Flame of Gondolin, book 1: Love Story

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Early Summer of 510, FA
Retreat from Gondolin

The tunnel that Idril and Tuor had had dug out was cold.

Very cold.

It was even colder than how she felt. Anárië shivered slightly against Glorfindel's side, and even though she fought to keep it to a minimum, he noticed.

"You have to be freezing – where is your cloak?"

"I-i-in m-my b-b-bag," she stuttered in a hushed voice. All around them there were other muted conversations, the soft fall of slippered feet, the heavy clang of boots, the sometimes chink of metal. The survivors of the city that was burning behind them and above their heads were slowly making their way to the other end of the Way of Escape.

"Let me get it for you."

His hand slipped to her back, the warmth of his skin amending some of her shivering – the garment she wore really wasn't fit for underground, it was supposed to last only until the bedroom – and opened the satchel she carried without stopping.

Moments later, the soft cloak Lalaith had woven was wrapped around her, and Anárië huddled into it as best as she could while continuing to walk.

It was the first she'd spoken since Gar Ainion. The darkness in front of them was soothing compared to the butchering red and orange of the wild fires raging behind. Fire, the opposite of water. Water, the one substance that flowed through fountains. Fountains, her father's emblem – and his death.

But, removed from the close proximity of the square – the beautiful place where water droplets sparkled dew into the air, where the fragrance of surrounding flowers rose, where the King's Tower, now demolished and colapsed, according to the soldiers, rose like a spike in the morning – she could think with more clarity.

At least her father had met his end in water, and not on a sword. Glorfindel had spared her the details, but Anárië understood enough to know that Ecthelion had done everyone a great deed – and a great sacrifice.

Her heart bled, but it did so in silence now, as she leaned into her husband's side for support and some warmth, and he readjusted his arm around her to keep her there.

She still had Glorfindel, as Lalaith had Egalmoth, Idril Tuor and Caleniel Galdor. It was more that could be said for many of the others going with them. If she strained her ears, Anárië thought she could hear muted sobs.

So much death, so many lives lost. Innocent lives, Elves who had never done Morgoth any wrong at all. What right had he to destroy their city as he did?

Her pain gave way to anger, resentment towards the one who sat in Angband with the Silmarils in his crown. The feelings shifted more with each passing step that took her farther from the place of her birth and her home. She was firm in her decision to never let the Enemy have his way. She would thwart him somehow, even if it only meant burning the crops so his troops would have nothing to feed on.

"How much longer?"

Glorfindel, surprised to hear her break the silence, leaned close, lips brushing against her ear softly,

"I do not know, but Tuor and Idril do. We will be out soon, I should think."

She nodded and he felt her back straighten, her shoulders not slouching anymore. He allowed her to stand on her own and simply took her hand. Their fingers entwined, and they walked in silence then, following after their rulers.

The Elves dared not stop, not even to eat or rest. There was no guarantee that they were safe – the Way of Escape lead only to the outer wall of Gondolin, from there on they would have to travel across Tumladen before they reached the mountains, and any chance of survival. Idril knew this well, and she it was who urged them all on when their energies seemed to fail.

Anárië heard a shuffling sound and her eyes aligned on a small figure waiting just around a corner. The lamps they carried, hastily taken, gave very little light, but it was enough to discern the star upon the boy's shoulder.

Wordlessly, the elleth knelt, opening her arms, and Eärendil scuttled over to her, wrapping his arms around her neck and burrying his face there.

Standing, settling the Prince on her hip, Anárië resumed her walk with Glorfindel shadowing her side.

"Atar and Ammë are not happy," the boy murmured.

Glorfindel lifted a hand to stroke his hair.

"We have had to leave our home, little Prince. None of us is happy."

Eärendil turned his head to peek from under Anárië's chin, big grey eyes looking up at the golden-haired warrior with a solemn sadness. Then he turned back into the elleth's neck.

"Anná, Altatar isn't with us anymore."

Anárië surpressed a sigh and simply kissed the boy's forehead, stroking his hair.

"I know, little one. I know. Hush, try to sleep. I will carry you and keep the bad dreams away."

The Prince yawned, hugging her closer, and she returned the gesture. The couple didn't speak anymore, though Glorfindel was attentive enough to keep an eye on his wife, to see whether she would need help with the boy. And indeed, during the march she shifted him to his arms once, only to rest a little and eat a morsel passed to her. Then she took him back. Throughout this, Eärendil didn't stir. The fright of his uncle's attack coupled with Gondolin's massacre had taken its toll on him.

