Narn I Dant Gondolin (The Tale of the Fall of Gondolin)

Narn I Dant Gondolin

Narn I Dant Gondolin

The Tale of the Fall of Gondolin

A modern adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien's epic fantasy tale

by Sam Pettus

This adaptation has been placed into the public domain under the terms of the Creative Commons License.

version 2.0 - 06/01/2010

(Original author's notes: I have removed all accent marks from the names for simplicity's sake in this online transcription. I have also made the occasional change in punctuation, captitalization, and grammatical structure from my archival text in order to aid readability. Modern pronouns such as "you" and "your" have been substituted for the archaic "thee" and "thou" whenever possible, except in cases where a lord [Turgon] or one who thinks he is a lord [Eol] addresses a person that is or is believed to be of lesser social standing. Also, the British spelling for "grey" is used throughout, as opposed to the American "gray" - personal preference.)

Introduction to the First Edition (1998 - revised)

In 1972 the father of 20th century fantasy literature passed away: James Ronald Reuel Tolkien, author of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion. With him died his dream of retelling on a grand scale a selection of the stories of the First Age of Middle-earth -- the first that he ever wrote on the subject, the same that are all-too-briefly sketched in The Silmarillion. Though in later years his son Christopher would edit and publish most of his father's notes and papers, it seemed to Tolkien fans that they would never get the chance to read the fully realized and updated versions of the early tales of Middle-earth -- those that Professor Tolkien had drafted while lying in a hospital bed during World War I. Whatever plans or designs he had for his ambitions died with him, leaving only his papers behind.

As an ardent Tolkien fan, and one particularly fond of the tales of the First Age, I shared with my fellows this loss of one of the foremost literary geniuses of our time. Where I differed from them is that I decided to do something about it. With the publication of Unfinished Tales and the twelve-volume series The History of Middle-earth, I now had at my disposal an unmatched research and reference tool from which a devoted and dogged author could strive to complete Professor Tolkien's unrealized goal: the book referenced in his writings as The Atanatarion, the never-realized supplement to The Silmarillion, comprising the second great trilogy of tales from Middle-earth. Christopher Tolkien had already paved the way with his brilliant compilation of The Silmarillion from his father's papers (and would do so again with The Children of Hurin -- ed.), so why couldn't another author do the same?

The tale you are about to read is my own adaption of the third tale in The Atanatarion - that of Tuor and the fall of Gondolin - drawn up and detailed through my own interpretation of Professor Tolkien's published papers. Its beginnings are in the 1918 manuscript The Fall of Gondolin. It was the first of the Middle-earth tales unveiled to the public (Exeter College, 1920), long before the publication of The Hobbit. After finishing The Lord of the Rings, Professor Tolkien went back and began to rewrite the three great tales of the First Age on the grand scale that he had originally conceived, but his age and various scholarly obligations meant that his ambitions went unrealized before his death. The new version of the tale of Tuor got no farther than his arrival at the city. The material that he wrote during this time, i.e. "the later Tuor" (Unfinished Tales), served as the basis for the first five chapters of my adaption. The remainder is my own effort, inspired by the original 1918 tale and other items unearthed in his other writings. "Old Barliman," as Professor Tolkien is sometimes called by his fans, would no doubt be horrified by my efforts -- but as he is no longer here to do the job, much less provide guidance, I have stumbled on as best I could. The result will soon unfold for your enjoyment.

I must confess that I am no Tolkien. Indeed, if I were to make a classical comparison, I am to Tolkien as Hesiod was to Homer -- the poor, unskilled commoner versus the gifted and trained storyteller. I have neither the training of Professor Tolkien nor his skill with pen and tongue. But like Hesiod of old, I have a deep appreciation for mythlore, and am instilled with a sense of wonder by the tales that the Homer of this particular world has shared with us. Also, I desire to share these tales anew, so that others may hear them and appreciate them, and not leave them to moulder away somewhere, forgotten by all save the scholars. It is perhaps the curse of those who love good stories, and I am as guilty of being afflicted with that curse as was Professor Tolkien, my fellow fantasy fans, and our classical forebearers throughout the ages.

I am sure that there will be many critics out there, who will accuse me of mucking about the fantastic landscape of Middle-earth, destroying the beauty of Tolkien's vision for the sake of my efforts. From you I ask for your understanding, and would point you back to the writings of Tolkien himself. My effort is but another rummage sale stall, like those described in his essay "On Fairy Stories," where you see certain things of such value that you desire to find more. It is my sincere hope that by showing you another perspective of Tolkien's world that you will be be imparted with a desire to seek out and read the original, along with the many other fantastic tales contained within The Silmarillion. That was my goal at the beginning of this effort, and I hope I have succeeded.

I would like to thank the following people for helping me in the undertaking of this extraordinary project:

Brad Taylor, for his frankness in bluntly pointing out problems with readability in my early drafts.

Alicia Stewart Helton, for serving as the physical model for Idril, and for inspiring my imagination during the difficult process of drafting the early scenes between Tuor and Idril.

Melvin Washington, Jason Sparks, Calvin Roach, and Steve Bryant, for doing me the kindness of reviewing and proofing my efforts. Your suggestions, comments, and criticisms were most welcome, and I thank you for your honesty.

Samuel Shepard of the Silmarillion Online website, for being the first to point me toward the many Tolkien resources on the World Wide Web.

Rolozo Tolkien, for posting my poem "The City of Seven Names" on their website, which came from this adaptation.

Clarice Blackburn of the Tolkien Estate, who wrote me a concise letter in response to my first adaptation (Narn I Tinuviel), explaining just what I could and could not do at the time regarding my efforts, which I found most informative.

Finally, I wish to thank Christopher Tolkien for all the hard work he has done in organizing and publishing his father's papers over the years, and especially for taking the time to write me a letter regarding my earlier effort. You were right in everything you said in your letter to me, and I now better understand and appreciate the difficulties you went through in what has for you become a lifelong effort. Thank you, sir, thank you.

Introduction to the Second Edition (2009)

Before we get started, let's get one thing straight. This is an unofficial adaptation. It was neither authorized nor approved by the Tolkien Estate, nor anybody associated or affiliated with it. It is strictly a fan effort, made by fans for fans, with no intent to infringe, etc., and all that stuff. Right. Enough of the legalities ....

I wrote this twelve years ago, not long after completing Narn I Tinuviel, in order to complete the cycle. The story cycle, that is, of the work that Professor Tolkien envisioned but never got to complete before his death: The Atanatarion, the Three Great Tales of Men in the First Age of Middle Earth. Those are, respectively, the tale of Beren and Luthien (Narn I Tinuviel), the tale of the Children of Hurin (Narn I Chin Hurin), and the tale of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin (Narn I Dant Gondolin). Unlike my adaptation of the tale of Beren and Luthien, though, I never sent a copy of this one to the Estate. I'm sure you can share in understanding my reasons, given the reaction I got to my earlier effort. As the years began to pass, though, I realized that if I didn't do something on my own, my two adaptations would become lost and never see the light of day. No author likes that. I also knew that among all of the tales of Tolkien, the tale of Gondolin is one of the most fascinating of all of his stories. It was in truth the very first Middle-earth tale ever unveiled to the public (1920), pre-dating the publication of The Hobbit by almost two decades. You can see hints and echoes of it in both that and his later work, The Lord of the Rings, and I know that Tolkien scholars will agree with me when I say that "there is a lot of Gondolin in Gondor." If any of Tolkien's early tales deserved to be updated and presented anew for modern audiences, it was this one. Tolkien himself knew this, and even started the effort, but as you know by now he never finished it before his death. All we have is what most fans know as "the later Tuor," published in Unfinished Tales; and the original tale itself, which eventually saw the light of day in The Book of Lost Tales 2.

This time around, in tackling the tale of Tuor and the fall of Gondolin, I made a conscious effort not to try to emulate Tolkien's style. I would use his works as a starting point and go from there, reworking the tale in my own words and in my own way. This was as much a matter of necessity as of practicality. Anyone who has compared these two tales knows just how different their styles are. Tolkien wrote the original during World War I, when the tales of Middle-earth were still in their formative phase, and there would be many changes, expansions, and even deletions to them in the decades to come. The "later Tuor" was written not long before his death, when his prose writing style had reached its full power, retaining the richness of detail and description of his earlier efforts while greatly improving in readability. There have been efforts to combine the two, with the most notable being the limited edition book that was released not long ago (also unauthorized, albeit permitted), but I chose not to go down that path. I wanted to maintain the same storytelling style from start to finish for both my sake and that of my readers. That meant rewriting the whole tale. Tolkien's materials would be used to provide the outline and flow of the tale, as well as key plot points and descriptions, but my imagination would be given free reign when it came to composing the rest of narrative. My goal was to tell this tale, the complete tale, from start to finish, as a continuous whole and in as entertaining a form as I could. I also tried to write it as a self-contained tale. That is to say, you should not have to know anything about the Middle-earth mythos to read and enjoy it. Anybody who has the desire to read a good story should be able to pick this up and dive right in, without knowing anything about the First Age of Middle-earth, or Tolkien's Elves, or the Dark Lord, or the Silmarils, and so on. Did I succeed? Only you can be the judge.

I hope my fellow fans who are Tolkien purists will not criticize me too greatly for some of my editorial and narrative decisions. All of these are explained in the accompanying notes. I also hope the Estate won't take offense. In the end, in comparison, I took no more liberties in my effort than Peter Jackson and his team were allowed in adapting The Lord of the Rings for the silver screen. What you do with it is your choice, as it will also be for my fellow fans. Like my earlier adaptation, this is being released into the public domain for anybody to do with as you see fit. I release any and all rights I have to it, if ever there were any. When I say anybody, I mean just that -- from the Tolkien Estate and its assignees all the way down to the lowest fan. That includes my critics, too. If you don't like what I did, you're free to change it, fix it, revise it, whatever you want to call it.

This adaptation of the tale of Gondolin now belongs to the fans. I hope you treat it well.

- Sam Pettus (1 November 2009)

Chapter 1 - The Message in the Waters

Out of the North there came a Man. He was tall, taller than any the lands had seen. His clothes, although worn and travel-stained, were well kept and mended. Likewise were his boots and great cloak, which bore the marks of long use on hard roads. He carried a large pack on his back, and both a bow and full quiver of arrows were slung alongside. In his right hand he carried a mid-sized spear, carved with runes of the North, held loosely yet ready to hurl at a moment's need. His countenance was grim despite his fair face, and he heeded not the breezes that whipped his fair hair about his head.

Night fell before the Man stopped to make camp, beside the waters of the river that he had been following now for some days. He built a small fire with what kindling he could find, then sat down beside it, basking in its warmth. He removed his pack and sat it down near the fire, checking the gear and provisions inside. He had journeyed for many days, and did not know how far he had yet to go. When he finished, he gathered some more wood for the fire, then wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down nearby, resting his head on his pack. He watched the fire for a time, his mind racing back across the long days that had marched by under the Northern skies.

He had left the land of his birth -- the land where his father and mother had once lived. He had never known his mother. She had died not long after he was born, grieving for his father. (1) He had never known his father. He had been slain in the Battle of the Nirnaeth, covering the retreat of Turgon the Elven-king. The Grey-elves of Hithum had taken him in and raised him, as they hid from the Eastrons in the caves of Androth, in the northern hills of Dor-lomin. (2) The Eastrons, who were allies of the Dark Lord, had taken over the land after the Nirnaeth, enslaving his father's people and oppressing them. His father's folk were hard beset, and the Elves would not let him go back to live the rest of his days in thralldom and slavery. For that matter, they dared not leave the mountains. The Eastrons hated the white-fiends, as they called the Elves, and preferred to kill them on sight whenever they came across them.

He had grown up among the Elves as the foster-son of their leader Annael: the only elven-warrior of their folk to return from the Nirnaeth. He had learned from them all they would teach, and remained hidden with them until his sixteenth year. At that time, they had decided to abandon the caves of Androth and flee to their kindred in the South. He had bitter memories of that terrible night, when the Orcs and Eastrons came and surprised them on the road. All the Elves were slain or scattered, but he alone was saved. The captain of the Eastrons had seen that he was no Elf, and had taken him prisoner instead.

Lorgan. That was his name. It was Lorgan who had taken him captive, and Lorgan who had put to death those Elves that lay wounded on the road. He had been made Lorgan's thrall, and forced to labor under the fell eye and heavy whip of his master. Lorgan was chieftan of the Eastrons, and had claimed the sturdy youngster for his own service, tormenting him with tasks fit only for beasts. He had learned the lore of the Elves well, though, and bided his time, going about his many labors without complaint, waiting for the chance for freedom if and when it arose. He fared better than most, since he was strong and skillful. Lorgan fed his beasts of burden well, while they were young and could still work.

After three years of captivity, there had come a day when he was sent into the forest to cut wood for the coming winter. He was taller and swifter than his captors, being almost full-grown to manhood, but they did not worry. He had been a tame thrall all this time, always doing as he was told without muttered curses or sullen stares. Indeed, they trusted him so much that they let him carry the axe he was to use -- and that was their undoing. The wielding of an axe in battle was one of the many skills Annael had taught the boy in his youth. Once they were deep in the forest, he had turned on his guards and slew them.

He fled into the hills after that, and Lorgan pursued him, sending out his hounds to run him down as they would any other thrall fleeing captivity. The hounds of Lorgan were his friends, though, for he had been kind to them in his captivity. Because of this, whenever they found him or caught up with him, they would merely fawn at his feet. He would then pet them or scratch their bellies, and at his word would run back to his pursuers without giving him away. Thus he escaped the Eastrons, and after many days of stealthy journey made his way back to the caves of Androth, now a hunted outlaw in the land of his foes.

His life after that was hard, and ever did the Eastrons seek to capture and slay him, but in vain. In his youth he had learned his woodcraft well, for the wild was unforgiving, and after many days the Eastrons finally gave up the hunt. He then lived alone in the mountains as an outlaw for the next four years, slaying all who sought him. Not even the rich bounty of gold that Lorgan eventually set on his head was enough for any Eastron to seek death at the hands of the white-fiend boy.

In the long months that followed his escape, he searched all the lands about seeking any other Elves that might have remained after the Nirnaeth. He found none, for they were all slain or fled, or scattered too far and wide throughout the mountains for him to find them. He would have spoken to the survivors of his people if he could, but he could not come to them for the Eastrons. He was utterly alone, bereft of friend or kin. Thus he remained in the forsaken home of his foster-folk at Androth. He dwelt there unchallenged, for none of the Eastrons dared to walk in the places where once the white-fiends had made their abode.

Four years passed after his escape from thralldom, and he grew weary of the land. Dor-lomin was home to him no more, for none lived there now save his enemies. Always did he seek a way to depart, but the ways over the mountains were watched, and he could find no safe pass through which to leave. There was only one way open out of the land, but it only lead to the rest of Hithlum, and all of that region was held firm under the iron hand of Morgoth. The Grey-elves had once spoke of a secret way, the Gate of the Noldor, that would lead to freedom in the south, but he had never found it. What they knew was lost on that dreadful day seven years ago, and he had never found any more Elves to help him. He had searched for it in vain for the past four years, yet he still remained firm in his resolve to someday find it, and escape forever the rule of the Dark Lord of the North.

There had come a night when he sat before the mouth of the caves of Androth by a spring that ran nearby. He drew his water from that spring, and the sound of its flowing had always pleased him, its splashings sweet music to his ears. He had spent many a night there in his solitude, listening to its gurgling as it raced down the hillside to join with the other streams of Dor-lomin. At times he half-fancied it sang to him, words in some unknown tongue that stirred his heart. He did not know how to read them, or if indeed they were real; but the voice of the stream was one of the few comforts that he had in his lonely abode. On that night he had drawn forth his harp, a homemade affair whose making he had learned from the Elves. The Powers had granted him the gift of music at birth, and it was one of the few comforts he had in that place. Looking westward towards the cloudy sunset, he had cried, "I long to leave the land of my kin, and wander here no more. But how can I leave, if I cannot find the Gate?" With that he had struck a chord, and then sang a song to cheer his gloomy mood: a song that the Grey-elves had taught him for the uplifting of hearts. (3)

It was while he was still playing that it happened. As he finished his song, he saw the waters of the stream leap out of their banks before him, a silver-blue crest rising about knee's height from the ground. They moved before his astonished eyes to the far bank and then fell, splashing over and cutting a new course down the hillside. He sat there astounded, his fingers still hovering over his harp, for he had stopped in mid-chord as the stream had jumped its banks. He watched the noisy stream as it danced down the rocky slope, and listened to its song. It seemed that its voice had changed; it did not sing to him as before. This time, the waters spoke in low but clear words, repeating the same phrase over and over again: "Go west."

He knew not what it meant, but took it as a sign from the Powers. The next morning he gathered his gear, then left the caves of Androth, never to return again. He followed the new course of the stream as it made its way down the slope -- and from there, he knew not where.

The stream now flowed northwest until it joined up with a small river, flowing westward, that came around the northern spur of the mountains. It was the only river that flowed out of distant Lake Mithrim and not into it. He then turned and followed the river as it cut westward across the northern plain of Dor-lomin. It grew in size and voice as he journeyed, until it became a rushing torrent; but still he followed it, trusting in the message in the waters: "Go west."

After two days of travel, he came to lands he had never walked before. Above him in the west, growing ever larger, was a line of grey rock -- a tall ridge of mountain peaks that stretched across the whole of the western horizon. The river seemed to be making for a great cluster of rock in the center of the ridge before him. It then came to him that there he might find a pass, though as yet he could see none. If the river had found its way through the rocks, then so could he. He spent that night in a small grove not far from its waters, and in his dreams he could still hear the words that the river sang: "Go west."

On the third day, the mountains loomed large before him. The ground had become rocky and sloped upward, and the river now ran in a deep cleft. He found it hard going now to keep beside it, and at times he had to wade through the river for lack of a path, picking his way carefully across its slippery bed and swiftly moving rapids. The rock walls grew ever higher on either side, and at that his hope arose; for it was a sure sign that the river had cut its way through the ridge above him. Then he rounded a great bend in the river that turned southwest -- and before his eyes his hope was foiled.

Before him loomed a solid rock wall that completely filled the end of the gorge cut by the riverbed. The river had never cut its way across the mountains, but under them instead. It ran right up to the rock wall, then under a wide yet low arch of water-worn stone and was lost to the eye. It seemed from the waterlines on the rocks that the flow of the water had been higher before, but now the river was low, and flowed under the arch about two armlengths beneath its crest. He could see nothing in the darkness of the cavern beyond, but could hear the sound of the rushing water, as it passed under the water-worn arch and was then lost from sight.

"My hope has cheated me," he said to himself, and sighed. "So much for trusting to signs and portents. Now I am worse off than before, and will doubtless come to a dark end here, deep in the land of my enemies." In a deep gloom, he did not notice that his weary feet led him up worn and broken steps carved in the rock of the riverbank, and he clambered onto the high rocks south of the river. He sat staring at the swiftly moving waters through the sleepless watches of the night, ignoring the cold wind that bore the last breath of winter across the Northern lands.

The grey light of the morning sun found him seated still before the riverbank. He stared dejectedly at the end of the gorge before him. He could now see the ancient pathway, its broken stones leading down the high rocks to the water's edge and into them. It seemed to mock him, teasing him with signs of a people who had once lived near but were now long gone, abandoning the river that had once served their needs. He was of half a mind to turn around, and try to follow the other end of the path back out of the gorge, when he thought he heard a faint splashing sound inside the cave, making its way out of the darkness towards its mouth. Fearing that it might be some Eastron scout or bounty hunter, he stood up and raised his spear, aiming for the mouth of the cave.

To his utter amazement two Elves splashed through the archway into the open waters of the river gorge. They were clad in light mail, with grey cloaks and helms, and were making their way through water above their waist. Almost at once they saw him standing on the riverbank and quickly drew their swords, then with amazing speed made their way towards him. In spite of his peril he marveled at them, for these were both fairer and more fell to look upon, because of the light of their eyes, than any Elves he had yet seen. Then a memory of days past came back to him, and he sat once again before Annael and the wise-women of his people, learning the lore of the Grey-elves.

