me there. I will come for you, I promise. Go!"

Idril wept now, but did as she was told, taking Eärendil by one hand and Anárië by the other, dragging them out of the house and into the streets again, leaving the warriors to deal with the aftermath.

Walking forced her to think, and her mind cleared; Anárië was in control of herself and her body again when they cleared the main street.

"Is the city lost?"

"Yes," came the reply even as Idril went through a shortcut. Anárië wanted to ask, but hideous snarls and screeches around them forced her mouth shut. Silver trumpets cried.

Orcs had broken through the defenses.

The temple was full of women and chilren when they arrived, but thankfully it seemed that the main fighting was taking place well away from it.

Anárië was directed to Lalaith, who knew some of the healing art, and she was able to clean her face, exposing a gash and bump above her temple where she'd scraped her skin. It would heal soon enough, and it looked better without all the excess blood around it.

The blood had dripped down onto her dress, she noticed once she was able to take a look. The white material was stained with spots of red. It seemed to have been torn too, and the ashes that rose from fires had coated it grey. Her wedding gown now resembled a funeral one.

She closed her eyes and finally had time enough to think of her father, with the ringing of the flutes sounding close-by. The House of the Fountain entered the battle to music. And she also thought of her husband, who was who knew where, fighting for his people, his King. His life.

There was nothing else to do then for the women than wait, although Idril had groups go out from time to time to bring what food and blankets they could. It was a dangerous business; one group did not return. But others did and what provisions could be found were then distributed and packed somehow.

For it was clear to all by then that Morgoth meant to erase Gondolin from the face of Middle Earth, and when Elwen, returning from one of the scoutings, wept while explaining that the King's square was surrounded, the women thought it was over.

Eärendil wanted to cling to his mother, but Idril had much to do; Anárië called him over when she saw a look of intense sadness mingled with displeasure cross the Princess' face, and she cuddled him to her, murmuring soothing words and trying to comfort him. He was no more scared than anyone else in Gar Ainion then, but he was just a boy, and he could not hide it well.

It was dawning in the east when the city finally fell, without Morgoth so much as properly stretching his arm. Turgon had not heeded the warnings of Ulmo, and the Lord of Waters had abandoned him.

Commotion sounded outside the temple, and the women were all prepared for the worst when a golden-haired warrior burst through the doors.

"Glorfindel!"

Anárië, freed of Eärendil for the moment as he'd gone to help Lalaith with some blankets, tossed herself over the short distance to her husband, and he caught her to him, crushing her against his chest. Her breath left her, the breastplate of his armour digging into her in uncomfortable places, but she clung to him in desperation, needing him to tell her it would be okay.

He was dishelved, coated in ashes, eyes bloodshot, but he was alive.

Behind him Egalmoth, Galdor and Tuor swept in.

"The city has fallen! Turgon gave me the command," the mortal announced, and a wordless look passed between him and his wife.

The King was no more.

Anárië touched Glorfindel's face again and again, but when he shifted she felt something digging into her back; behind them, Idril and Tuor were conversing on their path, and on how many had fallen.

But the Lady of the Golden Flower squirmed, trying to find some comfort, and her husband released her.

"Your head – what happened?"

His voice was low, urgent, but her eyes had noticed what he held. The longsword in an ornate scabbard, decorated with crystal and coated in blue, the fountain etched into the handle.

Glorfindel followed her gaze as palor drapped over her face like a shadow, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Your father … Anárië, I'm sorry, he fought the captain of the Balrogs. He … they drowned in the King's Fountain."

Glorfindel's voice broke at that, as he watched his wife stretch her fingers to touch the fountain, and her eyes shimmered with tears. But there was no time to mourn properly, as Tuor called a retreat, and they went to find the secret way he and Idril had had constructed, fearing something like this might happen.

It was a blur, and fog surrounded her. Her father was gone. There would be no more songs from his flute. Anárië felt numb and cold. She felt Glorfindel's arm around her waist as he dragged her forward, and was thankful, for she could not have moved on her own. But she walked as if blind, going where he took her.

Darkness swallowed the survivors while dragons, balrogs and orcs plundered and burned Gondolin the Fair.