Under cover of darkness, the survivors emerged by a shallow pool, in the shade of the great walls. Above them, the smoke and stench rose in the air, and foul cries tore through. The plunder was as of yet not over.

Here, the group seemed to come to a discord.

"We cannot follow the Way of Escape any more," Tuor argued with Lasgow, one of the few surviving men of Ecthelion's household, "it is in plain sight. If we take it, we will die. Is that your wish?"

"Your way is no better," the captain scoffed in return, ignoring the glare directed at him by Idril, "you think you can make it across the plain otherwise? We will be spotted and hunted like rabbits."

Anárië looked at them with a tired expression, and put Eärendil down among some blankets and satchels to stretch her back and accept a mouthful of water. She had little energy to argue with her father's captain right now, though by rights he would have to listen to her.

Glorfindel touched her cheek and she looked at him. His eyes were unreadable, but his kiss was welcomed. For a brief moment she melted against him again, forgetting that they were on the run, forgetting that they had no home anymore. It was their wedding day, and they would be one soon.

But the moment ended and he left her, walking over to where many others had now gathered for the argument. Anárië sank to the ground and groaned softly, stretching her legs out a little.

A hand held out a square of some dark substance to her.

"Eat some," Caleniel encouraged, sitting down with her, "it will help with the pain."

Anárië smiled in thanks and nibbled on the offered sweet, waiting for the decision.

Incredibly, the group split, Lasgow leaving the main portion and striking out in the direction of the Way of Escape directly. Anárië was not foresighted, but something told her that tonight was the last when she would ever see her father's captain. She whispered a prayer for him and turned away.

"The wood folk sometimes venture into Tumladen," she heard Galdor say, "they know me. Perhaps, if you will wait a few moments, I can go and call one."

"Go, and swiftly – we cannot linger," Tuor replied before turning to his wife.

The next thing she remembered was Glorfindel's face hovering over her.

"Wake up – we are leaving."

Anárië blinked and jumped to her feet, only to experience a wave of nausea and a splitting pain in her skull. Her husband caught and steadied her.

"Easy! Nothing is wrong, we are simply moving."

"Why did you let me fall asleep?" she murmured, accusation thick on her voice even as she unclasped her cloak to rearrange it.

"You needed the rest. Galdor has found one of the Wood Elves. He will lead us over Tumladen."

Turning her head she saw he was right – a tall Elf stood conversing with Tuor. His hair was dark, his face sharp, and he was clad in green and brown.

"We follow Legolas," the Lord of the Wing declared, "stay together, but do not cluster."

A murmured agreement, and they were off again. Anárië kept stride with Glorfindel in silence, and he didn't know whether she was tired or sad. She said little, ate little and drank only a bit of water, but kept going, keeping up with the pace that had been set. Wordlessly he shadowed her, though when he noticed her shivering again, he bade her stop.

His cloak with celandines came off and he wrapped her in it, before putting the grey one over as well. Warm now, she thanked him by briefly stepping into the circle of his arms, but they had to move. So they fell in with the column again, holding hands and trudging on.

There came a shout suddenly, and Anárië's heart froze over again as she turned around. In the lifting darkness, they could see a group running after the main column. They were pursued.

There was someone clinging to the back of Hendor, Idril's chief servant.

"The Prince!"

But Tuor had already seen, and the warriors at the back had as well. As one they turned, their bows at ready, and arrows flew. Elves needed little light to find their foes: those pursuing were dead quickly, and with very little sound.

Anárië ran as fast as she could to where Hendor was gasping for breath.

She hadn't even noticed that Eärendil was not with them, so tired and disoriented she'd been when Glorfindel woke her. She had thought Idril had taken him.

Now, she pulled the child to her and wept, spreading kisses over his face.

"Come," Glorfindel said after a moment, taking her by the arm, "let us take him to his mother."

Idril wept as much and more as Anárië had, keeping tight hold on her son then. How they had fallen behind no one knew, and Hendor was too weary to explain, only having enough strength to walk.

So they walked, and Legolas led them safely through the shadows of Tumladen. No orc or dragon from Gondolin saw their passage – but of Lasgow and his there came no word, and none ventured out of Tumladen. A dragon waited for them at the end of the Way of Escape, and Tuor's words came true: they were all slain.

At the foot of the mountains Legolas took his leave.