"There are many other kindreds of the Elves," they had told him, "but greatest of all are the High-elves of the West -- the Noldor, as they call themselves. You will know them when you see them, for they are greater than any of us, and in their eyes shines the Light of the West."

The memory faded, and he was once again at the riverbank. The two Elves were almost to the stone stairs, and the sunlight glistened on the blades they bore. "These are High-elves!" he thought to himself. "What are they doing in this forsaken place?" At once he laid down his spear, and called to them in the tongue of the Grey-elves. "Hail and well-met, Children of the West! Ai na vendui, Eldalie! Mae govannen!"

The two Elves stopped and looked at each other in wonder, surprised at being greeted by the stranger in the Grey-elven tongue. When they saw him lay down his spear and stand before them with open hands, they sheathed their swords, and soon joined him on the high rocks.

"Ai na vendui, Adan!" the taller of the two replied, "Greetings! Forgive our surprise, but we did not expect to meet with anyone friendly with the Elven-folk on our long journey through these lands, much less one who speaks the Elven-tongue. This is a marvel indeed!" He spoke courteously, as did the other, after the manner of the High-elves.

"I am Gelmir, and this is Arminas," said the shorter, pointing to his companion, and they bowed in greeting. "We are Noldor of the House of Finarfin, journeying from the lands to the south. But unless I miss my mark, you must be one of the Elf-friends of old that dwelt in these lands before the Nirnaeth. Indeed, I deem you to be one of the people of Hador, for so your fair hair marks you."

"Your aim is true," said the Man, and he bowed in return. "Hador Golden-head was my great-grandfather. I am Tuor, son of Huor of the House of Hador. No doubt you know my father's tale as well as that of my sire, from the days when the House of Hador once ruled this land; but now I wander alone as a homeless outlaw, desiring only to leave by the quickest and shortest route."

"The valor of Huor is still held in awe in the South," said Gelmir, "and it seems that you take after him in both speech and bearing. Yet if you wish to journey south, then you need look no farther; for already your feet trod upon the right road."

"So I had thought," said Tuor, looking at the cave into which the river flowed and from where the Elves had come. "I followed a newborn stream that flowed before my humble abode in the hills, until it joined with this treacherous river. I had hoped that it would lead me to a pass through the western fences of Hithlum, but here I was halted, and had no desire to dare unseen dangers in the darkness beyond. Yet it seems that there must be some path there, if you came through unharmed."

The Elves nodded. "Through darkness one may come to the light," said Gelmir.

"Yet one will walk under the light while one may," said Tuor, then a thought struck him. "Since you are here, and you are High-elves, then perhaps you can tell me. Where may I find the Gate of the Noldor? I have sought for it for many years, ever since the Grey-elves who once harbored me in these lands whispered of it, but the Eastrons slew them before I could learn the way."

The Elves laughed, and Arminas said, "Your search is over, friend. We have just passed through the Gate. There it lies before you." He gestured back towards the river, and Tuor looked to where he pointed.

Before him was the gorge and the cave mouth into which the river ran. Tuor studied it for a moment, then discerned that the stone steps he had stumbled up the night before went some way out into the river. Through its clear waters, in the light of day, he could now now see that they led to a submerged walkway that ran under the south side of the arch and disappeared in the gloom beyond. It had been this water-covered path that the Elves were walking upon when they had come out of the cave before him. It also now seemed to him that the cave itself was not natural, but had also once been shaped by cunning hands in days long past, much as the stone stairs had, though both bore the marks of long years and ruin. Only the water path seemed intact, covered as it was by the river. Had he not known for what to look he would not have seen it. (4) Tuor shook his head. "I would not have known this was the Gate, had you not shown me. I was ready to turn back and leave, taking this for some old water-drawing place abandoned long ago."

"Our kindred of old made this path in less evil days," said Gelmir. "In that time it was well known, and was used to travel between Hithlum and Nevrast in the south. The shifting of the river has no doubt confused the memories of many. We did not expect to find it covering the last steps of our way into these lands."

"Few of the rivers of Hithlum run in their courses of old these days," said Tuor. "The Grey-elves said that in Beren's day fire rained down from the sky, cast after him in the Dark Lord's rage, and both land and water suffered greatly." He stopped speaking, and the two Elves looked at him strangely. Tuor felt somewhat uncomfortable, as their penetrating gaze seemed to reach into his innermost soul; then just as quickly it was over, and they beckoned him to follow them.

"Come now!" said Arminas. "Through darkness you will come to the light. We will set your feet on the road, but we cannot guide you far. We were sent to these lands by our lord on an urgent errand."

Tuor still looked anxious, but the Elves smiled. "Fear not," said Gelmir, "for a great doom is written on your brow, son of Huor, and it shall lead you far from these lands -- far indeed from Middle-earth, I deem."

He followed the High-elves down the steps and back into the river. Its waters were cold and fast, and the submerged stones slimy beneath his feet, but with some care he stayed on the water path as it led under the arch. They passed into the shadows beyond the cave mouth, and now he heard a rushing sound, which grew louder as they waded deeper into the darkness, until it was hard to see about him. Suddenly the shadows were driven away and the inside of the cave lit with a brilliant blue light. From under his cloak Gelmir had brought out one of the gem-lamps of the Noldor, of which many a tale has been told. The art of their making was devised in Valinor by Feanor, the master craftsman of the Elves, and this had been the greatest of his works that he taught his fellow High-elves, before his pride overtook him and the dark days claimed him. They were shaped as lanterns set with white crystals hung in a fine chain net, shining with an imperishable flame. Neither wind nor water could quench them, and the damp stones of the cave and the surface of the waters glistened in the fierce gleam of that clear blue light. (5) Gelmir held the gem-lamp above his head, and before them Tuor saw the river begin to go suddenly down into a great tunnel. On the southern side of the cave a long flight of stairs led out of the river, as had the others in the gorge, save that these were in good shape and not broken. They ended at a high ledge that ran above their heads to the far end of the cave, where there was a man-sized opening leading into a deep gloom beyond the beam of the lamp.

They left the river, walking up the stairs onto the ledge, and then passed through the dark opening. The blue light of the gem-lamp showed a comfortable passage cleanly carved through the rock, beyond which was a great rushing sound. They came through the passage, and now stood under a great dome of rock. Beside them the river rushed over a steep fall, its cascades echoing within the enclosed space of the vault, bathing their faces in spray and making it hard to hear. Below the fall the river flowed on, passing under another low arch into another tunnel. The carven path followed it well above the water's edge, leading to yet another passageway to one side of the second tunnel.

Beside the fall the Elves halted, moving close to Tuor so they could be heard above the roaring of the waters, and bid him farewell. "We must leave you now and return to our errand with great speed," said Gelmir. "Matters of great peril are moving throughout the lands."

"Is this the hour when Turgon will come forth?" said Tuor.

The Elves looked at him in amazement. "What know you of Turgon?" said Arminas. "This is a matter that concerns the Noldor, not Men."

"I know little, save that which I was taught in my youth," said Tuor. "I know that my father saved him from ruin in the battle of the Nirnaeth. I know that he escaped to his stronghold somewhere in Beleriand. There, it is said, lies the last hope of your people." He looked at the waters rushing by. "I do not know why, but ever since my youth the name of Turgon stirs my heart, and would often come unbidden to my lips. If I had my way, I would seek him out rather than tread this dark way of dread." Then a thought came to him. "Perhaps this secret way is the road that leads to his fastness?"

"Perhaps," said Arminas. "Who can say? He and his people remain hidden, and so do the paths to his domain. I do no know where they are, though I have searched for them long. Yet even if I knew I would not reveal them to you, nor to any among Men."

"Yet it may be that your ways will lead you to Turgon in the end," said Gelmir. "I have heard that the House of Hador has the favor of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, whose river you follow even now. If Ulmo's counsels lead you to Turgon, then you will surely find him, no matter where your path takes you. Now follow the road to which his waters have brought you from the hills, and fear not! You shall not walk long in darkness. Farewell!" The two Elves bowed, then walked back towards the upper opening, taking the gem-lamp with them.

"One last thing," said Arminas, almost shouting, as he stood with Gelmir before the passageway and above the roaring fall. "No meeting is by chance, especially here in the wild. The Dweller in the Deep moves many things in these lands still, and this may not be the last favor he shows you. Anar kaluva tielyanna! May the sun shine upon your path!" With that the Elves turned and went back up the path leading towards the cave-mouth, leaving Tuor behind as the darkness closed around him. (6)

Tuor stood there, watching the light of the gem-lamp growing ever dimmer as it moved away, a fading blue gleam in a sea of gloom, until it was lost from sight. He was alone in the dark, surrounded by a night so black that he could not see his hand held just before his face. All about him was the rushing sound, the echoes from the roaring waters of the nearby fall.

He had not moved from where he stood when the Elves said their farewells, so he judged the wall of the tunnel to be on his right but an arm's reach away. Slowly, he reached out with his right hand, and soon found the cold rock to his side where he thought it would be. He then carefully turned around, his left hand now the one on the rock-wall, and began to move down the passageway. His hand never left the cold stone beside him, and he felt his footfalls before stepping down, fearing some hidden obstacle or sudden turn in his path. There was no way to tell how long he went on like this, moving straight and down following a slight slope, until the path gave way to another series of stone stairs evenly spaced. By this time his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, although he still could not see. He had found nothing to hinder his path and guessed there would not be, made as it was by the High-elves in days long gone. He now sped up to a slow yet steady walk; however, his hand remained on the rock-wall beside him.

He walked down the stairs for a long time -- how long, he could not guess. The river was ever present as his only companion, for its noisy waters still ran beside him. Whether it was the echo of some faint magic left behind by the High-elves or some other power in the river, he fancied seeing the glint from the tips of its waves from time to time, coursing down that dark channel beside him. Whether it was for real or some trick of fancy, it was the first light of any kind he had seen since the gem-lamp had been taken away, and he was grateful for it. He sped up his pace somewhat, though he was weary, for he did not want to stop and rest. He marched wearily on, following the roaring of the river and the faint glint of its waters, flowing ever downward to some unseen end in the darkness beyond.

After what seemed like hours of endless walking, he finally saw a dim light growing in the gloom before his weary feet. He hurried forward as fast as he dared, and it was not long before he found himself standing in the opening of a tall and narrow cleft. The noisy waters of the river passed under the leaning walls at the head of the cleft and fell into a deep ravine with tall and sheer sides, flowing towards the setting sun in the west. He had come out into a golden evening, and the fire of the sunset kindled the walls of the ravine into a glittering yellow blaze. Below, the waters of the river shone like gold as they broke and foamed upon the many gleaming stones scattered throughout the riverbed.

With newfound hope and delight Tuor followed a well-marked path into the ravine, leading along its southward wall upon a long and narrow strand. He walked on as night fell until he came to a small bar where the waters twisted, and the debris of the river was piled against its eastern side. He made his camp there as the river rushed by unseen, save for a glint of stars high above mirrored in its dark pools. There he rested and slept, for he felt no fear beside the waters of the river, in which the power of Ulmo ran unseen.

Out of the North there came a Man, and beyond the mountains he passed. Into lands he had never seen came Tuor son of Huor, not the least of those who still lived of the House of Hador. He lay asleep now beside the smoldering embers of the fire, his slumbering face turned towards the river flowing by in the darkness. Its running waters sang to him, as had the stream of old, and a vision he had seen often came unbidden into his dreams that night.

He dreamed that he was standing on a sandy beach, looking across a green plain towards a mighty mountain range, the highest and largest he had ever known. Right before him ran a great cleft, as if cut through the rocks with a single stroke by some giant blade in ages past. From the far end of the cleft came a shimmering glow, filling the canyon and rising into the sky above. Its radiance fell upon a great city of white stone set upon a hill in the midst of the cleft, the fairest he had ever seen. A presence came up and stood beside him as he gazed speechless at that beautiful sight, and he turned as if to speak. Before he could catch even a glimpse of his unseen companion, the vision faded -- and it was day once again. (7)

Chapter 2 - Journey Through The Past

The rising sun found Tuor refreshing himself in the cool waters of the river. For the first time since his days with the Grey-elves he had slept in peace. He now felt at ease, relaxed and unworried. His foes were behind him now, penned behind the mountains in the east, and new lands and adventures lay before him in the west. He put on his pack, donned his cloak, and as before followed his only companion on the road ahead: Ulmo's river, singing softly as it flowed beside him on its way to the sea.

Tuor continued to follow the elven-path at a leisurely pace as it wound its way alongside the river. The further he went, the deeper the ravine grew and steeper the rock walls climbed on either side, widening somewhat as the river grew broad and strong. The sun rose over the heights behind his head, and set in the mouth of the ravine ahead, and so passed his day on the westward road.

The waters of the river foamed as they splashed among the boulders or rushed over sudden falls. Both at sunrise and sunset he saw rainbows shimmering over the river, woven into the airs upon the mists above its rushing waters. It was this that caused him to name his path the Rainbow Cleft, or Cirith Ninnach in the Elven-tongue. He did not know if that was its true name, or even if the ravine had one, but somehow it seemed right and proper. Ever after it was known as the Rainbow Cleft in the songs made of those days long ago.

For the next three days Tuor followed the river as it wound its way through the growing ravine. It was full of fish; for it was the time of the spring runs, when they would leave their breeding grounds on the long journey to the Sea. He could see great numbers of them, gleaming silver as they swam about the boulders of the stream, their shimmering coats ablaze in an array of colors whenever they would leap over the many rapids set before them. His scanty provisions remained inside his pack, but neither did he avail himself of the multitude of fish. He instead contented himself with the cool waters of the river. In its draughts he found refreshment enough to satisfy him.

The ravine grew wider on the fourth day of his journey through the Rainbow Cleft, and its walls were now not so sheer. Nevertheless the river ran deep and wide, as it was joined by a number of streams flowing down from the hills lining either side of the cleft, adding to its waters. Tuor made camp early that day, for in the afternoon he came to a place where there was a great beach on the southern bank. It was on an outcropping of rock paved with sand, which ran for some ways down the widening river, nigh to the inflow of a large stream from the southern wall of the ravine. He took off his pack but gathered no kindling. Warmth had come with the return of spring, and night-fires were no longer needed.

Tuor sat on the edge of the rock, watching the river roll past. He took off his boots, letting his weary feet soak in the cool waters before him. To his left, the waters of the stream swirled in confusion as they flowed beside the rock, as if struggling in vain to flee the unyielding grasp of the river pulling them down from the rock wall. Birds sang in the trees and scrub on either side of the ravine. Now and again squirrels would appear, scampering warily across the rocks and boughs as the warmth of spring stirred them from their long winter slumber. Night came at last, and the stars shone cold and white in the dark line of sky running above his gaze Tuor leaned back and pulled his harp from his pack, then tuned it to the sound of the rushing waters and the soft whisper of the night breeze. He then struck a chord, and lifted his voice in song, words coming to him unbidden as he plucked the strings of his harp.

The sound of Tuor's music seemed to rise above the noise of the river, as it echoed about the hills. The low tones of his voice and the sweet trilling of his harp danced in the airs from one rock-wall to the other, until it seemed that all the land was awake with the sound of his song. Tuor stopped, but sat and listened as the echoes rolled on, becoming confused as they bounced among the rocks, until all was silent again.

Tuor made as if to put away his harp, but even as he did so a new sound arose, one that struck a chord deep in his heart. It sounded as if the hills were host to a mournful cry that had long been trapped there -- the pitiful remnant of a lost soul wailing in sorrow. He listened, for he had never heard such a cry before, and knew not from what creature it came. "It is a fay voice," he said to himself at first, but as its echoes rolled on, he said, "No, it is but a small beast wailing in the waste." The echoes died, and he was just about to get up when he heard it again. This time it was louder than before, and directly over him. Tuor looked up, but saw only a black shape passing overhead down the cleft towards the west, flying high above the rock walls. "Surely this is the cry of some nightfaring bird I know not," he said, as the shape passed away in the darkness.

He lay back on his cloak, meditating on the bird call. It seemed to him as if it were a sigh of sorrow clear and profound; yet it awoke in him a longing that he had never known before, a desire for something that still remained hidden from him, just beyond his grasp. He did not where the strange bird was going, but resolved that on the morrow he would follow in its wake. Only then could he find out to whence it had flown.

When Tuor awoke the next morning, daylight shone down through the cleft, bathing the rocks in a reddish glow. The sun was up, but not yet high enough to be seen above the eastern heights. He quickly gathered his things and resumed his journey along the path down the foot of the southern rock wall. It was just as well, for it was heading in the direction to where the bird had flown the night before. He had not been long upon the path when he again heard the voice of the nightbird above his head, its mournful sound drifting down into the cleft. Tuor looked up, and saw three white birds of a kind he had never seen before flying down the ravine against the breezes of the western winds. They were larger than songbirds, yet smaller than hawks. They had long, yellow bills, and their strong wings were spred wide, showing great white feathers tipped in grey. He ran down the path after them, trying to keep them in sight, but even flying into the wind they were already far ahead of him.

Tuor came to a place where there was a branch in the path, with another way running to the left up hewn stairs leading up the south wall of the cleft. He now took to this new path, desiring only to gain the heights and thereby marking where the birds were going before he lost them. He sprinted up the steep steps, and stood at last panting on the top of the rock wall, looking west towards the three birds as they faded from sight. As he stood there, watching the birds fly away, he felt a great gust of wind out of the west hit him in the face, whipping his hair and clothes about him. It had a strange scent to it, a bittersweet taste both tangy and yet breathtaking. He took a deep breath, and its airs seemed to fill him with newfound zest and joy.

"This uplifts my heart like the drinking of new wine!" Tuor exclaimed, and then took another deep breath. "It must come from where the white birds flew. What wonders await me there, to send such refreshing draughts to me here? My heart is stirred as it never has been -- I must see what lies ahead." He breathed deeply again and sighed, then resumed his journey once more, following the top of the southern rock wall as best he could.

Tuor picked his way among the rocks and scrub that lined the edge of the rock wall. It was hard going, for there was no path up here for him to follow. He could see the old path far below in the ravine, whose sides had now grown close together again. The river now sped noisily in a narrow channel, deep and fast, with the old elven-path winding its way precariously along the foot of the southern cliff right next to the troubled waters. It was still an easier road than that he trod now, but there was no safe way down save the stairs, and they were now far behind him.

A sudden gust of wind bore down on him, so strong that Tuor had to kneel down and grip the rocks about him. He heard a roaring sound coming from the ravine. Carefully, he managed to rise enough to look over the side, and saw a great wall of water driven by the wind coming up the cleft at great speed. The waters climbed the sides of the ravine ever higher as the cleft narrowed, coming almost to the clifftops, crowned with foamcrests dancing in the wind. Then the wall of water broke and fell as the wind died down, dragging down many rocks with it on both sides of the ravine. The sound of the rolling boulders was like thunder as the falling waters sought the riverbed once again.

Tuor stared in dismay at the bottom of the ravine. Part of the old elf-path was gone, buried under the falling rocks. Had he stayed down there -- but no, he had not. The call of the strange white birds had saved his life. Had he remained on the path in the ravine, and not climbed up to follow them, he would surely be dead by now, drowned in the waves or crushed by the rocks. The thought of another such surge disturbed him; so he turned away and abandoned the cleft, leaving the strange tumults of the river behind.

Tuor wandered south and west in a country bare of trees, swept by the strange winds from the west. They blew long and strong, ever eastward, and never ceased. All that grew in that rugged land, every herb and bush, leaned towards the dawn because of those winds. He traveled by day, keeping behind a low ridge of rocks far to his right which seemed to break the worst of the winds, and camped at night in such shelter as he could find. He supped sparingly, for he had yet to see any game or fresh water in this barren land.

