Flame of Gondolin, book 1: Love Story

EPILOGUE
Autumn of the year 511, FA

It took her very little time to carefully secure the satchel she'd saved from her father's house in Gondolin.

Anárië tied one of the last knots together and fastened it, making sure nothing could fall out. But this sort of work was only for the hands – her mind was free to wander.

It was autumn now, but summer had held her in its arms, once. She'd been a laughing maid then, on the eve of her wedding. Married to Gondolin's best warrior, smiling in his hold.

That had all changed because of one power, one malice.

She did not weep for Gondolin; the city had been prophecised to fall, she'd learned that from Tuor on the way through the mountains. Turgon should have listened to the mortal man, the son of his old friend Huor.

She did not weep for her father. Ecthelion had lived a long and full life, a life that had become split when his wife had died. He had loved his daughter yes, she knew he did, but in his heart he'd yearned for Cealea. And he had gone through water, embraced by Ulmo he so loved and passed on to Mandos. He was with her mother now.

She did not weep for her husband. Glorfindel had made his choice, his own sacrifice. She could well blame him for choosing death over her, but what was one death against so many others? He had saved them all. It was hypocricy to think otherwise. And he had loved her, despite her insecurities and wild nature. It was enough to excuse him in her eyes, at least after the initial pain had passed.

The eagles had lifted his body from the chasm, and Idril had led her to him. He'd seemed so peaceful there, with his eyes closed and his features relaxed. Like he was only sleeping. Like he was not gone at all.

The others had given her some privacy, although Tuor had had to come take Eärendil away; the boy had refused to leave her side. Anárië had been grateful, for she had not wished the child to see her anguish and grief.

Two men she had loved more than anything else had perished. She was alone.

"Wait for me," the whisper seemed to embrace her. Her own words, murmured into his ear. His lips had been cold to the touch, cold and unmoving, but still soft. She could imagine the honeyed scent of his breath.

Her fingers had been numb when she worked through the fastenings of his vambraces, the design of intricate gold the only reminder of who their bearer was. After a few moments Lalaith had stepped up, her face streaked through with tears, and helped her with swift moves.

She had them on now, the vambraces. They had had to be tightened more than with her husband, for her forearms were more slender than his, and yet just wearing them she felt stronger. Closer to him. She would carry them in memory of the warrior she'd married.

One eagle had also brought his sword. This, too, Anárië had taken, slipping it back into the ornate scabbard laid with gold, swinging it over her shoulder, with the Flame of Gondolin settled on her hip.

She would not let plunderers take that lot.

They had burried him there, in the mountains, covering him with stones so that none might ever disturb his grave. The eagles helped, lowering heavy boulders upon the crude tomb. She'd been the first to turn from it and follow Idril the rest of the way.

It had been hard, she could see it now as she reflected, by the pools and in the shade of willows. Hunger had come upon them, and they had wandered long and far, for the Way of Escape, and the mountain paths, were obscure and their trails flimsy. Tuor had gotten them lost more than once, but always, he had gotten them out as well. She trusted him with her life now.

Egalmoth stood close-by to her, waiting for her to finish, she knew. Never again would a smile cross his face. Lalaith, the sweet cousin Ecthelion had loved as a sister, had been too weak and fragile to last the road. When summer had turned to autumn she'd given her last breath into her husband's kiss.

Anárië tugged impatiently on the satchel strap.

They had come to Nan-tathren weary but alive, and here they then rested for a full season. It was easy here, peaceful. But the valley of willows would always echo the laments the Gondolindrim made and sung into the night skies. Anárië suspected even Ulmo wept in his watery palace beneath the waves.

For her part, she never added her voice to song. The only song worth singing, to her, was that of the niphrendil flower that both Ecthelion and Glorfindel had counted dear to them, but that she could not, for it brought tears into Egalmoth's eyes. Lalaith had loved it well.

Eärendil had grown and matured, despite being only eight years old. The loss of so many had etched itself into his young face.

She remembered when he'd come to her, a few weeks into their stay in the valley. Blissfully happy, but obviously discontent with something. They had grown even closer during the time on the run, and Idril encouraged this bond.

So when he'd settled beside her she had put down the blanket she'd been mending, and listened to him.

Of course his choice of topic had not been the best.

"Has your father gone ahead, Anná? I cannot find him, and Atar will not tell me where he is. Perchance uncle Ecthelion has gone to find wood for my flutes?"

Such an innocent mind, she reflected, not without pain; to be tainted with such sorrow. It had taken her a moment to be able to reply without tears:

"Nay, my Prince. My father is lost to us, just like your grandfather. He has remained in Gondolin."

That had wobbled the boy's lower lip, and he'd ran from her. For the next few days he had avoided her, but after a week he returned to her side. She learned from Idril later on that he'd been mortified with himself for not guessing at once, and worried he had hurt her.

"Almost done?"

Anárië turned her head to look at Egalmoth and nodded,

"Just one last tug."

She'd stored what she held dear into the satchel, with the bag itself beind precious, because it was of Gondolin. Her hairpin, the gift of her father. The stained and tattered wedding dress, which she left as it was. The chain with the sapphire Glorfindel had given her. His cloak with celandines. Duilin's bow and set of arrows were strapped to the side, as was Glorfindel's sword.

Anárië rose; the leggings and jerkin were better than a dress when one had to move so much. Her boots had weathered through all. If only she could have saved Gwaiforn … or Gwainar.

But it was too late for that.

Lalaith's cloak came around her shoulders, with the satchel and the ornaments to her back. Her father's sword was at her hip, Tuor's knife in her boot.

"If not for the colour of your hair I would say you are Ecthelion," Egalmoth murmured as she turned to him.

She did not smile.

"I am my father's daughter, and my husband's wife – their heir. I cannot falter now. Not when we have come this far."

Her uncle inclined his head; Tuor's horn was sounded, and the refugees moved once more, after a season of hibernation.

Anárië turned her back on the valley of willows, on the Encircling Mountains and on Gondolin, on all that had been lost. She found Eärendil waiting for her, and they left together, to the sound of a lament the Gondolindrim sang again.

She did not sing, but stayed close to her uncle Egalmoth, who walked beside her. They had both lost many dear to them in the last season. And yet coming this far, they could not give up.

Eärendil saw something and ran ahead, showing it to Anárië animately.

She did not smile.