"I go back to my kin," he said, bowing to Tuor, "but your plight will be known. News of the fall of Gondolin will travel fast."

They parted, the Elf disappearing into the grass like the shadows he so loved.

Anárië stumbled when they started climbing up on goat tracks, but Glorfindel caught her, and continued doing so as they went higher. They were both weary, but she was no warrior. He, at least, could demand this sacrifice of his body.

Then Aeriel suddenly shrieked, and would have fallen to her death if Caleniel's reflexes had not been quick. But she backed away quickly as well, though her head turned upwards sharply.

Anárië could feel that she was very close to breaking.

"What now?"

The answer to that came in form of a rock, which hit Elwen across the forehead as she looked up, sending her backwards and into the chasm that opened to their right.

With wide emerald green eyes, Anárië looked up.

Far above there came a cackle, a hideous sound, and peebles and stones suddenly rained in plenty on the survivors. Orcs that had been left as rearguard for Morgoth were having the time of their lives picking Elves and flinging stones down upon them.

"Run! Tuor, Idril, RUN!" Glorfindel shouted, his hand landing on Anárië's shoulder and pushing her on, head ducked.

They ran.

It was not easy; the trail was thin and narrow and dangerous. Very often someone would scream and then collapse or fall to their death. It only took a misstep and it was over. Anárië remembered little of the run in later days except for the pain and the path she kept her eyes on. It becamee a continuous blur of a steep climb, falling rocks, and aching feet.

Suddenly there was a halt – and a screech that rose among the orcs. It vowe and displayed in cadences, right before a rumble shook the mountain side, sending more to their deaths.

She turned in union with Glorfindel, and looked back down the line of refugees.

Shadow, and flame.

It rose after the Elves, plowing through the last lines as if they were nothing but blades of grass in its way.

Anárië grasped Glorfindel's arm, fingers digging into his vambraces as their eyes met, and her heart painfully skipped a beat.

He is a warrior, more so than myself. I thought I should remind you of that.

"No!"

He turned fully, using his free hand to cup her face. Anárië felt the fear and despair and panic latch onto her.

"Please. Please, don't go. Please, please ..."

His heart broke, but as the Balrog behind them rumbled closer, Glorfindel steeled himself.

"I have no choice. I swore to protect the people of Gondolin. Idril and Tuor and the rest, and YOU must survive. Spread the news of Gondolin's fall. Live."

Tears fell down her cheeks as she clutched him to her in a desperate attempt to keep him there. His lips crushed against her own, brutal, demanding. His. Something heavy was pressed into her hands.

"I will find you again," he vowed, releasing his hold on her father's sword. It felt clumsy, not reassuring.

"You are the last of the Fountain, and you are my heir. I love you. I will find you."

Then he was gone, running to meet the Balrog, who roared a challenge when he saw the warrior with golden hair.

Blinded by tears, but knowing he would never forgive her if she did not honour his final words, Anárië made the ultimate sacrifice, the hardest choice she would ever have to make in all her life: turning in the opposite direction from the coming challenger, she ran as fast as she could, ripping her heart out, and hugging the sword close to her.

The Flame of Gondolin.

Ironic that it was named after fire when her father so favoured water. But she understood its message now. It was the flame that would keep Gondolin alive for them in their hearts.

How she managed to reach a safer vantage point, she would never know, but when she turned back the way she came, Glorfindel and his opponent were fighting on the other side of the canyon. Her husband shone like a fiery spark in the shadow of the monster. Anárië felt her heart in her throat as she watched the dance of death upon the edge, watch Glorfindel hack the monster's arm off.

They fell from the precipice together in a tangle of limbs, to the screams of those watching.

But she had known it would come to this. Glorfindel, weary as he was, despite being a great warrior, could never have survived. And yet it still hurt so badly, to see him fall, see the golden hair ripple out above him as he stretched his arms towards the sky in a final farewell.

Anárië didn't even see the eagles Manwë had finally sent to aid the Gondolindrim, didn't notice that the falling stones had ceased.

Somehow, she imagined his eyes locked with hers for the briefest of moments: so blue, so deep, so infinitely beloved.

He fell into the shadows and mists that surrounded the roots of the Encircling Mountains.

She screamed.



Atar - Quenya, father
Ammë - Quenya, mother
Altatar - Quenya, grandfather
Legolas - no, this is not the Legolas we know and love from 'The Lord of the Rings'; it is another Elf who shares the same name