It was his search for water that caused him to reflect on events in the ravine. He once again thought of the birds, and the stairs, and the wall of water. He now realized something that his eyes had seen but he had not thought about at the time. The rock-fall caused by the wall of water was not the first that had come upon the elven-path. He now realized that there had been signs of other such rock-falls, and there had even been a break in the path beyond. The stairs had been put there by the Elves of old for that reason. Whatever path of theirs had once led above the ravine had long since been lost to the wild, but that did not matter. The stairs were what had mattered. It suddenly struck him that he had been guided to those stairs. He would have ignored them, being off his path as they were, but for the birds -- and that was what had saved his life. "It is another sign," Tuor said, smiling to himself. "I am still on the right road." He bent his head as another blast of wind hit him, and then trudged on.

Several days later found Tuor still journeying across that bleak and windswept land. By this time, he was within walking distance of the western ridge. At first he started to turn and follow it southward, keeping it between him and the winds; but then turned again and made straight for the ridge. The look of the land had not changed all this time, and that was what had caused Tuor to mount the ridge. He wanted to see what lay beyond. After much effort, he finally reached its top near the end of day -- and then stood there, staring in wonder at what lay on the other side.

The black rocks on the other side of the ridge fell sharply down to a long, sandy beach that stretched beyond its cliffs to either side as far as the eye could see. Beyond the sand was the greatest expanse of water Tuor had ever seen. It washed up and down upon the sandy shore, and stretched across the horizon until it was lost from sight. The bittersweet smell Tuor had sensed before was in the air again, but this time it was full and strong. Above the waters, the strange white birds danced and wheeled, hovering in the winds and singing their mournful songs. Before him lay the Sundering Sea, Belegaer the Great, known to him before only in the songs of the Grey-elves in the days of his youth.

The sighing of the waves upon the rocks and sandy shores was like no song he had ever heard. It was as if the melodies of all the waters he had ever heard in his life were but part of some greater song that was now revealed to him in full. He continued to stand there, watching as the sun sank below the horizon, heeding not the return of the stiff, salt-flavored breeze, listening to the deep-throated song of the waves on the shore and the high-pitched wailing of the birds in the air. At long last the sun touched the horizon, and it seemed as if the rim of the world was lit by a mighty fire, its red blaze dancing upon the crests of the waters below. As time passed and he watched the sun set, it sank until its rim fell just below the waters at the end of sight. There was a sudden green flash that ran from the sunken sun to both ends of the horizon -- then it was gone, and the purple glow of twilight filled the skies. (10)

Tuor stood on the cliff above the shore in the growing darkness, and lifted up his arms in tribute to the beauty he had just witnessed. A great yearning filled his heart, for he was lost in the music of the Sea. His new-found desire within him to go upon it was stronger than anything he had ever known, even more than the dreams of Turgon and the white city that had followed him from youth. It is said that he was the first of mortal Men to look upon the Great Sea; and that none, save the Elves, have ever felt more deeply the longing that it brings.

Tuor decided to stay in this strange new land near the Sea and wander no more. A day's journey south it became a pleasant place. It was milder than Hithlum, and shielded from the cold winds of the North by the Echoing Mountains. He dwelt there alone, for the land was empty of any folk of any kind. No Man or Elf, nor any creature of Morgoth, had walked there for untold years. He was untroubled in his solitude, though. He had lived alone ever since escaping the Eastrons, and it did not bother him as it might have others in the wild.

He spent his days seeing the sights and exploring the ways of his new home. There was no lack of food, for spring had come in full, and much was there to be found in growing things and fresh game. The air was full of the noise of birds returning with the season, and they flocked to their nesting places by the seashore or in the inland marshes. These ringed a great mere which seemed to lay at the center of that land. For a time he tried to reach its heart, but soon gave up fighting his way through the mire and muck, and instead returned to the coast. The call of the waves still held him spellbound, so instead he turned to exploring the ridge that ran north along the seashore. He had bypassed that part of the land during his earlier journey, and it promised easier exploring than did the inland marshes. Tuor was not disappointed, for it was there that he found the village. (9)

Not far from the wind-swept rocks he had come upon the remains of an ancient path. It was like that which had led him down the Rainbow Cleft. It was the first sign he had seen that people had once lived in this land. Its traces grew stronger the farther north and seaward it ran. Tuor followed it until he came to a way leading up and over the ridge in a series of weather-worn stairs, still quite usable. It descended into a small cove sheltered by the rocks of the cliffs towering above it. Nestled within the cove were the remains of a village: several dozen buildings and walls in various stages of decay, several small piles of rubble and wind-blown flotsam, and the ruin of several rotting fishing boats drawn up on the nearby shore and left there long ago.

He explored the village. There was not much to see, but what he found intrigued him. Whoever had lived there had abandoned it ages ago. The ruin that he saw was not from war, but was the work of wind and weather over countless years. Most of the stone buildings had collapsed, leaving behind ruined walls and lone corners. Only a handful were still standing, and all but two of these were roofless. They had been the closest to the shelter of the cliffs. The larger of the two had a roof of rotted wood that had all but fallen in, but the smaller was in better shape and its roof did not sag. This was the first that he explored. He found nothing, but judged its roof still sturdy enough to repair and dwell within. He removed his pack and set it inside along with most of his gear, save his spear and knife, then went to the larger building.

It seemed to have been a hall of some sort. It reminded him strongly of Lorgan's great hall, where the Eastron chieftain had held his feasts. There was nothing inside save the refuse of the wind and pieces of broken beam from the almost-fallen roof. No furniture, no furs or hides, no metalcraft -- nothing. All the niches in the wall were bare, and only holes in the floor marked where once the spit for the cooking-fire had stood. One thing was clear to Tuor. Whoever had lived here had planned their going, and had taken everything that might have been useful in their new home. He knelt by the old firepit, looking around that forsaken hall, and his thoughts wandered to the caves of Androth once again.

Annael stood with the young Tuor at the mouth of the cave, holding his arm just above the elbow. The boy had tried to leave yet again. The Elf-warrior knew what was racing through his mind: the sorrows and sufferings of his people under the whips of their oppressors. Annael shared them too, but restrained him nonetheless.

"Please let me go!" Tuor pleaded. "Please let me avenge my people!"

"I forbid it," said Annael firmly. He made the boy turn around, then took the axe from his hands. "You will accomplish nothing by rash deeds, son of Huor." He then took Tuor's bow, then handed both the bow and axe to a Grey-elf that stood nearby. At a nod from Annael the other Elf bowed and departed, leaving the two alone.

Tuor stood for a moment after Annael released him, then slumped against one side of the mouth of the cave. He sank down, his back against the wall, tears of rage filling his eyes. He barely heard Annael's calm voice. "I know what you feel, believe me. My people also suffer the malice of the Dark Lord and his folk, but listen to me. Now is not the time for vengeance, foster-son. You have grown mighty and strong for one of your folk despite your youth, and are skilled in all the ways of combat I have taught you, but you have not yet reached your full potential. Not yet. I would not have you struck down this way, attempting some senseless deed that would result only in your certain death."

"Then what am I to do?" Tuor shot back. His inner turmoil was all too clear to the Elf-warrior. "My heart grows hot whenever I see how the Eastrons oppress my people, and yet must I hide here in darkness, while they suffer in thralldom?!"

"One man alone can avail nothing, Tuor," said Annael. He was still speaking calmly, yet there was a note of compassion in his voice. "You must not let your feelings sway your judgement. In time you might return and be able to fulfill your vengeance, but not yet. And even if such were possible, I deem it would be for naught."

Tuor pondered this for a moment. He then stood up, and joined Annael at the mouth of the cave. The Elf-warrior was staring across the darkened lands, his eyes going someplace where Tuor's could not follow. It was then that the import of Annael's words hit him. "In time?" he asked.

"Yes," said Annael, turning and looking at him. "In but a few days we will leave this place and flee to the South. I would that you come with us, foster-son. Far from Hithlum lies your doom, Man of the House of Hador."

"But what about the People of Hador?"

Annael shook his head. "Hithlum will not be freed from the yoke of the Dark Lord until he is overthrown, and his fortress under Thangorodrim overcome. It is their doom to suffer under his hand until that day. Yet by the grace of the Valar you have been spared their fate, and are now joined with my people." His gaze returned to that strange place somewhere distant across the land, and sighed. "My heart and home are here, foster-son, and always will be, but I and my people are welcome here no more. We must now forsake this land while we can and flee to the South, where the free peoples of Elves and Men still hold out."

"But how will you escape the net of our enemies?" said Tuor. "The marching of so many together will surely be known."

"We will not leave Hithlum openly," said Annael, and he smiled. "Nay, not by any road our foes know. If our fortune is good, then in time we shall come to that secret way that the Elves call Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor. By that way we will escape this land and come to Nevrast, the land of my kindred of old. In that place we will gather strength, and in due time journey south along the coast to the Havens of Sirion far to the south."

"Provided we get there first," said Tuor. "Is it far to the Gate of the Noldor? Will you be able to find it?"

"It lies but a few days journey from here, and should not be hard to find," said Annael. "It was used by my people of old to journey between Hithlum and Nevrast, long ago in the days when Turgon the Elven-king reigned from his old halls in Vinyamar under Mount Taras, eldest of all cities of the Noldor in Middle-earth."

Tuor's heart stirred at the name of Turgon, though he knew not why. "Is that the same Turgon for whom my father gave his life in the Nirnaeth?"

"Yes," said Annael. "He is the son of Fingolfin, and is now by right accounted High King of the Noldor, since the fall of Fingon his elder brother in the Nirnaeth. As you have learned, Hurin Lord of Dor-lomin and Huor your father, together with the Men of Hador, held the Pass of Sirion while Turgon escaped the Nirnaeth, fleeing with all survivors from that rout that would go with him. The Men of Hador bought his escape with their lives. Now Turgon is accounted the most feared of the remaining foes of the Dark Lord."

"Why, if he was forced to flee the battle?" said Tuor.

"It is not for strength of arms, though Turgon doubtless remains mighty in such," said Annael. "It is a prophecy among the Noldor that from Turgon will the ruin of the Dark Lord come at last."

"How?" said Tuor

"I know not," said Annael. "No tale tells."

Tuor turned to face his foster-father, his face grim. "Then I must go and seek Turgon, for surely he will lend me aid for my father's sake."

"That you cannot do," said Annael, "even if I were to let you go. The realm of Turgon is hidden from the eyes of Elves and Men, and none of my people knows where it stands. Only the Noldor might know or have some idea, though I have not heard of any telling the way." He then clasped Tuor on the shoulder. "If you would speak to the Noldor, then do as I bid and come with us. The Havens of Sirion are under the protection of Cirdan the Shipwright, lord of the seafarers of my folk. In that place you might meet with wanderers from the Hidden Realm. Tales tell that in the days after the Battle of the Bragollach, ships were sent from the Havens by Turgon seeking the aid of the West against the might of the Dark Lord. None returned, but there is a chance that some of his people remain their still. They will have the answers you seek."

The memory faded, and Tuor sat once again by the rim of the firepit, idly tracing a swan's wing into the dust with the tip of his spear. He still had hope deep within his heart that Annael had made it to the Havens. His body had not been found among the slain, nor was he ever seen again in Hithlum during Tuor's remaining days there. Perhaps Annael had survived, and had somehow found the road to freedom? Perhaps, but Tuor had known not the way. His had been trouble enough escaping Hithlum. This land in which he now found himself, Annael had said, was but the first part of that journey. But where from here? How far a journey, and how long? He suddenly arose, putting the thought out of his mind. Best not to dwell on such things, he told himself. This is my home now, here by this great water that stirs my soul. He left the ruined hall, determined to make a new life for himself in the land that Annael had said was named Nevrast.

Tuor spent the rest of that spring and all the following summer in the north of Nevrast. He got to know the ways of his new home by heart, journeying now and again across the wind-whipped lands nigh to the cove in search of game. Most of his time, though, was spent watching the waves of the ever-changing Sea as he wandered along the white sands of its shores. He was at peace, and wanted neither for food nor shelter. Still, there were times when he would look to the North, and it seemed to him that the skies there remained dark even in the bright light of a full summer's day, and grew darker as the season waned.

Autumn was already approaching when Tuor first noticed the birds were leaving, much sooner than they should have. He saw many flights of birds of all kinds leaving Hithlum, stopping to rest in great droves on the coast before taking off again for the South. This puzzled him, for he knew not what would make them leave the North so early -- unless the winter to come was to be fell indeed. He shivered at the thought, but took comfort that in his new home he would be sheltered and well prepared, should it find him here.

There came a day not long after when Tuor wandered along the seashore, gathering driftwood to store for use against the coming winter. He heard a cry in the air, and looking up saw a wedge of seven white swans flying southward towards him. They were flying low along the coast about the height of the top of the cliff wall. They were close enough now for him to hear the rush and whine of their wings beating in flight. He thought they were going to fly overhead and go on their way, but suddenly they turned and came down as one, alighting on the waves with a great splash and churning of water. He was delighted, for he knew and loved swans, and that graceful bird had been the token of Annael and the Grey-elves of Hithlum. He turned and walked towards the shallows to greet them, calling to the swans with the cries taught to him by his foster-folk. He mavelled at their majesty and bearing, for these were greater and prouder than any swans he had seen before. To his surprise, they did not greet him as did their kindred in his youth. Instead, they uttered harsh cries and beat their wings at him, spashing him with water. Then with a great noise they alighted once again into the air, flying about his head so that the rush of their wings beat about him. Amazed, he stood within the circling swans as they flew about him, until at last they arose and circled above the top of the cliff wall, flying southward for a distance and then turning back, as if seeing whether or not he would follow them.

Tuor dropped the driftwood he carried in his arms. "It is a sign from the Lord of Waters," he said aloud. "I have tarried here too long." With haste he made the short trip northward to the cove and the village, so as to gather his gear, then returned to the spot where he had met the swans. They were still there, flying above the cliff wall, calling to him from the high airs, beckoning him continue his journey. He climbed the cliffs below them, but when he reached the top they wheeled and flew away southward along the coast. Tuor followed them, picking his way along the rocks at the edge, as he allowed himself to be led to new lands and adventures ahead.

For the next six days Tuor followed the swans as they flew along the coast. He had left the cove and the village behind, and now walked in places he had not visited before. Each morning he was aroused by the rush of wings in the dawn, and each day the swans were there to guide his steps. The beach had given out on the fourth day of his journey, and the waves now rode up to the foot of the rocks on his right. Even so, the cliffs were getting lower, and their tops were now crowned deep with flowering turf. Away eastward, the woods bordering the meres of Nevrast were turning yellow in the waning of the year. Before him, growing ever taller as he journeyed, was a wall of great hills, their shadow stretching aross the southern horizon from the east all the way to the sea, lying across his path. Their western reaches ended in a tall mountain: a dark, cloud-shrouded tower whose shoulders thrust far and wide around its base. The swans remained above and before him, flying towards that mountain, so he followed, trusting in the wisdom that guided their ways.

It was on the mid-morning of the seventh day of his journey when Tuor came upon the ruin of a lost road leading along the top of the cliff wall, southward towards the mountain looming ahead. It suddenly struck him that this must have been part of the old road that Annael had described, running from the Gate of the Noldor through Nevrast. Its northern reaches had vanished with the passing of time, and he would not have come upon it had he not followed the swans. Once again, he had been led to the right path by the Dweller in the Deep. The very thought stirred his heart. It seemed he was being summoned, for something that was sure, but for what and why he knew not.

The road now ran past green mounds and leaning stones, increasing in size and complexity as Tuor travelled on. As it marched on the road became more defined, with curbs and cracked paving stones now long grown with grass. It wound around the mountain's northwestern spur, the grass eventually giving way as the condition of the road improved. At last Tuor came around the shoulder of the mountain and stopped, beholding a sight that filled him with wonder.

The sun was waning in the western sky, its fading beams making the shadows grow long across the mountain slopes. Below him, the road ran towards a great green cape nestled between the arms of the mountain, which thrust out into the sea. Between their long slopes was a ruined city hewn from rock standing on the great terraces within the cape. It was the largest work of stone Tuor had yet seen. It was desolate, and overgrown with gray-green plants of the kind that grew along the coast, seeming to thrive in the barren rocks and salt airs alone. Long it had stood there, and endured high upon its carven terraces, forgotten and forsaken. The years had not shaken it, and the servants of Morgoth had passed it by, but it had suffered under long assault by the elements, and was now but a memory of the mighty dwelling it once had been.

In the fading light of day, Tuor made his way down dust-covered streets beside blocks of empty stone buildings, until he came to the high and windy courts of its central square. To the west was a street that led straight to the sea, where purple waves sang on the ruined quays under twilight skies. To the east was a great hall set at the head of the square, adorned with worn carvings and surrounded by wide porches with many weather-worn stairs. He felt no presence of evil there, but a sense of awe filled him, thinking of those people who had dwelt there long ago. They were gone, long gone: the deathless ones, proud but doomed, from far beyond the Sea. They had come, and now were gone, and only their memory remained in this place.

Tuor turned and looked westward across the square, down the wide street to the empty harbor. He looked, as their eyes must have looked, across the dark glitter of the unquiet waters to the end of sight, where the sky had grown dull red with the sinking of the sun. He sighed, then turned back to the hall. He noticed that the swans had alighted before the building's western entrance on the porch just above the steps. They stood before the door of the hall, beating their wings; and it seemed to him that they were beckoning him to enter the hall. Their call had not failed him before, so he ascended the overgrown stairs, and came to a set of sealed stone doors upon which had been carved the emblem of a rayed sun set within a diamond. He tried the doors, and to his surprise they opened soundlessly at this touch, swinging inward into a vast open space.

Tuor moved quietly, in awe at the great hall into which he had stepped. The stone roof still held firm, and his footfalls could be seen in the deep layer of dust upon the marble floor. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see that the ornate walls of the hall seemed as bare as had been the village to the north, as if the same great event had claimed the people of both places. Despite the dull glow of the setting sun, that came in through a series of narrow windows high overhead, no furniture or ornamentation could be seen within save what might have been a throne -- a high seat upon a dais at the far end of the hall. He walked softly, but even so the echoes of his steps ran about the hall and down its pillared aisles like the whisper of some impending doom.

At last he stood before the high seat in the gloom. It was hewn from a single stone and carved with many strange signs. As the sinking sun drew level with a high window under the westward gable, a single shaft of light smote the wall before him, and glittered on burnished metal. There on the wall behind the throne was hung an array of arms: a shield, a hauberk, a helm, and a long sword in a sheath. Tuor mavelled at them, for they shone as if new-wrought. The hauberk's gleam was of untarnished silver, gilded with sparks of gold from the light of the setting sun. The shield was of the same metal, but of a strange shape unknown to him. It was long and tapered, wide at the top and pointed at the bottom. Upon it was set a blue field bordered in silver, in the midst of which was wrought an emblem of a white swan's wing -- the ancient symbol of Annael's folk. "By this token I claim these arms unto myself, and take upon me whatever doom they bear," said Tuor out loud. His voice rang in the empty hall like a mighty challenge held within by the roof.

He first removed the shield from the wall, and to his surprise found it light and easy to bear. It was wrought of wood overlaid with elven-skill by plates of metal, strong yet thin as a foil, and thus it had been preserved from worm and weather. Next he took down the sword. It was a finely forged affair of elven-steel, held within a black sheath set upon a belt with clasps of silver. He withdrew the sword and examined the runes on its blade. Most of them he knew, yet he could not read the words they formed. As he stood there, examining the silver traceries upon its hilt, he once again remembered the days of youth in the caves of Androth, when Annael had trained him in the arts of war. There had come a day when he was but fourteen years old and Annael was teaching him to fight with wooden swords. In a surprise move the Elf-warrior had disarmed the boy, and then Tuor had not wanted to continue. The axe was his weapon of choice, not the sword, and he said that he had no desire to learn swordfighting. At that Annael had suddenly seized him and pinned him to the ground, holding the wooden blade to his throat. "A warrior gains mastery of all weapons of war," he said, "for one never knows what the tide of battle may bring." Tuor had been afraid, for he had never seen Annael like this before, but just as suddenly the Elf-warrior had released him, then bid him pick his blade back up and start again. He now smiled at that memory, for the past few years had proven the rightness of Annael's words. He slipped the blade of elven-steel back into its sheath and set it down beside the shield, then removed the helm and hauberk from the wall. (8)

Tuor arrayed himself in the arms and armor he found upon the wall behind the throne, and then left the great hall. He stopped for a moment before the doors, standing on the terraces of the mountain looking seaward, and the red light of the setting sun gleamed on the silver and gold of his helm and hauberk. In that hour he appeared as one of the mighty among the High-elves of the West, though there were none to see it. In the taking of those arms a change had come over him, and his heart grew great within him. As he stepped down from the doors the swans bowed before him, each plucking a feather from their wings and offering it to him, then laying their long necks on the stones before his feet. He took the feathers and set them in the crest of his helm; then straightway the swans arose and flew north in the sunset, and Tuor saw them no more.

Chapter 3 - The Dweller in the Deep

Tuor felt his feet drawn to the sea-strand, so he followed the wide western street until he came to the edge of the harbor. He went down from the city by a long flight of stairs until he came upon the sand of a wide shore north of the ruined quays and piers of the city port. It was almost sunset, and the rim of the sun was sinking fast into a long line of black clouds that lay thick over the ocean, above the western horizon. A fitful wind now blew, gusting with chill airs, and there were faint stirrings and murmurings sounding from the west -- whipsers of a great storm soon to come.

He stood on the shore looking towards the approaching storm. The dim outline of the sun's rim shone like smoky fire behind the menace of its laden skies. The waves were becoming choppy now, with small white crests heralding greater waves to come. Far across the waters, under the dark threat of the storm, he saw a great wave rise up from the ocean depths, heading towards him, rolling towards the shore in unbridled fury. It frightened him, but amazed him more, so he stood on the sand unmoving, watching the wave come on ever faster and higher, crowned with white foam and bathed in misty shadows. He was but a small form beneath its might, and it was sure to swallow him in its wake.

It was almost to the shore when it broke, a few hundred paces from the ocean's edge before Tuor. Its crest curled downward, and then the mountain of water fell in a great crash, sending forth long arms of foam that splashed their way onto the beach around him. The wave was gone, but in its place stood a mighty form: a living shape of great height and majesty standing tall and dark against the night of the rising storm. Tuor fell to his knees and bowed in reverence, for it seemed to him that he beheld some mighty king out of the elf-legends of old.

Whoever he was, or whatever he was, his form was like that of Elves and Men. His head bore a tall crown that shone with a silver gleam, from which his long hair fell down as foam glittering in the dusk. A great arm reached up and cast back the grey mantle that hung about him like the morning mist above the waters. Beneath he was clad in a gleaming coat of mail, close-fit as the scales of a fish, and in a kirtle of deep green that flashed with the sea fire of the night waves, as he slowly strode towards the shore. He was dark-skinned, and his fathomless eyes seemed to Tuor to be filled with a strange and wonderous light, by which the eyes of the High-elves seemed dim in comparison. He did not walk up onto the shore, but stopped just short of it, kneeling down in the troubled foam before the beach. He towered over Tuor despite the distance -- a being of great majesty and power come from the ocean depths to speak with the Man before him. This could be none other than he whom the Elves called the Dweller in the Deep: Ulmo, Lord of Waters, King of the Sea, mightiest of the Lords of the West after Manwe, and mover of many things in mortal lands. Tuor felt small and humbled in his presence, for to his knowledge never before had any of the Powers deigned to speak with one of mortal race.

Ulmo spoke, and his eyes flashed as he did so, the booming of his deep voice seeming to come forth as it were from the very foundations of the world. "Arise, Tuor son of Huor, and stand before me! For I am not the Master of Arda, but am his servant, and I serve his will, even as thou. Fear not my wrath, though long have I called to thee unheard. Haste must thou learn, for thou hast tarried on thy journey here. In the spring thou should have stood before me in this place, but now a fell winter comes soon from the hand of the Enemy, and the pleasant road I devised for thee must now be changed. For my counsels have been scorned, and a great evil now creeps down the Valley of Sirion, and already a great host stands between thee and thy goal."

"What then is my goal?" said Tuor.

"That which thy heart hath ever sought," answered Ulmo. "To find Turgon the Elven-king, and look upon the Hidden City of the High-elves. For thou art arrayed thus to be my messenger, even in the arms and armor which long ago I decreed for thee. Yet now must thou pass under shadow through great peril to reach him. Wrap thyself therefore in this cloak, and cast it never aside, until thou come to thy journey's end."

With that it seemed to Tuor that the Lord of Waters took his great mantle and parted it, then cast him a small piece -- a scrap for one of the Powers, but to the Man a great cloak with which he could cover himself completely from head to toe.

"Thus thou shalt walk under my shadow," said Ulmo. "But tarry no more, for in the lands of the Sun and in the fires of the Dark Lord it will not endure. Will thou take up my errand?"

"I will, my lord," said Tuor.

"Then I will set words in thy mouth to say unto Turgon," said Ulmo. "But first I will teach thee, and some things thou shalt learn which no Man else hath heard; nay, not even the mighty among the Elves."

Ulmo spoke, and it seemed to Tuor that a vision of things long past unfolded before his eyes. (11) There was a void without ending, darker than the darkest night in the depths of the earth, in which there was nothing save the presence of the One: Illuvatar the All-father, at once both within and without the silent void. Then a theme of music began: a song of great beauty woven by singers unseen into endless interchanging melodies and harmonies that passed beyond hearing into the depths and upon the heights. The void was no more, but was filled with the work of the mighty themes that still rang about him. One thing in particular grew until it filled his vision, globed amid the void; and he now looked with wonder upon Ea, the World That Is, as it was in the Eldest of Days.

Three themes sounded, and then the music ceased. Then there was a great whispering about him, as of many voices both great and small, all but a few in accord one with another. He was drawn with them into the airs of the World, and descended with them until he stood upon its surface. He felt the ground beneath his feet, but all was dark, and naught could he see or sense save for the voices. There were two groups of them: the greater were the more glorious and pleasant, and the lesser braying and dissonant. Yet there was one voice among the lesser group mighter than all the Powers put together, and it was not pleased.

Then the whispers ceased, and the darkness was filled with light, and all about him the Powers appeared: the Valar and their lesser kindred the Maiar. Some were clothed in forms like that of the Children of Illuvatar save greater in majesty and splendor, but some as of other forms to be found in the World in ages to come, and some clothed in their own majesty and dread. With the light of their being he could see the World about him, shapeless and bereft as that of a vast empty plain, and then the Powers began their long labors to mold the unformed World. But even as Tuor watched, the lesser group came down from the North and strove with the first for the shape that the World would take. These he knew, for Annael and his people had described them in their tales of the travails of the Elves. There were the demon spirits, both great and small; and then a smaller group of greater ones clad in fire, wielding terror and destruction; and above all of them towered the dread form of the Dark Lord in the days of his unbridled might: Melkor, mightiest of the Valar who have or will ever walk upon the World. He and his folk battled with the Powers for the dominion of Arda, and in their bitter conflict the World was shaped.

The countless ages flashed by, and the endless struggle swayed back and forth, until at last the Powers established themselves in the Blessed Realm, west of Middle-earth. Then the First Theme ended and the Second came to bear, with the rise of the birds and beasts, and all manner of growing things, and the creatures of the deeps and the growths of the Sea. Not long after, as it seemed in the vision, the Third Theme came to bear; for with the first star-making of the World came the Elves, awakening beside the shores of the sea of Cuivienen in the Elder Days. In those early days they were beset by the servants of the Dark Lord, and then came the Lords of the West, who fought for their sake the Battle of the Powers in the North of Middle-earth. For the first time the Dark Lord was overthrown; for he was weakened, having passed much of his power into the fabric of the World itself in the shaping of old, and he was chained and imprisoned by the Powers for a time.

Within the vision, Tuor alone of all Men beheld the Spring of Arda under the dark starlight of the Elder Days. There came the great Summons, in which most of the Elves came from their homes in the East and were brought to the Blessed Realm, while those that were left behind established their own realms in the forests and hills of Beleriand, westernmost of the lands of Middle-earth. He saw how those that remained, the Grey-elves as they called themselves, made friends with the Dwarves, the children of Illuvatar's adoption, who founded their own kingdoms in the mountains of Middle-earth. He then saw with mortal eyes the Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, in the days of their glory during the noontide of the Blessed Realm, in which the beauty and bliss of that land reached its zenith. And of all the Children of Illuvatar who ever lived, Tuor alone witnessed the making of the Silmarilli from the mingled light of the Trees by Feanor, the master-smith of the High-elves, greatest of all their works that was or ever shall be.

Then a dark shadow passed before him, an impenetrable gloom descended on the Blessed Realm, and the light of the Two Trees was dimmed. He heard a great cry of triumph, and then the light died as the Trees were slain. As darkness spread over the Blessed Realm, he heard the sound of wailing coming from the house of Feanor, as the elven-smith mourned the slaying of his father and the loss of his Jewels. Fell laughter came from a cloud of gloom hurring away to the North, and within he could make out two forms: that of the Dark Lord, and a hideous shape like that of a loathsome spider-thing. There was a great council of the Powers in the Ring of Doom. Feanor spoke fell words to his kindred in the King's Square of Tirion, and with his seven sons swore the Oath of Feanor. The High-elves joined him in flight from the Blessed Realm, following in the footsteps of the anguished elven-smith in his desire to wreak vengeance upon the Dark Lord and regain his Jewels. Tuor saw firsthand the Kinslaying of Alqualonde, in which for the first time Elf slew Elf, and the hands of the High-elves were bathed in the blood of their lesser kindred: the Sea-elves, who refused to aid the High-elves in their unlawful flight. Then upon the road he heard with them the terrible Curse of the Noldor, in which Mandos the Doomsman of the Valar foretold the suffering and travails of the Exiles upon the hard road they had chosen for themselves.

The vision returned for a time to the Blessed Realm, and Tuor saw with his own eyes the making of the Sun and Moon, the last fruits of the Two Trees, and their setting into their courses in the heavens. He listened to the Powers as they took new counsel against by Morgoth, as Feanor had renamed the Dark Lord, and sought a means to prevent such from ever happening again in their land. Tuor saw the raising of the mountain fences of the Blessed Realm to sheer and dreadful heights, such that not even the birds and beasts could cross unaided. He saw the setting of the Enchanted Isles, strung as a net in the Shadowy Seas, stretching from north to south across all seaward approaches, barring any approach from the East. The Blessed Realm was now shut against the High-elves, and without the grace of the Powers they could never return.

Events now sped quickly in the vision before Tuor's eyes. He saw from afar the burning of the ships of the Sea-elves by Feanor's host, denying their use to Fingolfin's folk. He beheld the return of the High-elves to Middle-earth and their first contest with the Dark Lord, in which Feanor the proud fell to his ruin. Then to his wonder he witnessed the perilous crossing of the Grinding Ice by Fingolfin and his people, left behind by Feanor on the far shore. With Fingolfin's host came the rising of the Moon, and then took place the uneasy reunion of the hosts of the High-elves. They were also reunited with the Grey-elves of Beleriand, their long-sundered kinsmen, and then took place the establishment of the High-elven realms of old. The Dark Lord sallied forth to strike them down, and there took place before Tuor's eyes the Glorious Battle, the greatest victory the High-elves ever secured over the forces of Morgoth. With that the Dark Lord was fenced within his fortress, and then began the long Siege of Angband. Yet it was an uneasy peace, and Tuor saw as the Lord of Waters moved Finrod and Turgon to come to the Twilit Meres of Sirion, and there receive his warning that each should build a place of hidden refuge for the days to come.

With the coming of the Sun the Third Theme was ended, and Tuor saw the fathers of Men arise in the East. He saw them fall to the wiles of the Dark Lord, and how some redeemed themselves and rejected him, setting forth from their ancient homes on the westward march. He saw the coming of Men into Beleriand during the days of the Siege, and their welcome by the High-elves of the West to aid in their war against the Dark Lord of the North. He sorrowed at the breaking of the Siege in the Battle of Sudden Flame, and beheld the seizing of the Silmaril by Beren and Luthien as if a player in the tale of their travails. In their tale came the death of Finrod, and now but one refuge of the Elves remained hidden to the Dark Lord's eyes.

The time now drew close to his day as the vision came to its end. He saw the great counsels of the Union of Maedhros, and the ruin of the High-elves in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. He beheld the rout of the sons of Feanor, the fall of Fingon son of Fingolfin and his host on the Gasping Plain, and the retreat of Turgon to the Pass of Sirion. He heard the counsels of Hurin and Huor to the retreating Elven-king, and saw as they set their small band before the rearguard of his host, shielding his escape to his secret abode. And as the vision came to a close, he witnessed the last stand of the Men of the House of Hador before the might of Morgoth within the Fens of Serech, covering the escape of Turgon. The last scene he beheld before the vision was taken away was that of Hurin Thalion his uncle, standing over the fallen body of his father, alone but unconquered, wielding a troll-axe two-handed against his countless foes and shouting Aure entuluva! "Day shall come again!"

The vision faded, and Tuor came suddenly back to the present. It seemed that he had been long in the vision, though judging by the sky Ulmo had spoken but a short time. He sensed there was more to the vision than he had beheld, but it lay just below the surface of his thought, waiting for the right time to reawaken. He looked up at the Lord of Waters, and nodded. "I have beheld all you have shown me, my lord," he said.

"Then know this!" said Ulmo. "In the armor of Fate (as you might name it) there is ever a rift, and in the walls of Doom a breach until the full-making, which ye call the End. So shall it be while I endure: a secret voice that gainsayeth, and a light where darkness was decreed. That is my part among my brethern, the Lords of the West, to which I was appointed before the making of the World. Yet Doom is strong, and the shadow of the Enemy lengthens; and I am diminished, until in Middle-earth I am become now no more than a secret whisper. The waters that run here westward and their springs are poisoned, and my power withdraws from the land; for Elves and Men grow blind and deaf to me because of the might of the Dark Lord.

"Even now the Doom of Mandos hastens to its fulfillment, when all the works of the Noldor shall perish, and every hope which they build shall crumble. This last hope alone is left -- the hope they have not looked for and for they which they have not prepared. That hope lies in thee, for so I have chosen."

At this Tuor could not hide his astonishment. "Then Turgon shall not stand against Morgoth, as all the Elves yet hope?" he said. "Then what would you have of me, even if I do somehow find him? For though I am indeed willing to do as my father Huor before me and stand by the Elven-king in his need, my help would amount to little: a mortal Man, alone among so many and so valiant of the High-elves of the West."

"If I choose to send thee, Tuor son of Huor, then believe not that thy one sword is not worth the sending," said Ulmo. "The valor of the Edain, the Fathers of Men, shall be remembered by the Elves for all time, marvelling that they gave life so freely of which they had in this World so little. But it is not for thy valor alone that I send thee, but to bring into the world a hope beyond thy sight, and a light that shall pierce the darkness."

Even as the Lord of Waters spoke, the mutter of the storm grew to a great cry. The wind mounted to a fearful gale, and the sky grew black; and the mantle of the Sea King streamed behind him like a cloud flying in a swift breeze. "Go now," said Ulmo, "lest the Sea devour thee! For my vassal Osse obeys the will of Mandos and stirs up the waters behind me. He is angry at those who sail upon them, for he is a servant of the Doom."

"As you command," said Tuor, "But if I escape the Doom, then what words shall I say unto Turgon?"

"If thou come to him," answered Ulmo, "then the words will arise in thy mind, and thy mouth shall speak as I would. Speak and fear not! After that, thou may do as thy heart and valor lead thee. Hold fast to my mantle, for thus thou shalt be guarded in thy journeys. And I will send one to thee out of the wrath of Osse, and thus thou shalt be guided: yea, the last mariner of the last ship that shall seek into the West until the rising of the Star. Go now back to the land!"

With that there was great crash of thunder, and great forks of lighting flared across the sea. Tuor beheld the Dweller in the Deep standing among the crashing waves as a silver tower flickering about with darting flames. The sea-longing rose up strong within his heart, and he cried to Ulmo against the howl of the wind. "I go, my lord! My heart years for the Sea, but I go to do your will!"

Ulmo lifted his mighty horn of shell, and blew a single great note. Tuor never forgot the call of that horn, to which the scream of the storm was as but a soft shower upon a gentle lake. He heard the note, and was surrounded by it, and it filled him to his innermost being. It seemed to him that the coasts of Middle-earth vanished, and he saw all the waters of the World in a great vision: from the springs of the land to the mouths of the rivers, from the strands and estuaries even out into the deeps of the Sea. He saw the whole of Belegaer the Great from its dancing surface to its lightless depths, its unquiet regions teeming with strange life forms, and its everlasting darkness echoing with voices terrible to mortal ears. He surveyed its measureless plains with the swift sight of the Valar: lying windless under the eye of the Sun, or glittering under the horns of the Moon, or lifted in hills of wrath that broke upon the Enchanted Isles. He soared above that endless plain of waves until, remote upon the edge of sight, beyond the count of many leagues, he glimpsed a mountain rising beyond his mind's reach into a shining cloud, a long surf glimmering at its feet. Even as he strained to hear the sound of those far-off waves, and to see clearer that distant light that glowed upon the mountain's peak, the note ended.

Tuor stood now beneath the full wrath of the storm, and thunder and lightning rent the skies above him. The waters of heaven pelted him unmercifully, and the sea was in great tumult. The Lord of Waters was gone, and no companion had he now but the wild waves of Osse as they slammed against the cliffs of Nevrast. He turned and fled away from from the fury of the Sea as best he could. The passage of the stairs back up to the high terraces of the city he won with great difficulty, for the wind pressed him hard against the cliff, and when he at last came out on top he could not stand against it. Bent almost to his knees, struggling aginst the fury of the storm, Tuor finally made it to the shelter of the great hall, and collapsed in near-exhaustion upon the high seat of stone.

The walls and pillars shook from the violence of the storm, and it seemed to him that its winds were full of wailing and wild cries. He was safe, though, for the hall was stoutly built, and had endured many a storm in its lonely vigil through the years waiting for the day of his arrival. He slept fitfully, and would awaken now and again to the howling of the wind and rain as the storm lashed the coast in its fury. His slumber was troubled with many dreams, images as it were of the vision of Ulmo, but none remained with him in his waking memory afterward save one.

He heard the crash of the waters in the darkness, and the wailing of the sea-birds high above. Now the sun shone overhead and the Sea opened before him, pale and boundless. The waters raced on below him, ever westward, as he moved across the waters of the ocean deeps. Then he smelled a sweet fragrance in the air, and heard the sighing of the tide on a white, sandy strand. Before him grew the image of a great island, and in the middle there stood a steep mountain rising into the heavens. The sun sat behind the isle, and as the shadows sprang into the sky there shone above him a single, dazzling star.

Before the night was over the tempest passed, but by then Tuor had falled into a deep sleep. When he awoke it was long gone, driven by its winds far into the East. In the grey light of morning, he arose from the high seat and stepped down from the dais. Immediately there was a commotion of sound and motion about him, and he saw that the hall was filled with sea-birds of all kinds, driven to shelter by the storm the night before. They scurried away before him, crying in alarm, and with that Tuor left the great hall.

The last stars of the night sky were fading in the West before the growing light of the coming day. Tuor stood once again before the central square of the city facing west. As he walked across it and down the street leading to the harbor, he saw that the great waves of the storm had broken over the cliffs and ridden high upon the land, flinging seaweed and all manner of debris even up to the wide porches of the great hall. He began to walk toward the stairs to the sand, but stopped as a slow movement to one side caught his eye. He turned, and looking down saw a forlorn figure leaning against the stones of the terrace below. It was thoroughly soaked, and sat amid the debris of the storm with its back propped up against the stone of the terrace, covered in a weatherstained grey cloak still dripping with water. The figure sat silently gazing beyond the ruined harbor out over the long ridges of the waves. All was still, and there was no sound save the roaring of the surf below.

"Welcome, Voronwe! I await you!"

The Elf turned in surprise, looking up to see who had called his name. Tuor met the piercing gaze of his sea-grey eyes and knew him to be a High-elf, the one whom Ulmo had promised to send him. How he knew his name Tuor did not know, but the Elf sat there and continued to stare at him, amazement clearly written on his face. It soon passed to fear and wonder, as each searched the face of the other: the Elf in his soaked clothes and sodden cloak, and Tuor in his gleaming elven-mail, with Ulmo's mantle billowing out behind him like a shadow in the morning breeze. After a long moment, the Elf stood and spoke. "Who are you?" he asked. "Long have I labored in the unrelenting seas. Tell me, what great things have happened since I last walked these lands? Is the Shadow overthrown? Have the Hidden People come forth?"

Tuor shook his head. "Nay, my friend. The Shadow lengthens, and the Hidden remain hid."

The Elf looked at him in silence for a long time, during which Tuor felt the piercing eyes of the High-elf searching him, seeking for some clue of token as it seemed. "I say again, who are you?" he said at last. "My people left this land many years ago, and none have dwelt here since. You are not one of them, as I first thought, for despite your raiment you must be one of the kindred of Men."

"I am," said Tuor. "And are you not the last mariner of the last ship that sought the West from the Havens of Cirdan in the South?"

"I am," said the Elf. "Voronwe son of Aranwe am I, as you have named me; but how you come to know my name and fate I do not understand."

"I know them both, for the Lord of Waters spoke to me of them this past evening," answered Tuor. "He said that he would save you from the wrath of Osse, and send you here to be my guide."

The eyes of Voronwe opened wide. "You have spoken with the Dweller in the Deep, Ulmo the Mighty?" he said, bowing low before Tuor's feet. "Great indeed must be your worth, and your doom! But where shall I guide you, my lord? For surely you must be a king among Men, and have many that wait upon your word to guide you."

"Nay, I am but an escaped thrall from the North," said Tuor, "and have come here as an outlaw alone in an empty land. Yet I have an errand to Turgon, king of the Hidden Realm. Do you know where I can find him?"

"Many are outlaw and thrall in these evil days who were not born so," answered Voronwe. "You are a lord of Men by right, I deem, though your fate is otherwise. But were you the highest of all your folk, no right would you have to seek Turgon, and vain would be your quest. Even if I were to lead you to his hidden gates, you could not enter in."

"I do not ask you to lead me further than the gate," said Tuor. "In that place Doom shall strive with the Counsel of Ulmo. If Turgon will not receive me, then my errand is at an end, and Doom shall prevail. But as for my right to seek the Elven-king I say this: I am Tuor son of Huor, who was brother to Hurin the Steadfast, and Turgon will not forget the names of the sons of the House of Hador, vassals who were both faithful and true to his father Fingolfin. That alone would be cause enough, but I am also bidden to seek him by the command of Ulmo."

With those last words a change came over Tuor even as he spoke, and the vision of Ulmo reawakened within him. It seemed he stood on the sand with Turgon in the days when the Elven-king dwelt in his halls at Vinyamar, and once again the Lord of Waters stood before the strand. Tuor's words grew deep with the voice of the Sea as he continued to speak. "Will Turgon forget that which the Lord of Waters spoke to him of old?"

Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy hope, and remember that the last hope of the Noldor lies in the West and comes from the Sea. The Curse of the Noldor shall find thee too before the end, and treason will awake withn thy walls, and they shall be in peril of fire. But when this peril draws nigh, then one shall come from Nevrast to warn thee. Leave in thy house arms and a sword, that in years to come he may find them, so that by such thou shalt know him, and not be deceived. I am he that was foretold by Ulmo of old that should come, and I stand before you now in the gear that was long ago prepared by Turgon for me."

Tuor was amazed to hear himself speak so, but even more amazed was Voronwe. There was no way this Man could have learned the words of Ulmo to Turgon from none other than the Dweller himself. None knew the prophecy of Ulmo save the Hidden People. He turned away and looked towards the Sea. "I wish never again to return," he said. "Often I vowed as we sailed upon the deeps of the sea that if I ever set foot on land again, I would dwell at rest far from the Shadow of the North. At times I desired the Havens of Cirdan, or at other times the fair fields of Nan-tathren, where the spring is sweeter than heart's desire." He sighed. "If evil has indeed grown while I have wandered, and the last peril now approaches my people, then I must go to them." He turned back to Tuor. "I will lead you to the Hidden Realm, for the wise may not gainsay the counsels of Ulmo."

"Then we will go together, even as he has decreed," said Tuor. "But mourn not, Voronwe! Far from the Shadow your long road will lead you, even as you wish, and one day your hope shall return you to the shores of the Sea."

"May yours as well," said Vornwe, "but now we must leave it behind and go in haste."

"Which way will we go, and how far?" asked Tuor. "Should we not first take thought on how we may fare in the wild, or if the journey is to be long, how to pass the harborless winter?"

Voronwe looked at him sidelong, and chose his words carefully. "We will leave at once upon the right road, and it will in due course lead us to the Hidden Realm," he said. "You know the strength of Men and your needs. As for me, I am of the Noldor, and long must be the hunger and cold the winter that can kill those who walked the Grinding Ice and survived the crossing. How do you think we labored countless days on our long journeys across the salt wastes of the Sea? Perhaps you have not heard of lembas, the waybread of the Elves? I still have that which all mariners keep until the last." He lifted his cloak, and Tuor saw a sealed wallet clasped to his belt. "No water or weather will harm it while it is sealed. I will share with you what I have, but we must husband it until great need. Doubtless an outlaw and hunter such as yourself can find other food before winter comes."

"Maybe," said Tuor, "but it is no longer safe to hunt in all lands, no matter how plentiful the game. Besides, hunters tarry on the road."

They made ready to depart, and Tuor returned to the great hall to retrieve his pack and gear from beside the stone chair. Voronwe had but the clothes on his back and a short sword he wore at his side. Tuor had some store of dried meats still left that might prove useful, but it would not last if the journey were more than a few days. He kept the gear that had been left for him in the hall, and added to that his small bow and arrows he had brought with him from the North. The rest he left behind. With that he rejoined Voronwe. Together they left the ruins of Vinyamar behind, as they began the journey to find the Hidden Realm.

If any had come to the great hall of Vinyamar afterward, in the days before Beleriand was broken, and walked down between its long pillars to the stone seat of Turgon, there would have been little sign of Tuor's stay there. The long days and dusty winds wiped away his footprints on the floor, and in time even the wreckage of the storm was blown away. Their eyes would have glanced at the wall behind the throne and found it bare, bereft of any gear or sword, save one thing: a mid-sized wooden spear with a wrought-iron tip, carved with the Elven-runes of the North. If they had the skill to read those runes, they would have read Tuor's name, and then would know who once had passed that way.

Chapter 4 - Walking Through The Wild

In the growing light of dawn, Tuor and Voronwe left the ruins of Vinyamar and traveled westward across the great cape, below the shoulders of the mountain. They walked on another ancient road that had once led south of the city, broad and paved at first but soon enough giving way to a grass-covered track lined between old turf-clad dikes. This they followed until they swung around the last great spurs of the mountain, at which point Voronwe led them off the road and eastward below the line of the hills. They went on a short way until they found a shelter hidden in the dark eaves of the slopes.

"We must wait here until dusk," said the Elf. "Then we will resume our journey. Rest here while you may, and I will keep watch."

Tuor did not argue. Instead, he took the opportunity to catch up on his sleep from the night before. Voronwe knew these lands, and no doubt feared some hidden enemy lurking about which might spot them in the light of day. Tuor curled himself up in a corner of the crevice wrapped in his cloak. The Elf remained standing just within the shadows of the cleft, hand on his swordhilt, watching the lands beyond.

When Tuor awoke, the Elf was still standing vigilant at the mouth of the crevice. He turned when he heard the Man stir. "The lands remain silent today, yet watchful. The ships of Cirdan must be moving about on the waters off the coast."

Tuor reached into his pack and pulled out a strip of dried meat. He broke it in two and handed half to the Elf. "It is not the waybread of the Elves, but it will help lengthen the journey," he said. (13)

Voronwe took the dried meat from Tuor. "Thank you. I did not know you had any such store with you when we left."

"Only enough for two or three day's journey, four at the most," said Tuor. "We will save what you have until then."

The two sat within the shadows of the crevice, wrapped in their cloaks, their backs leaning against the hard rock of the hills, eating in silence. They were finished soon enough, and Tuor shared his water flask with the Elf. "Where are we?" he asked.

"We now walk in Beleriand, in the lands of the Falas south of Mount Taras," said Voronwe. He took a mouthful of water, then sealed the flask and handed it back to Tuor. "Behind us are the western hills of the Ered Wethrin, the Mountains of Shadow as they are called in your tongue."

"The same as the southern fences of Hithlum?"

"Yes," said Voronwe, "although they travel for many leagues westward before they pass the shoulders of Nevrast and grow into the mountains that you know."

Tuor thought for a moment. "Why did we turn east under the mountains, and not continue south? Does not the Hidden Realm lie in the South, as many have said?"

"It seems you have your tales confused," said the Elf. "Far southward lie the ancient dwellings of Cirdan's folk: Brithombar and Eglarest, the walled cities of the Sea-elves of Middle-earth. Or once they were, until they fell to the Dark Lord in the days after the Nirnaeth. Cirdan and his people escaped on their ships to the Isle of Balar, far to the south where Sirion joins with the sea, and they dwell there still. Now all the lands of the Falas are infested with Morgoth's folk, yet the ships of Cirdan return at times and strike without warning, raiding the shores and joining with forays sent by my kindred across the lands to aid him." (12)

"Then Turgon does live in the South," said Tuor.

"You misunderstand me," said Voronwe. "Those Cirdan joins with are not the folk of the Hidden Realm, but warriors of the House of Finarfin sent from Nargothrond."

"Nargothrond as in the kingdom of Finrod Felagund, he who was slain helping Beren the One-hand in the Quest of the Silmaril?"

"The same, but now Orodreth his brother rules the Caves of Narog. It has ever been his policy to war in secret against the Dark Lord, but now and again he will join with Cirdan in a sortie against the Orcs of the Falas, dealing such blows as he would to confuse and dismay them. This works to his advantage, for such raids keep the Orcs from searching for his realm and bringing the might of Morgoth down upon Nargothrond in full. All the folk of the Dark Lord fear the Sea, and will not set foot near its waters save at great need."

"Then how came you to Cirdan?" asked Tuor.

"I was sent," said the Elf, "and in due time came to the land of Lisgardh nigh to the mouth of Sirion. There lie Siriombar, better know as the Havens of Sirion, where such High-elves as have dealings with Cirdan have established themselves within a day's sail of the Isle of Balar."

"And this is known to your people?"

"Yes," said Voronwe. "When we first came there, we were but a small company among many Elves, those who fled from the armies of the Dark Lord as they moved southward into Beleriand. Nowhere else in Middle-earth, not even in Turgon's realm will you find some of every kindred of Elves living together in one place. Their numbers increase all the more as the Shadow grows and moves southward, fleeing thralldom and the destruction of war. Noldor, Sindar, Nandor, Laiquendi -- I have even seen Avari walking the ways of the Havens."

"Avari?" said Tuor.

"The Unwilling," said Voronwe. "They are the Elves who refused the Summons to the West ages ago, and remained behind in Middle-earth. Their ignorance has not proven to be a shield against the Shadow, so they join us at last when it is almost too late. Their folk are among those who not having found shelter elsewhere seek the Havens, and the number of its people grows daily."

"Why did you seek the Lords of the West?" asked Tuor as the shadows grew deeper. "I thought that the West was closed to the High-elves."

"I did not do so of my own choice," sighed Voronwe. "That was the will of Turgon. When the Dark Lord broke the Siege of Angband, he began for the first time to doubt the strength of the Elves to overcome him. In the year after the collapse of the Siege, he sent out his first emmisaries to the Falas -- a few only, sent to Cirdan by secret paths upon a hidden errand. They went to the Falas because the High-elves do not have the skills to build ships strong enough to withstand the tumults of the Sea. That skill Cirdan's folk alone in Middle-earth know, for Ulmo himself taught them the building of ships back in the Elder Days. They built them ships, but it availed them nothing save to find the Isle of Balar and there establish lonely dwellings, far from the reach of Morgoth.

"When word came to Turgon that the Falas had fallen to the Shadow, and the Shipwrights had fled to the Isle of Balar, then he resolved anew to send messengers into the West seeking the pardon of the Valar and their aid in the war against the Dark Lord. That was but a little while ago, yet those seem in memory the longest days in my life."

"You were one of the second group," said Tuor.

The Elf nodded. "I was but a young Elf just come of age among my folk. I was born in Nevrast after the return of the Noldor, in the days that Turgon dwelt there. My mother was one of the Grey-elves of the Falas, and thus of close kin to Cirdan and his folk. You see, there was much mingling of the peoples in the first days of Turgon's kingship, and thanks to my mother I was born with the sea-longing of her people. Because of this I was one of those chosen by the King, since our errand was to Cirdan, to seek his aid in the building of new ships sturdy enough to seek the West before all was lost, but I tarried on the way."

"Why?"

"I had seen little of Middle-earth, and in our journey across Beleriand we came to the land of Nan-tathren, the Land of Willows in the spring of the year. Lovely to heart's enchantment is that land, Tuor, as you may one day see for yourself if your feet ever trod the southward road down Sirion. In that place is the cure for all sea-longing, save those whom Doom will not release. There Aule is but a servant of Yavanna his spouse, she who has charge of all green and growing things within the Circles of the World; and there the earth has brought to life a wealth of fair things that are beyond the thought of hearts in the hard hills of the North. In that land Narog joins Sirion, and they hasten no more, but flow broad and quiet through the gentle wonders of that land.

"There about their shining waters you will find countless lilies as a forest of blossoms, and grasses filled with flowers like gems, like bells, like flames of red or gold, like a multitude of many-colored stars in a sky of green. Fariest of all are the willows of Nan-tathren -- pale green, or silver in the wind, and the rustle of their innumerable leaves is like a spell of music. Day and night would pass by uncounted, and still I would stand in the knee-deep grass and listen to their song. It was there that I was enchanted by the beauty of that land, and forgot the Sea in my heart. Long I wandered in Nan-tathren, naming new flowers, or lying in a daze amid the singing of the birds, or listening to the humming of the bees in the spring. There I might still be, forsaking all my kin, but my doom was not so."

"Long I dwelt in the desolate beauty of Nevrast, until I left at the bidding of Ulmo," said Tuor. "Perhaps the same happened to you in Nan-tathren."

"Perhaps," mused Voronwe. "The voice of the Lord of Waters is strong in that land. Perhaps it was he who whispered in my dreams at night, setting the desire in my heart to build a raft of willow-boughs and leave upon the bright waters of Sirion. So I did, and so I was taken away; for there came a day when I was out in the middle of the river, and then a sudden wind caught me and carried my raft out of the Land of Willows down to the Sea. With that I came at last to the Havens, and of the seven ships that Cirdan had built at Turgon's behest all but one was yet full-wrought. One by one, as each was finished, they set sail into the West, but none as yet has ever returned, nor has any news of them been heard.

"The salt air of the Sea now stirred anew the sea-longing within me, and I learned the lore of ship-handling as if were but long stored in my mind and brought back into the light. Thus when the last ship, and the greatest, was made ready, I was ready to sail with her. I was eager to be gone, and thought to myself, 'If the words of the Noldor are true, then in the West are wonders with which the Land of Willows cannot compare. Spring never ends in the Blessed Realm. Perhaps the Valar will be kind, and even I, Voronwe, may come there. At worst, to wander upon the waves of the Sea is surely better than living under the Shadow of the North.' I had no fear for the journey ahead, for the ships of the Sea-elves do not drown."

Voronwe stopped speaking, and sat quiet beside Tuor. The Man could just make out the face of the Elf in the soft evening light. He wore an expression of remembered sorrow, of memories of hunger, and of fear, and of pain. The Elf caught Tuor's gaze and turned to face him, and the Man caught a glimpse of despair in his elven-eyes.

"The Great Sea is a terrible place for us, son of Huor. It hates the Noldor, for it works the Doom of Mandos, remebering how they slew the Sea-elves of Alqualonde to steal their ships, and thus hasten their return to Middle-earth. It holds worse things than to sink in to the abyss and perish: loathing, and loneliness, and madness; terror of wind and storm; stillness, and silence, and days on end without sail; and shadows where all hope is lost and all living shapes pass away. It washes upon many strange and evil shores, and is infested with many islands full of danger and fear. I will not now darken your heart with the full tale of my seven years upon its waters. I sailed from the East, and passed over all the waters from the North to the South, but never to the West. As you said before, that is shut against us."

As Voronwe spoke, images flashed through Tuor's mind, half-remembered dreams brought into being by the horn of Ulmo. He could feel the splash of troubled waves on his face, and the burn of ropes as they snaked unchecked through his hands. He could hear the rending of sails in a windy gale, and the snapping of yardarms and masts under the force of a storm. He felt the heat of the sun in a becalmed sea, and the pangs of hunger from many days without food. He tasted a handful of brackish water from a flask while miles of seawater lay all about him, fearing to drink from them lest the sea-madness come upon him. (14) He saw the waves rise and fall upon uncharted shores, and the haggard faces of his fellows as they pressed ever onward across the merciless waters. He listened as Voronwe spoke on.

"At the last, in black despair, weary of all the world, we turned and fled back into the East, away from the doom that for long had been spared us. We thought we had escaped it, for there came a day when the lookout gave a cry, and we beheld a mountain from afar. 'That is Taras!' I cried to my fellows. 'There is the land of my birth!' But even as I said the words the wind awoke, and great clouds laden with heavy thunder came up from the West. The storm came upon us in its unbridled might, and the waves hunted us like living things filled with malice. Then lightning struck us, and when our ship was broken down to a helpless hull the seas leapt upon us in fury. Our doom found us in the end, and was the more cruel to strike us down within sight of home.

"But as you see, I was spared; for it seemed to me there came a wave upon us, greater and yet calmer than all the others. It took me and lifted me from the ship, and carried me high upon its shoulders. It cast me upon the land and then rolled away, pouring back over the cliff like some great waterfall. It was but an hour before you found me, sitting dumb on the terraces of Vinyamar, still dazed by the wrath of the Sea. I still feel the fear of it, and the bitter loss of all my friends that sailed with me for so long, and so far, beyond the sight of mortal lands."

Voronwe sighed, and then spoke softly as if to himself. "Very bright were the stars upon the margin of the world, when at times the clouds above the West were drawn aside. Whether or not we glimpsed clouds still remote, or as some held among us we glimpsed the mountains of the Pelori about the strands of our long home, I know not. Far, far away they stand, and none from mortal lands shall come there again, I deem." He felt silent, and did not speak again; for night had come, and the stars above shone white and cold.

Soon after Tuor and Voronwe arose and turned their backs to the sea, then set out upon their long journey in the dark of night. None could mark their going, not even the keenest eyes of the creatures of Morgoth, and none saw them pass. They walked until the first fingers of the coming dawn began to rise in the east, then hid and rested until the sun had set. They traveled slowly, choosing their path with care, and walked warily, shunning the night-eyed hunters of Morgoth, and avoiding the trodden ways of Elves and Men.

Voronwe chose their path and Tuor followed, asking no questions. He still had no notion where they were going, but noted that they journeyed ever eastward along the march of the rising mountains. He was still of a mind that Turgon and his people had their refuge in the south of Beleriand, and nothing Voronwe had revealed so far had changed his mind. It was with increasing but unvoiced anxiety that he began to wonder when their path would turn southward, as it surely must.

Days before, Tuor had seen on the shores of Nevrast the signs of a terrible winter to come, and as they journeyed the Fell Winter descened swiftly on Middle-earth from the realm of the Dark Lord of the North. Snow fell with the first of autumn long before its accustomed time, and with it came great windstorms and blizzards. Soon the snow lay heavy upon the North-lands, and despite the shelter of the hills the winds in the South were strong and bitter. The snow lay deep upon the mountain heights and whirled through their passes, and fell upon the Forest of Nuath before the trees had time to shed their leaves. The waning of the year found Beleriand bathed in a sea of white, and frost lay thick upon the stones as Tuor and Voronwe drew night to Eithel Ivrin, source of the river Narog.

Eithel Ivrin was a spring and a lake set under the feet of the Shadowy Mountains at the western edge of the Forest of Nuath. It was a beautiful place, where standing groves of beech trees stood about the banks of a great lake of crystal clear water. A laughing spring fed the lake from a great fall in the rocks above. Rushes and reeds stood about the shores of the lake, except where the young stream of Narog issued forth. Its waters ran through a sand-paved cove into a long and narrow gap, through which they sped on their way to join with Sirion many leagues to the south. The place was held in reverence by all Elves, and not just for its beauty; for it was said that Ulmo himself had hallowed it, and the power of its waters brought healing to weary hearts. More importantly, it was a source of fresh water. Tuor's flask was running low, and as Voronwe said there would be none other until they came to the streams that fed the river Teglin.

They came to Ivrin at the end of a weary night of travel. In the grey light of dawn, they mounted a small rise that stood between them and their goal. They reached the top even as the wind relented, and then Voronwe gasped in dismay. Where once the fair pool of Ivrin had lay in its great stone basin, where once the birch groves had stood tall and proud in the hollow under the hills, now lay before them a land defiled and desolate. The trees were burned to blackened stumps, or uprooted and flung far from where they once had stood. The stone basin of the pool was broken in many places, and the waters of Ivrin were now but a dank and barren mire amid the ruin. The sandy cove was no more, but was torn and trampled. A foul-smelling mist like the reek of decay hung above the dark ice of the frozen pools and puddles. They descended to the ruin of Ivrin, and walked about the wreck of the once-fair lake.

"Magic of Morgoth!" Voronwe cried. "Has evil befallen even this sacred place?" Far from the Black Hand the spring of Eithel Ivrin once stood, but ever its fingers grope further, and destroy all things fair in its wake."

"It is even as Ulmo said to me," said Tuor. "The springs are poisoned, and my power withdraws from the waters of the land."

In dismay Voronwe examined the banks of the ruined cove, and then shouted. "Come see, Tuor!" he called. "A malice has been here with strength greater than the Orcs of Morgoth. Fear lingers in this place." He continued to examine the mere even as Tuor joined him, and he pointed to the ground. "Yes, a great evil has been here! See for yourself!"

Tuor's eyes saw a strange track in the frost-hardened ground before him. It was a furrow like that cut by a snake in sand, but many times larger. It passed away southward, following Narog through a passage that had been torn in the ridge about the waters of the young river. On either side of the furrow, now blurred, now clear and sealed with frost, were the tracks of great clawed feet.

"Uruloki!" said Voronwe, and his face was filled with dread and loathing. "It is the track of Glaurung, the Great Worm of Angband, most fell of all his creatures! It is not long since he was here. We must make haste, if he is abroad. Already we are late in coming to Turgon."

But even as he spoke they heard a cry in the woods to the east, and they stood still as stones, listening. They heard it again, closer now, coming towards them. It did not sound like any servant of the Dark Lord, but was a fair voice, though full of grief. It seemed to them that it called a name over and over, as one calls when searching for someone that is lost. As they stood there, waiting for what they knew not, a tall Man came through the trees. He was armed, clad in black, arrayed in dark elven-mail and carrying a long black sword whose edges shone bright and cold. Woe and sorrow were graven on his face, and he was as shocked as they to find the ruin of Ivrin before his feet. He seemed not to see them, perhaps due to Tuor's mantle and Voronwe's grey elven-cloak, or perhaps due to his anguish, which was great. He looked over the frozen mere and cried, "Ivrin! Falevrin! Gwindor and Beleg! Here once I was healed. Now I shall never drink the draught of peace again!" With that he turned and departed, heading towards the snow-covered heights of the North with great strides. As he went, he cried the name Finduilas! over and over again until the sound of his lament died in the woods.

"Who was that?" said Voronwe, long after the Black Sword was gone from sight. "What was his errand here?"

"I know him not," said Tuor. "Perhaps his errand was the same as ours."

"No, there was something more," said Voronwe, "something sad and forlorn, something lost that could never again be found. Another victim of Morgoth's wrath, no doubt -- one of your kindred, perhaps once a great lord, now brought to ruin by the Dark Lord's designs. I may never learn his tale, yet I pity him nonetheless. But come! Let us make haste, and be away from this accursed place."

Chapter 5 - The Road To Turgon's Realm (16)

Many miles they toiled beyond the pines of Nuath along the slopes of the Shadowy Mountains before resting, even though day had come. The memory of the grief of the Black Sword lay heavy upon them, and Voronwe could not bear to rest beside the ruined pools of his beloved Ivrin. Still, it was not long before they began to seek some place in which to hide and rest for a time. The land was full of evil, and it was not wise for foes of the Dark Lord to travel about in broad daylight. A strange foreboding seemed to be in the air -- a sense of uneasy watchfulness, which mistrusted all and gave solace to none.

Tuor's provisions had given out many days before, and they were now shepherding Voronwe's waybread as best they could. There was no food to be found on the road, not even edible plants. Their hunger gnawed at them, and their parched lips reminded them of their thirst. They slept little, though both were exhausted.

As the day wore on, the sky grew dark. Snow began to fall, not light and windblown as before, but hard and heavy. The curtain of night descended over the cold lands, and with it came a grinding frost. The Fell Winter had crossed the mountain fences and come with full strength into Beleriand. In the after-days, those who dwelt in that land would remember that the snow and ice that lay on the ground and the frequent storms that renewed the coverlet of white continued almost non-stop from the first of autumn until the end of spring. As for the North-lands, they were held fast in chains of frost and ice.

The unrelenting blizzards made Tuor and Voronwe's journey even more perilous. They had water enough now, but bitter cold tormented them, and the deep drifts and shifting winds concealed many dangers under their white folds. Tuor fared as best he could through the deeps and drifts, while Voronwe scouted ahead looking for hidden enemies or cloaked perils, running lightly on top of the snow as Elves can. For nine days Man followed Elf, slogging through the wind and snow, following the line of the Shadowy Mountains as they turned somewhat north of east in anticipation of the Pass of Sirion. They came to the streams of Teiglin and crossed them, then turning due east Voronwe led them away from the mountains until they came to the young Glithui. They crossed its frozen surface without difficulty, and fared on as best they could until they came to the black ice of the Malduin. By this time the numble feet of the Elf had given out fighting the snowstorms, and he joined the Man in plowing a path through the deep powder before them.

They stopped for a time to rest under the laden boughs on the west-bank of the stream within a little snow-banked hollow under the pines. They had no fire, and huddled close to each other for warmth. Both were cold, hungry, and exhausted. Tuor looked at the shivering Elf seated beside him. "I cannot go on like this much farther," he chattered. "I know not how it is for the Elves, but this fell cold will bring my death soon enough, if not to you."

"I feel it, even as you," Voronwe answered. "I too feel the bite of the Dark Lord's breath. This is an ill thing to be trapped between the Doom of Mandos and the Black Hand of Morgoth. Have I been spared a death at sea so I can drown under the snow?"

Tuor shook his head. "It is time to level with me, Voronwe. So far you have kept our road a secret, and I have not questioned your wisdom; that is, until this fell winter came upon us so suddendly. I need to know: where are we going, and are we still on the right path? I do not have much strength left to travel, so if I am to go on, I want to know how far and to where we are going."

The weary Elf looked at the haggard face of the Man beside him. There was no questioning the truth of Tuor's words. He could see that his companion had but a few days of strength left in him. Voronwe himself felt more weary than he had ever known, even in the tumults of the Sea. At last he spoke.

"I have led you on the straight path, as safely as I might," he said. "You wondered why we did not turn south before this?"

"Yes."

"Know this. Turgon does not dwell in the South, as many have guessed. The Hidden Realm lies in the North, above the borders of Beleriand, within two days journey by horse from the Gates of Angband. Do you not believe me?" Voronwe had stopped as a look of surprise came across Tuor's face.

"Forgive me," said Tuor. "It goes against all reason. I would not have guessed."

"Few have," said the Elf, "but even their guess has been denied. This has been to our favor. The Dark Lord does not think that his foes are wont to dwell so close to his gates, and in this his blindess works to our advantage. Already we draw near to the Hidden Gate; yet there are still many leagues to go, and we draw near to great peril and danger."

"What peril can be greater than this accursed snow?"

"We are not far from the river Sirion, which we must cross, and alongside it runs the old highway from the Pass of Sirion to the South, which is held by the Enemy. It once led from the old watchtower of Finrod to the borders of Nargothrond, but now serves as the high road for the armies of Morgoth. There the servants of the Dark Lord will walk and watch, and there lies the true test of our valor."

Tuor 7shook his head. "I once counted myself the hardiest of Men, and I have endured many winters in the mountains of the North; but I had a cave at my back and fire then. I doubt if my strength is enough to let me go much farther fighting the wind and snow. But if we must, we must. Let us trudge on until our hope and strength fails."

"We have no other choice," said Voronwe, "unless it be to lie down here and seek our final comfort in the snow-sleep."

All though the rest of that day they toiled on, fearing the wiles of the winter more than any foe ahead. To their comfort, the going became easier and the snow less deep the closer they got to the river Sirion. The winds abated somewhat, and the snowfall lessened to what seemed to them a gentle rain, given the days before. The Mountains of Shadow were now but a dark blur on the horizon behind them.

They came to the old Dwarf-road in the deepening dusk, lying at the bottom of a tall wooded bank. They were suddenly aware of harsh voices below. Peering out cautiously from the trees, they saw the red glow of a watchfire. A company of broad-shouldered soldiers with short bowed legs dressed in black mail were camped around the fire, which was in the middle of the road. Matted black hair hung from their swart faces, and they jabbered and argued among themselves as they kept watch on the old highway.

"Gurth an Glamhoth!" muttered Tuor. "Death to the Orcs! It is time our swords came out from under our cloaks. I would risk death for the mastery of that fire, and even their black meat I would consider a prize."

"No!" hissed Voronwe. "On this road, only our cloaks must serve. Forget the fire, or forget Turgon. They are not alone, Tuor. Can your mortal eyes not see the distant flame of other watchposts both north and south? It is against the law of the Hidden Realm that any should approach its gates with foes at their heels, and I will not break that law. Rouse the Orcs, and I will leave you."

"Then let them be," said Tuor, "but may I yet live to see the day when I need not sneak aside from a handful of Orcs like a cowed dog."

"Come, then!" said Voronwe. "Debate no more, or they will smell us. Follow me!"

Together they crept southward down the high bank along the road, downwind of the watchfire. They walked until Voronwe judged them to be midway between the watchpost they had just passed and the next one down the road. There they stood for a long time, Tuor waiting silently as the keen senses of the Elf swept north and south, watching and listening for any foe.

"There are none moving on the road," Voronwe whispered. He peered into the gloom and shuddered. "The air is evil," he muttered. "Over yonder lies the goal of our quest and hope of life, yet death walks between."

"Death is all around us," said Tuor. "I have strength left only for the shortest road. Here I must cross, or perish." He unfurled his cloak, a blurred shadow in the dim light, and motioned to Voronwe. "I will trust to the mantle of Ulmo, and you too shall walk under its cover. Now I will lead the way!"

All was still as they made ready. The cold wind sighed as it swept down the old Dwarf-road, then suddenly it too fell silent. Tuor felt a change in the air, as if the breath of Morgoth had failed for a while, and faint as a memory from the Sea came a breeze from the West. As a grey mist on the wind they ran over the stony street and into a thicket on the eastern side.

At once came a wild cry from nearby. It was answered by many others along the borders of the road. A horn blared shrilly, and there was the sound of running feet, but Tuor never stopped moving. He had learned enough of the tongue of the Orcs in his captivity to know the meaning of their cries. The Orc-sentinels had scented and heard them, but they had not yet been seen. The hunt was on. Desperately, with Voronwe at his side, he staggered up the long slope of the eastern bank. They made it to the top of the ridge, crawling with all possible speed under the thick brush growing there, then halted and listerned. Below and behind them, they could clearly hear the shouts and crashing sounds of the Orcs moving about, searching for them.

Beside them was a boulder that reared its head out of a tangle of heath and brambles. Beneath it was a small hollow, such that a hunted beast might hide inside and so hope to escape his pursuers, or at the least with its back to the stone to make its hunters pay dearly for their prize. Tuor pulled Vornwe into the dark shadow of the hole, and removing his cloak set it over them, concealing them from sight. Side by side under the mantle of Ulmo they lay and panted like tired foxes. They said not a word, but strained to hear the least sound from the hunters below.

The cries of the hunt grew fainter, and before long were lost. The Orcs did not pursue them up the ridge, but swept up and down the road in the space between the banks on either side. Stray fugitives were not their main concern; rather, spies and scouts of armed foes they feared. The Dark Lord had set a guard along the length of the highway from North to South for other purposes than to capture two stray fugitives seeking safe passage across his domain. He sought the Black Sword and any who might be with him; thus the Orc-sentinels had no freedom to pursue any others who fled off the road and into the wild lands beyond.

The long night passed, and once again a brooding silence lay over the empty lands. Tuor was asleep under Ulmo's cloak, weary and spent. Voronwe crept out from their hiding place, then stood alone on the summit of the ridge, piercing the shadows with his elven-eyes. At the break of day he woke Tuor, who creeping out saw that the weather had relented for a time, and the black clouds had rolled aside. A red dawn filled the eastern sky, and he could see far away before them the sharp, snow-capped peaks of strange mountains glinting against the eastern fire. Below them lay Sirion in a deep and shadowy vale. Beyond, wrapped in morning mists, stretched a grey land climbing for many miles from the river to the broken hills at the feet of the mountains.

"Alae! Ered en Echoriath, ered embar nin!" Voronwe intoned in a reverent voice. "Behold! The mountains of the Echoriath, the mountains of my home!" He gestured eastward. "Before us lies the land of Dimbar. Would that we were already there! Below those peaks our foes seldom dare to walk -- or so it was when I passed through, while the power of Ulmo was strong in Sirion. But all that may now be changed, save the peril of the river. It runs swift and deep through Dimbar, and is dangerous even for the Elves to cross. Nevertheless I have led you well, for not far ahead of us lies the Ford of Brithiach. It lies but a little way to the south, and is the place where the old East-road crossed, that which once ran all the way from Vinyamar into the far East, even to the great cities of the Dwarves in the Blue Mountains. None now dare to use it with the return of the Dark Lord save in desperate need, and long since it has faded into the wild, or dwindled to a track among the weeds and thorns."

They made their way warily down the east side of the ridge, and walked until they came to the curve of an ancient road that came from the East, following the northern eaves of the Forest of Brethil to join with the South-road many miles below where they had crossed. They were now drawing close to the river Sirion, the last hurdle to cross on the road to Turgon's realm. Tuor saw where the banks of the river had given way, falling into a wild expanse of crumbled rock. The river, choked by a great waste of stones, was spread out in a series of broad shallows, full of the murmur of water fretting its way across wide beds of stone and gravel. One could still make out where the old East-road dipped into the river before the gravel beds, and then resumed its way on the eastern bank. Farther down, the river gathered itself together again, and carving a new bed flowed away towards the forest, where it vanished into a deep, shifting mist under the trees that Tuor's eyes could not pierce.

He was all for crossing the ford at once, but Voronwe restrained him. "It is not safe to cross the Ford of Britiach in open day, not while any doubt of pursuit still remains."

"Then shall we sit here and rot?" said Tuor. "Such doubts will remain with us as long as the Dark Lord rules. Come! We must journey on, and the shadow of Ulmo will shield us from watchful eyes."

Still the Elf hesitated, and looked back westward. The road was deserted, and all about was quiet except for the sound of rushing water. He looked up into the grey winter sky. Tuor looked up as well but saw nothing, not even a bird on wing.

Suddenly Voronwe's face brightened with joy. "All is well!" he cried. "The Ford is still guarded from the enemies of Morgoth. The Orcs will not follow us here. We may press on under Ulmo's cloak without further doubt."

"What do your elven-eyes see?" said Tuor.

Voronwe laughed. "Short is the sight of mortal Men! I see the Eagles of the West high overhead, and they are coming here. Watch and see!"

Tuor stood and gazed with Voronwe at the skies above the ford. Soon, high in the air, he could make out three shapes coming from the distant mountains ahead. "These must indeed be great birds with strong wings to fly so high," thought Tuor to himself. The shapes grew as they descended in slow circles abvoe them, and now Tuor could make out their hue and form. The plumage of their mighty wings was brown, but their sharp beaks and great talons were of a golden hue. They came lower, and lower, until on a sudden they wheeled about, diving low and soaring over them with great speed. Before Voronwe could call to them, they turned with a wide sweep and a rushing of wings, then flew away northward along the line of the river.

"We may now cross in peace," said Voronwe. "If there are any Orcs nearby, they are now doubtless lying with their noses to the ground, cowering in fear. They will wait until the Eagles are long gone from sight."

They passed quickly over the old ford, often walking on the stones or wide shelves of flat rock like many shingles pressed together, or wading in the knee-deep shoals. The water was clear and very cold, and often they found ice covering the shallow pools, those whose waters had lost their way among the stones. Yet the river itself remained unfrozen, for not even the might of the Fell Winter could freeze the main flood of Sirion in that place. On the far side of the ford they turned northward, and Voronwe led them up the east bank of the river.

Not far from the ford they came to an old gully, the remnant of some broad stream long ago now dry and bare. At one time, though, it had been a swift torrent that had carved a deep channel into the plain from the north, coming from the mountains of the Echoriath and joined with Sirion just above the ford. It suddenly struck Tuor that it must have been the source of the rocks and borders that had made the ford, disturbing the once uninterrupted flow of the river.

"We found it!" Voronwe exclaimed. "Beyond hope, we found it! See? This is the mouth of the Dry River, the pathway to the Hidden Realm. This is the road we must take." They clambered into the gully, then began to walk up its course in the dim light on the last leg of their long journey to Turgon's realm.

"If this is an road, then an Orc-path makes a highway," said Tuor, as he stumbled against the stones in the growing darkness. "It is an evil one for those who are weary."

"But such it is, and it leads to Turgon," said Voronwe.

"If that is so," said Tuor, "then all the more do I marvel that its entrance lies open and unguarded. I was expecting a great gate with a strong guard, or something of the sort."

"That you shall see," said Voronwe, "but we are not there yet. This is but the approach."

The walls of the gully grew higher the longer they walked. The slope of the land rose the closer they came to the mountains. The walls were now over their head, and promised to get steeper the farther they went. As they clambered over the stones in the fading light, Voronwe told Tuor about the Dry River and the last leg of their journey. "A road I named it," he said, "yet none have walked it for many lifetimes of Men save messengers such as myself, few and secret. It lies in the open, do you say? Would you have known it was so, had I not shown you? You would have taken it to be the work of the weather and the waters of the wild long ago. And what of the Eagles? Few among men have gazed upon the Eagles of the Lords of the West, whose eyries were in the mountains of the Crissaegrim long before we came there. They alone out outside our folk know of our dwelling, and guard the Hidden Realm and the skies above it, though as yet the Enemy has not dared to fly into the high airs. They bring much news to the King of all that moves in the lands outside his realm. Had we been Orcs, doubt not that we would have been seized and cast down upon the rocks from a great height."

"No doubt," said Tuor, grimacing as he stubbed his toe yet again on a rock hidden in the shadows. "But if that is so, then perhaps news of our approach will come to Turgon quicker than we. Whether that is good or ill you alone can say."

"Neither good nor ill," said Voronwe. "We cannot pass the Hidden Gate unmarked whether we are expected or not. If we do make it there, then the guards will need no report that we are not Orcs; but if we are to pass, then we shall need a greater plea than that. You do not know the peril that we will face beyond the Gate, Tuor. Do not say that I did not warn you of what might happen. May the power of the Lord of Waters be shown indeed! In that hope alone I have been willing to guide you, and if it fails then we shall surely die."

"Hush," said Tuor. "Speak no more. Death in the wild is certain, and death at the gate remains doubtful for all your words. Lead me still on!"

They went on for many miles clambering over the stones of the Dry River until they could go no further. Evening brought darkness into the deep cleft, so they climbed out on the eastern bank. The daylight had waned, and the Vale of Sirion was shrouded in shadow. They had come a long way, and were now well within the tumbled hills that lay at the foot of the mountains of the Echoriath. Looking up, Tuor saw that they towered above him different than any other mountains he had seen in his many journeys. These had sides like sheer walls, and their precipices rose one behind the other like the layers of some tall building made from great blocks of polished stone.

Voronwe led him to a shallow cave in the side of a small hill that looked over the lonely slopes of Dimbar, and there they lay hid for the night. Together they ate the last crumbs of their food and emptied what little remained in Tuor's water flask. They were cold and weary, but they did not sleep. It had taken them thirty-seven days to make the perilous journey from Mount Taras to the Echoriath, from the shores of the Sea to the Dry River above Sirion, and by the power of Ulmo they had escaped both the Doom of Mandos and the Shadow of the Black Hand.

When the first glimmer of day shone weak and grey amid the mists of Dimbar, they made their way back into the Dry River. Soon after its course turned eastward, winding up the walls of the mountains, and straight before them loomed a great precipice, rising sheer and sudden from a steep slope upon which grew a tangled thicket of thorn trees. The channel ran right up and into the thicket, where it was dark as night. There they were forced to stoop down and crawl on all fours, for the thorns grew far down the sides of the gully, and their interwoven branches grew so close that it was hard going fighting their way through the thicket.

Finally, after much labor, they came to the cliff wall behind the thicket. There they found an opening like the mouth of a tunnel carved by swiftly moving water flowing from the heart of the mountains. They went in, Tuor following Voronwe with his hand on his shoulder, bent over somewhat due to the low roof of the tunnel. It was pitch black inside, and only the eyes of the Elf could pierce the darkness. They walked on in this manner for what seemed like a long while, step by step, until presently they felt the ground grow level beneath their feet and free from loose stones. They seemed to have come to some open space around and above them, so they halted and stood up, breathing deeply and listening in the dark. The air seemed fresh and wholesome, but all was silent, and not even the drip of water could be heard.

Tuor sensed that Voronwe was troubled for some reason. "Is this the Gate," he whispered, "or have we passed it by?"

"No," the Elf answered, keeping his voice low. "Yet I wonder. It strikes me strange that any incomer should come this far unchallenged. I fear some stroke in the dark."

Their whispers aroused the sleeping echoes within. They enlarged and multiplied, running across the distant roof and along the unseen walls, hissing and murmuring as the sound of many stealthy voices. They died, but straightway a voice sounded in the darkness. It spoke to them first in a strange tongue unknown to Tuor yet like that of the Elves, and then in the Grey-elven tongue, though in a curioius manner like that of one dredging up some long-forgotten memory.

"Stand where you are!" it commanded. "Stir not, or you will die, be you friend or foe."

"We are friends," said Voronwe.

"Then do as you are told," said the voice.

The echoes of the voice trailed away into silence. Tuor and Voronwe stood still, not daring to move a muscle. It seemed to Tuor that many slow minutes passed. There was a fear in his heart such as no other peril of the road had brought. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the faint echoes of marching feet, which inside the cave grew to a tramping as loud as the stone boots of a host of trolls. Suddenly an elven-lantern was unhooded, and its bright blue beam was focused on Voronwe before him. Nothing else could Tuor see in that darkness save for the brillance of that light. For a moment they were held in the glare of the lantern, and as they were held so the voice was heard again. "Show your faces!"

Together they cast back their hoods. Voronwe's face shone in the light, hard and clear as if carved from stone. Tuor marveled to see its beauty, even as the Elf-mariner spoke to the voice in the shadows before them.

"Know you not whom you see? I am Voronwe son of Aranwe of the House of Fingolfin, a servant of Turgon even as you. Have I been forgotten in my own home after all these years? Far beyond the thought of Middle-earth have I wandered, yet still I remember your voice, Elemmakil."

"Then Voronwe will also remember the laws of his land," said the voice. "He has the right to return, since he went forth at the King's command; but no right to bring with him a stranger. By that deed his right is void, and he must be led as a prisoner to the king's judgement. As for the stranger, he shall be slain or held captive at the judgement of the guard. Lead him to me so that I may judge him."

Voronwe took Tuor's hand and led him towards the light, and as they drew near they saw many armed and mail-clad High-elves step out of the darkness and surround them with drawn swords. The one that Voronwe named Elemmakil, he who held the lamp and led the others, looked long and close at them.

"This is a strange thing you have done, Voronwe," he said as he looked them over, speaking to the Elf-mariner in High-elven. "We were friends once upon a time. This is not like you, as I remember your ways. Why do you force me to choose between friendship and the king's law? If you had led here one of the High-elves from the other houses, that would be trouble enough. But a mortal Man? Why did you show a mortal the Hidden Way? Now he will never walk free again, knowing this secret; and as one not of our kindred that has dared to come within I should slay him, even though he may be your friend and dear to you."

"In the wide lands beyond, Elemmakil, many strange chances occur, and tasks unlooked-for may be laid upon one," answered Voronwe. "The wanderer may set forth, but he returns other than when he left. What I have done, I have done under command greater than the law of the Guard. The King alone should judge me, and him that comes with me."

With that Tuor feared no longer, and spoke aloud in the Grey-elven tongue. "I come with Voronwe son of Aranwe because he was appointed to be my guide by the Lord of Waters. For this he was delivered from the wrath of the Sea and the Doom of Mandos. I bear from Ulmo an errand to the son of Fingolfin, and to him will I speak it."

Elemmakil turned to face Tuor, and there was open astonishment written on his face. "A mortal speaks with the Dweller in the Deep?" he said. "Who are you, and where do you come from?"

"I am Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador, and the kindred of Hurin the Steadfast. These names, I am told, are not unknown in the Hidden Realm. I have come from Hithlum through Nevrast and across the northern wastes of the Falas through many perils to seek it."

"From Nevrast?" said Elemmakil. "None have dwelt there since our people departed."

"That is true, said Tuor. "Empty and cold stands the courts of Vinyamar, and the city now lies in ruins before the slopes of Mount Taras, yet from there I come. Bring me to the one that build those halls of old."

The Elf-warrior looked down for a moment, still trying to cope with what he had just heard. "In manners so great it is not my place to judge, he said, then looked back up at them. "I will lead you to the light where more may be revealed, and I will deliver you to the Warden of the Great Gate."

He spoke a command, and then Tuor and Voronwe were set between tall guards, two before and three behind them. Elemmakil led them from the cavern into what seemed to be a straight passage, and they walked for a long time over a level floor until a pale light gleamed ahead. They came to a wide arch with tall pillars on either side hewn into the rock, beneath which hung a great portcullis of crossed wooden bars, curiously carved and studded with iron nails. It rose silently at Elemmakil's touch, and then the company passed through.

The light of day greeted them but a short distance beyond. Tuor saw that they stood at the end of a sheer ravine, the likes of which he had never seen in all his wanderings in the wild mountains of the North. Compared to this, the Rainbow Cleft was but a shallow ditch. It was as if the Powers had ripped the mountains asunder in the Eldest of Days, and the sides of the ravine rose sheer and tall to unguessable heights. Far overhead ran a ribbon of sky, and against its deep blue stood black peaks and jagged pinnacles, remote and hard, cruel as spears. Those walls were too high for the winter sun to overlook. Though the morning sun was now full, faint stars could still be seen glimmering above the mountaintops. In the ravine below, all was dim save for the pale light of the elven-lamps set along the stream bed. It rose at a steep angle with the floor of the ravine towards the northeast, and beside the streambed Tuor saw a wide road lined and paved with stone, winding upward until it vanished in the shadows beyond.

"You have passed the First Gate, the Gate of Wood," said Elemmakil. "There lies our way. Now we must hasten."

How far that deep road ran Tuor could not guess, and as he stared onward a great weariness came over him like a cloud. A chill wind hissed over the faces of the stones, and he drew his cloak about him. "Cold blows the wind from the Hidden Realm!" he cried.

"Yes, it does," said Voronwe. "To a stranger it might seem that pride has made the servants of Turgon pitiless. Long and hard are the leagues of the Seven Gates to the worn and weary."

"If our law were less stern, then long ago guile and hate would have entered and destroyed us," said Elemmakil. "That you know well. Here there is no food, and a stranger may not go back through a gate he has passed. Endure for a little while longer, and your plight will be eased at the Second Gate."

"It is well," said Tuor, and he went forward as he was bidden. After a while he turned and looked back, and saw that Elemmakil alone followed with Voronwe. The Elf-warrior caught his gaze. "The guards are no longer needed," he said, reading the Man's thought. "There is no escape for Elf or Man from the Orfalch Echor, and no returning back the way they came."

They continued to ascend the steep way -- sometimes by long stairs, sometimes by winding slopes -- under the daunting shadow of the cliffs, until they came to a halt some half-league form the Gate of Wood. Tuor saw before them a great wall built across the ravine from side to side barring their way, set in the middle with two stout towers of stone. Between them was a great archway set above the road, but it seemed that the masons who built the wall had blocked the arch with a single mighty stone. Its dark, polished face gleamed in the light of a white lamp that hung above the crest of the arch.

"Here stands the Second Gate, the Gate of Stone," said Elemmakil. Going up to it, he set his hand on the rock and gently pushed it. It turned on an unseen pivot until its edge was towards them and the way open on either side. They passed through into a courtyard where stood many armed guards clad in grey. No word was spoken, but Elemmakil led his charges to a chamber beneath the northern tower. There food and wine were brought to them, and they were permitted to rest for a little while. "Scant may this fare seem," he said to Tuor, "but if your claim be proved, then hereafter it shall be richly amended."

"It is enough," said Tuor as he savored the taste of his rations. "Faint were the heart that needed better healing." He feasted on the fare of the High-elves, and such refreshment did he find that soon he was eager to go on.

They traveled for a while until they came to a wall yet higher and stronger than before, and in it was set the Third Gate of the Orfalch Echor. The Gate of Bronze was a set of bronze-plated double doors upon which were inscribed many figures and strange signs. They were framed within a great wall with three square towers set on its topmost courses, roofed and clad with copper that shone like torches along the wall. As before, they passed in silence through the gate, and in the court beyond passed another company of guards, greater in number than those at the Second Gate. These were arrayed in mail that glowed like dull fire in the light of the lamps, and they were armed with red-bladed axes. These were not High-elves, but Grey-elves, no doubt those who once had dwelt in Nevrast long ago. They parted soundlessly and allowed the trio to pass them by.

Beyond the Third Gate the road rose at its steepest slope, and as they toiled up its courses Tuor saw the wall of the Fourth Gate looming dark above them. At length they came to the Gate of Iron, which stood above the others they had passed, yet well below the sheer heights of the mountain walls. High and black was its wall, and it had no lamps set upon it. The couse of the wall was broken by four tall towers, and between the two inmost ones above the gate was set an image of a great eagle wrought in iron, alighting upon a mountain from the high airs. The gate itself was wrought of iron woven and worked into the shapes of trees, with writhing roots and woven branches laden with leaves and flowers. A light came through the traceries of the gate as it were the pale light of the Moon through the forest boughs, and as they drew close Tuor saw how this was done. It was not one gate, but three set in line within the thick wall, such that they appeared as one to those who came upon the road. Their light was not that of the Moon, but the bright light of day.

They passed through the Fourth Gate and found the road running level before them, a great height above where it had started in the cavern below. Though Tuor did not know it at the time, he now stood within the crown and heart of the mountains of the Echoriath. Beyond their great heights fell swiftly down towards the inner hills. Still, before him he could see the sides of the ravine becoming less sheer, and opening wide on either side of the road. Its long shoulders were mantled with snow, and the light of the sky reflected in those long white mirrors filled the mists in the air with a white sheen of moonlight. They passed through the ranks of the guards that were arrayed before the gate. These were dressed in black, with black mantles and black armor, carrying black shields. Their faces were masked by black helms bearing lowered visors worked as an eagle's beak. Elemmakil led them onto the road beyond, and they trod the long and level way to the Gate of Silver.

The walls of the Fifth Gate were built of white marble, low and broad, with a trellis of wrought silver set as a parapet between five great globes of marble. Behind the trellis on top of the wall stood many archers robed in white. The gate was made of silver and pearl shaped as three parts of a circle, bearing a likeness to the Moon; but above it upon the midmost globe was set an image of the Elder Tree, Telperion the Father of the Moon, wrought of silver and malachite, with flowers made from the great pearls of Balar. Beyond the Gate was a wide court paved with marble, green and white, and on either hand stood a hundred archers clad in silver mail and white-crested helms. They passed through and waked upon a long white road that led straight to the Sixth Gate.

The Gate of Gold was the last of the gates built by Turgon before the Nirnaeth, and was built like the Gate of Silver; save that its wall was of yellow marble, its parapet of red gold, and there were six globes set on its upperworks. Between the midmost globes stood an image of the younger tree, Laurelin the Mother of the Sun, set on a golden pyramid with flowers wrought of topaz in long clusters hanging on chains of gold. The gate itself was adorned with many-rayed discs of gold in likeness of the Sun, set amid devices of garnet and topaz and yellow diamond. In the court beyond were arrayed three hundred archers with longbows clad in gilded mail, with tall golden plumes rising from their helms, carrying great round shields the color of red flame.

Beyond the Sixth Gate sunlight fell upon the road, for the walls of the snow-covered hills were low on either side. Elemmakil hastened forward, leading his charges on, for it was but a short way to the last of the Seven Gates across the Orfalch Echor: the Great Gate, also known as the Gate of Steel, built for Turgon by his greatest craftsman after the return of the Elven-king's host from the Nirnaeth. (17)

No wall stood there, but on either side set next to the walls of the cleft stood two round towers of great height with many windows, tapering in seven stories to turrets of bright steel. Between them stretched a mighty fence of steel that glittered cold and white in the bright light of day. Spaced evenly within were seven great pillars of steel, tall with the height and girth of young trees, but ending in a bitter spike that rose to the sharpness of a needle. Between each pillar were seven times seven rods of steel fitted with heads like the broad blades of spears, and woven with these were seven crossbars of steel. In the center of the fence, set above the midmost pillar and the greatest of the seven, there stood an image of the helm of Turgon, the crown of the Hidden Realm, set about with diamonds.

Tuor could see no gate or door in the mighty hedge of steel before him, but as he drew near there came through the spaces between its bars, as it seemed to him, a dazzling light. He shaded his eyes, standing still in dread and wonder, as Elemmakil went forward and struck one of the bars. No gate opened to his touch, but the fence sang like a harp of many strings, vibrating with clear and harmonious notes that rang from tower to tower.

Straightway there issued riders from the towers, but before those of the north tower came one riding upon a white horse, and he dismounted a short distance away. High and noble as was Elemmakil, greater and more lordly was the Warden of the Great Gate, he who now stood before them. He was clad from head to toe in silver mail, and upon his shining helm there was a steel spike tipped with a great diamond. He stopped before them, removed his shield from his arm, and handed it to his esquire. As his esquire took the shield it shimmered as it were bedewed with drops of rain, for it was set with a thousand studs of crystal that caught the bright light of day within their facets.

"Behold the Lord of the Fountains, mighty among the warriors of our folk," said Elemmakil. He saluted the Warden and said, "Here I bring before you Voronwe son of Aranwe returning from Balar. With him is the stranger whom he has led here, the one who demands to see the King."

The Warden turned to Tuor, but the Man drew his cloak about him and stood silent, facing the Elf-lord. It seemed to Voronwe that a mist now mantled Tuor's form. The Man grew before his eyes, so that the peak of his high hood rose above the helm of the Elf-lord like the crest of a great sea wave riding to land. The Warden bent his bright glance upon Tuor, and the two stood there eyeing each other for a space. After a long time the Warden spoke gravely, in the Grey-elven tongue, without a trace of accent. "You have come to the Last Gate. Know then that no stranger who passes it shall ever go out again, save by the door of death."

"Speak not ill-boding!" said Tuor. "If the messenger of the Lord of Waters go by that door, then all those who dwell here will follow him. Lord of the Fountains, hinder not the messenger of the Lord of Waters!"

Voronwe and all those who stood near looked again in wonder at Tuor, marveling at his words and voice. To Voronwe it seemed as if he heard a great voice, as of one who called from afar off; but to Tuor it seemed that he listened to himself speaking, as if another spoke with his mouth. For a while the Warden stood silent, looking at Tuor, but the other Elves noted that a look of awe slowly filled his face, as if in the grey shadow of Tuor's cloak he saw visions from far away. Then he bowed to Tuor, and going to the fence laid hands upon it. A set of gates opened inward on either side of the pillar bearing the crown, and Tuor passed through the Seventh Gate.

He walked until he came to a high sward that looked out over the valley beyond, and as he gazed over it his eyes were drawn to a vision of light set in the middle of the plain below. He saw before him a great city with walls of white stone, flushed with the rose of dawn amid the white snow. So entranced was he by that sight that for long he could not look at anything else. He stood speechless at the edge of the sward, his hand upon his breast, staring in silence at that which he had long sought: the Hidden City of the High-elves, where Turgon and his people dwelt.

Silent upon either side stood several companies of Elves. All of the seven kinds of the Seven Gates were represented there, but their captains and chieftains sat upon white and grey horses. They watched Tuor as he stood at the edge of the sward, but even as they did his cloak fell down and vanished, and he stood now before them in the arms and armor of Nevrast. Many were there who had seen Turgon himself set these things upon the wall behind the high seat of Vinyamar, and all the Elves looked upon Tuor in wonder and amazement. It was the Warden who at last broke their silence. "No further proof is needed," he said in a soft voice. "Even the name he claims as the son of Huor matters less than the clear truth of the armor that he wears. Let none doubt this Man no more. He comes from Ulmo himself."

So it was that on the eighteenth day of the eleventh month, in the four hundred ninety-fifth year since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth, Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador came to the Hidden City of the High-elves, which lay within the peaks of the Crissaegrim above the Vale of Sirion. He came in the year of the Fell Winter, when all Beleriand lay under ice and snow from autumn until the following spring; from the doors of Turgon's hall in Vinyamar to the Seven Gates within the cleft of the Orfalch Echor, built to guard that way against Morgoth's folk. He came at the bidding of the Dweller in the Deep, for Ulmo had words for the King of the Hidden Realm, and Tuor was his chosen messenger to bring the counsel of the Lord of Waters before the throne of Turgon. He escaped the Doom, and passed beyond the Shadow, and with Voronwe son of Aranwe as his guide found the Hidden Way, and passed within: the last hope of the Free Peoples against the might of the Dark Lord of the North. (18)

Chapter 6 - Tuor Comes to Gondolin

Tuor gazed for a long time at the Hidden City of the High-elves, shining in the midst of the snow-covered vale below. It reminded him strongly of the beautiful city he had seen in his dreams, save that there was no sandy beach, and he stood inside the cleft and not before it. Still, the likeness was unmistakable. It was as if his dream had been brought to life -- the white city on the hill before the deep-cloven cleft cut through sheer mountain heights, the vision of his longing and desire standing tall and proud on the plain below. It was enough to take one's breath away.

After a while he turned and faced the Warden of the Great Gate. "Who are you," he asked, "and what is the name of that fair city below?"

"I am Ecthelion, Lord of the Host of the Fountains, Warden of the Seventh Gate," said the Elf-lord. "That which you see before you is the City of Seven Names, in which all who war with Morgoth may find hope."

"And what are its names?" asked Tuor. Ecthelion started to answer, but stopped as a soft chanting arose from the lips of Voronwe.

Behold! The City of Seven Names!

The city renowned in song!

The dwelling-place of the High-elven folk,

their refuge these centuries long!

A city of stone set high on a hill:

on its summit stands Gondobar,

where dwell the High-elves by Turgon's will

in their home named Gondothlimbar.

The watchtower set on the lonely hight,

Garstirin, which never shall fall;

the fence of stone, the redoubt of might,

Gondost, the unbreakable wall;

a bulwark of strength that none dare profane,

Garthurion, the fortrified hall;

yet beautiful shines the flower of the plain,

glorious Lothengriol.

I am the City of Seven Names,

which few other eyes have seen;

for I am the Rock of the Music of Water,

the city of Gondolin. (19)

Tuor could hear the reverence in those words as the names of the city rolled off Voronwe's tongue. When he finished chanting, he looked at Tuor. "A song made by my mother's people in memory of the day when they first beheld the city of Turgon," he said. He then turned to Ecthelion, saying, "Forgive me, lord, if I have usurped your place. It has been many years since I gazed upon the walls of my home."

"You are forgiven," said the Warden. "I felt the same as you when I marched at the head of my host through the Great Gate after our defeat in the Nirnaeth, and beheld the welcome arms of the city waiting below." He then looked at Tuor. "Gondolin is the name we use in our daily speech. So the city was named by the King when it was built, and so it is known to the world outside. In the tongue of the Grey-elves it means the Hidden Rock, but in ours we say it as Ondolinde, the Rock of Singing Water."

"And why is that?" asked Tuor.

"You will see," said Ecthelion, "when you are come to the Hill of Guard at the city's feet."

"Then you will not go before us, lord?" said Voronwe.

"An escort I will provide, but I cannot come with you," said the Warden. "My duty as Warden of the Great Gate holds me at my post even as it does Elemmakil, commanding the defense of the Hidden Way. You must go alone to the court of the King, and there he will judge your deeds, be they for good or ill." He turned to Elemmakil and nodded. The Elf-warrior bowed in reply, then turned and left, walking back the way they came, returning to his post at the Outer Gate.

Ecthelion gave a series of orders in the strange Elf-tongue Tuor had first heard in the cavern of the Dry River; at once familiar and yet unknown, as if it were long sundered from the speech of the Grey-elves he had learned in his youth. Trumpets were sounded in the towers of the Great Gate, echoing in the surrounding hills, sounding a call that had not been heard in the Hidden Realm for well-nigh a hundred and eighty years: the arrival of incomers through the Orfalch Echor. There was a hush, then a trumpet was heard sounding from the city walls, answering the call of the Gate. By now Ecthelion had assembled an armed escort of a dozen Elves mounted on horseback, standing at the ready, awaiting their lord's command. Two horses were brought up for the new arrivals: a grey one for Tuor, and a white one for Voronwe. The Warden bid them mount and ride with the escort down the road towards the city.

"The King awaits you in Gondolin," said Ecthelion. "What judgement awaits you there I do not know, yet other shall be your fate that to be cast down the Caragdur, I deem. (20) I have no doubt that the day will yet come when I shall gaze upon your faces again."

There was a small but gentle slope they rode down in their descent from the Great Gate, and then they were riding across the Vale of Tumladen, surrounding on all sides by their escort. They were now on the outer edges of what seemed to Tuor a vast bowl caught within the peaks of the Echoriath. The road ran in a straight line towards Gondolin, and it bore a strong likeness to the one he had walked on the last stage of his journey to Vinyamar; save that this one was unsullied by the elements and well-kept. Now and again smaller roads or footpaths met with it, joining with it or crossing its course, but never did the riders turn aside from their destination. The hooves of their horses clattered on the paving stones as they road towards the city at a brisk trot, never breaking stride.

The vale itself was marvelously smooth and level, broken here and there by piles of boulders and rock-strewn mounds, or scattered hollows with rocky beds. (21) The largest of these Tuor had spotted from above in the Orfalch Echor: a large, dry lakebed somewhat north of the road, lying halfway between the city and the feet of the northeastern heights. Directly south of the city was a large lake formed as a perfect circle, and beyond a river snaked away to the hills in the southeast. The snow-covered vale caught the light of the morning sun and sent it back into the air in a low, white glow wonderous to behold. Still, the radiance of the plain was dwarfed by that of the city, a shining white crown upon a tall, sable hill. Its white marble towers and walls gleamed in the sunlight with a dazzling sheen, in sharp contrast to the faint glow of the plain. Rising from the midst of the city was a single white tower, piercing the winter sky like some giant spear thrust upward by a firm, black hand. Tuor judged its tip to be at least four hundred feet above the floor of the vale. "How came this place to be?" he asked Voronwe, as they rode down the long course of the road.

"In the early days of our exile in Middle-earth, the High-elves established many realms through the wide reaches of Beleriand," said Voronwe. "Hithlum was one of these. So too were Nevrast and Himlad, Dorthonion and Thargelion, and many more. All these are gone now save Nargothrond and this place, and the Grey-elven kingdom of Doriath, oldest of the Elf-realms of Beleraind. The Lord of Waters foresaw this, for he came to Turgon and his cousin Finrod in their dreams, and warned them to prepare places of refuge should the might of the Dark Lord prove too strong. Finrod established himself in the caverns of Narog, and Turgon found this place with the help of Ulmo. He raised the city in secret, over the span of a lifetime among Men, and once it was completed we left our homes in Nevrast and came here."

"So Ulmo showed me when we spoke at Vinyamar," said Tuor. "But how came this vale in the first place? I have never see anything like it in all my wanderings."

"And perhaps you never shall again, unless your fate leads you into the icy north and to the ruins of the Dark Lord's first fortress," answered the Elf. "It is said that others like it might be found beneath the ice. This place," and he waved with his arm as he spoke, "was made in the Eldest of Days during the Shaping of the World, when the Lords of the West strove with the Dark Lord for mastery over the very fabric of the world itself. He was greater then, far greater than he is now, and he alone strove against the combined might of the Valar. Once this place was a mighty mountain, perhaps as great as the towers of Thangorodrim, but it was broken apart by their strife, and only the black hill of Amon Gwareth remained.

"As the ages rolled, its blasted foundations filled with water from the rains and broken streams, forming a great lake, until the day when the Valar came forth again into Middle-earth in the Elder Days, to save the newborn Elves from the dominion of the Dark Lord. It is said that the Orfalch Echor was cloven in that terrible battle by a stray bolt crashing to earth, cast from the walls of Utummno. The waters of the lake found their way out through the cracks at the bottom of the cleft, and burst forth from the wall of the Echoriath in a great rush and flood. On that day, and for many days thereafter, the bed of the Dry River was laid as the pent-up waters from the hills rushed down to join with Sirion. Now they are gone, leaving only the vale and the black hill and the tumbled rocks on the plain; but none knew of this place until the Lord of Waters showed it to Turgon, long before the coming of your fathers into Beleriand."

Tuor thought for a moment. "You say that Morgoth was greater in those days. How so?" But before Voronwe could reply, one of their guards interrupted. "Silence, mortal. We do not name the Dark Lord in this place. Now be still, and in time your questions will be answered, if the King's judgement goes well with you."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. It was but a light day's march from the Great Gate to the dark slopes of Amon Gwareth, but for the mounted riders the journey passed quickly by. On their left were many well-ordered fields and orchards fenced by large hedgerows sticking up through the blanket of snow. On their right Tuor saw an open field, in the middle of which sat the lake he had espied from above. Its edges were frozen, but the fountain in its center still flowed strong and unhindered, its plume shooting over one hundred sixty feet into the air. In later days he would learn both the name and the tale of that marvelous spring: Eithel Ninui, the Fountain of Tears.

They were now close to the way leading up to the West-gate of the city. As they drew near, Tuor heard the sound of water running over rock, and saw the shimmer of pools half-frozen at the foot of the hill. He looked again at the glistening black rock of Amon Gwareth, and then saw the source of that sheen. The slopes were being bathed in an ever-flowing sheet of falling water, issuing from springs and portals set all about the upper courses of the hill. This flowed down the slopes into a wide, curbed basin or moat that surrounded the base of the hill. Its surface glittering like crystal amid the winter snows, as it caught the waters of the hill and fed them into a river snaking away across the plain towards the southwest. There were tall columns and groves of trees set before the outer bank of the basin. As they rode among them, Tuor saw evergreens and birch, and saw also trees the like of which he had never seen before. These were taller than their fellows and beautiful to behold. They were of great girth and height, and shaded the waters with many boughs. Tuor would have asked their name, but remembered the warning of the guard earlier upon the road and held his tongue. The riders crossed over the ring of the basin over a graceful stone bridge, then came to the base of the hill. From there, they began their ascent up Amon Gwareth to the West-gate of Gondolin.

The sun was already riding high in the sky when they began riding up a broad road cut into the side of the hill. It was paved with many fine stones set close together, such that the horses rode upon it with no difficulty. It was bordered with stone curbs worked with skill, those on the edge being wider that that by the face and set with a rail, as if meant for walking. It curved up and somewhat northward, winding its way up to the tall, white fences of the city above. Also, the road remained clear despite the flow of the waters from the hill. At that time Tuor could not see how it was done, though he guessed at hidden gutters or outlets. Halfway up the hill the road rose somewhat sharper, as it ran beside a large, flat section of the face of the hill. The road was steep, but less so than the hill itself, which tapered up sharply from the floor of the plain with its sheer, water-swathed sides. Without the road, it would have been impossible to ascend Amon Gwareth. The rock itself appeared smooth as glass, of a black stone similar to obsidian, and coupled with the ever-flowing water across its surface made the prospect of such a climb a slippery proposition at best. The road ran all the way up to the summit of Amon Gwareth, where it suddenly turned and led straight into the West-gate of Gondolin.

The riders came to a halt before the raised portcullis and massive steel doors of the West-gate, gleaming golden in the sunlight from above. There was a company of spearmen in golden mail standing within the gate arrayed behind their captain, who was mounted on a horse before them. A great crowd of Elves thronged about them, both within and behind the arch of the gate, milling about on the stones of the broad courtyard beyond. Tuor barely listened as his escort exchanged words with the captain of the Elf-company in the strange Elven-tongue he had first heard in the cave, for his eyes were on the sights around him.

The walls of Gondolin were of a great height and exceeding thickness, made as it seemed of smooth white marble without blemish. So were the tall towers, which were spaced at regular intervals along the entire course of the wall. Two of these were before him now, one on either side of the gate, with white banners flying from their high turrets. Yet another host of Elves looked down upon him from above, mingling with the guards that were posted along the high rim of the city wall. He could also see Elven faces crammed into every slot and window in both the wall and tall towers that afforded any vantage point from which to behold the incomers.

Above and before him he saw the many faces of the Elves of Gondolin. In their host he beheld many Grey-elves, no doubt the ancient kindred of Annael's folk from Nevrast, who had left their land to join with Turgon's folk. These were the more numerous of the folk that gazed upon him. He also saw the bright faces and shining eyes of the High-elven folk, mingling freely with the Grey-elves and bearing the same looks of wonder and awe as their kindred. Some of the Elves seemed as Voronwe, of both kindreds, with the Grey-elven look but with High-elven eyes. These seemed second only to the Grey-elves in their numbers. All of them were speaking to one another in hushed and excited whispers. Tuor could not make out what most of them were saying, for it was in the unknown Elf-tongue; but now and again he could discern a little from the few among them using the Grey-elven. Fortunately two of these were close to him, both maidens, and it was their words he remembered long after.

"Do you see?" said a maiden of the Grey-elves to her High-elven companion. "He wears the livery of Nevrast!" Age was difficult to judge among the Elves, but Tuor's youth in Mithrim had given him some skill at this. She reminded him of the old wise-women of Annael's folk, although she was fairer and her face unmarred by sorrow. "Almost four centuries ago was that array set behind the high seat of Turgon in the great hall of Vinyamar. Now one bears it to this place -- and a Man, of all people!"

"Forget not the High-elven in your excitement, old one!" said her companion in a hushed tone, also speaking in Grey-elven. Tuor's guess had been right. "I would not believed it myself, if it were not here before my eyes." She looked at Tuor in amazement. She was much younger than her companion, her face lit with the light and beauty of the High-elven folk and the exuberance of youth. Tuor breathed in sharply. This was the first time he had ever seen a young Elf-maiden. "What does this mean?" he faintly heard her say.

Tuor never found out if the Elf-maiden got her answer, for at that moment Voronwe touched him on the shoulder. "Come, Tuor," he said. "Our escort has been changed. We will now ride to the King's Square with a company from the King's own host." By this time Ecthelion's warriors had already departed through the West-gate, and were riding down the long slope of the road back to the surface of the plain.

Their new escort closed ranks about them. The Elf-captain rode up before them, his arms and armor glittering in the sunlight and superbly mounted on his white horse. His footmen bore gilded helms and hauberks, carrying long tapered shields like that Tuor himself bore. Unlike his, theirs were set with the device Tuor had seen on the doors of Turgon's hall in Vinyamar: a many-rayed sun set within a diamond. It was the badge of the House of Fingolfin, most royal of all royal houses of the High-elves in Middle-earth. The Elf-captain saluted, then spoke to them. "I am Ingold, captain of the Eighteenth Company of the King's Host. I am bid by my lord to bring the messenger of Ulmo to the King's Square before the great stairs of his palace, where he will meet with you." (22)

"We are honored to meet with the King," said Voronwe, and both he and Tuor bowed their heads in reply. Tuor did not answer, for he was still overcome by the awe with which the crowds had greeted his arrival.

"Stand aside, so the incomers can be brought down the King's Way!" Ingold called to the crowd. They parted before the great court of the gate, revealing a wide street that ran in a straight line towards the white tower in the center of the city. WIth the Elf-captain leading the way and escorted by his warriors on foot, Tuor and Voronwe rode at a slow and deliberate trot towards the gate of the King's Square.

Tuor never forgot that ride down the broad course of the King's Way, as Ingold had named it, traveling due east from the court of the West-gate towards the King's Square in the center of the city. The Elves of Gondolin thronged the buildings and walks on both sides, watching the two incomers and their escort as they passed by, pressing close on the curbs and following them from behind. The affair had the air of a parade about it, with Ingold's warriors marching smartly in their ranks, the Elf-captain sitting tall on his regal horse, Tuor in his elven-mail with Voronwe beside, then the press of the people filling the street in their wake. Their was good reason for their curiosity and excitement. The arms and armor of Nevrast, for one. For another, in all of their long history and experiences with the Powers, never before had the Elves known them to chose a Man to work their designs in mortal lands. This was something new, and it went a long way in explaining the looks of astonishment and wonder that could be seen on many of their faces, as the crowds followed Tuor toward the gate of the square.

The King's Way and all the streets that crossed it were curbed with marble and paved with wide, flat stones. These were so skillfully laid that one could not insert a blade of grass between the cracks where one stone ended and another began. Upon either side were set many fair houses made of stone, many having courts set before them with gardens filled with fragrant flowers, and larger buildings of more formal purpose and design, which they would occasionally pass. There were also a number of towers, tall and slender, of the same white stone as the city walls, scattered throughout the city. Some stood by themselves, while others were made as part of the larger city buildings, but none were so tall as the King's Tower in the heart of the city. There were many fair squares where streets met, set about springing fountains and filled with trees and other growing things, where many birds of marvelous hue and wonderous music could be heard singing from within. All this and more Tuor saw along the King's Way as he rode with Voronwe and his escort to the gate set before him -- that which led to the King's Square, in which were the tower and palace of Turgon, king of Gondolin.

Even before they passed through the gate to the square they could hear the roar and see the spray from the great fountain which now greeted their eyes. Its watery plume shot high in the air, before falling back again in a singing rain of crystal mist. Below it stood a wide pool to catch its waters, made as a large marble basin with a wide curb. Benches and pillars were set about the rim of the pool, and an arcade of pillars ran from the fountain to the great tower set in the heart of the city. The Place of the Fountain it was called, and it was held in special reverence by the Elves of Gondolin. It was said among them that Ulmo himself would come to the fountain and visit with Turgon at times, but none had heard his voice in the song of its waters since the days of the Nirnaeth.

The lofty spire of the King's Tower rose some two hundred feet above the summit of Amon Gwareth, towering above all else both within the city and upon the vale below. Above its high turret flew a mighty banner: the standard of the House of Fingolfin, and of Turgon's folk. It bore a device by now quite familiar to Tuor: a white field set with a blue diamond, upon which was emblazoned a yellow sun with many red rays. It fluttered in the high airs like the pennant of some great seafaring vessel whipping in the breeze. About the King's Tower flew doves and other birds white as snow, and the cooing of their voices played upon Tuor's ears like some lullaby of soft music.

Before the tower stood two tall trees, one on each side of the pillaried arcade running between it and the fountain. The tree on the left shone with a a white radiance, for its leaves and flowers were made of silver; but the tree on the right shone with a golden gleam, for its boughs and fruits were wrought with gold. They were images of the Two Trees of the West, the same that all High-elves hold in reverence, and their brilliance was such their mingled light lit the court of the King's Square even in the noon of day, which was now close at hand. Even though they were but an echo of the Two Trees of old, Tuor was dazzled by their brilliance, and he could not look at them long. He shielded his eyes ans he was led past the Place of the Fountain and across the square to the great staircase of the King's Palace.

The King's Palace, where Turgon held court and conducted the daily affairs of Gondolin, save on occasions of festival and high ceremony, lay southeast of the King's Tower. Its wide and many-storied wings spread north and west along the garth of the square, and in its center stood a high hall topped by a golden dome. The banner of the House of Fingolfin also flew from the pinnacle of the dome, rising high above the walls of the sqaure, yet far below that which rode from the pinnacle of the King's Tower. Before the entrance of the hall stood a great staircase leading up from the stones of the court to a set of massive wooden doors studded with steel bands, also bearing the badge of Fingolfin in their center. Arrayed on the terraces of the staircase were the nobles of Gondolin, its high lords and ladies, awaiting the arrival of the incomers.

Ingold brought his charges before the foot of the stairs and halted his men. The crowds had followed them into the square and filled it, the air alive with their excited whispers. The Elf-captain motioned for Tuor and Voronwe to dismount and kneel, doing himself with them. "I have brought the incomers before you as I was bidden, O king," he said in the High-elven tongue, calling up to the figure who stood at the summit of the stairs.

"Thou has done well, Ingold," rang a voice in reply, deep and strong, also answering in High-elven. It then switched seamlessly to the Grey-elven tongue, speaking it without a trace of accent, as had Ecthelion but a short time before. "Hear me one and all, people of Gondolin! Today I set aside my long-standing law that only the High-elven is to be spoken in my court, for there is now one before me who does not speak our tongue, and I would not have him ignorant of all that is to pass before him this day. The time may yet come when he will learn our manner of speech, but for now I command you to speak none other but the Grey-elven tongue when in his presence. Now I bid the incomers ascend and join me on the stairs, so that all the people may see thee, and know thy faces."

So spoke Turgon son of Fingolfin, ruler of Gondolin, High King of the Noldor, greatest of the Elven-kings of old, as Tuor stood before him at the bottom of the great staircase of the King's Palace of Gondolin. He was the tallest of the High-elves who ever lived, and upon his head was a golden crown set with diamonds -- the same whose image Tuor had seen inscribed upon the Seventh Gate. His long locks were tipped with silver, and about his shoulders he wore a heavy mantle lined with white fur. He held in his right hand a mighty staff, but about his waist he wore a belt of gold, from which hung a scabbard of ivory worked with silver and gold traceries. Sheathed within that scabbard was the sword of Turgon: Glamdring the Foe-hammer, mightiest of the swords of the Elves of which songs have been made across the many ages of Middle-earth.

Turgon motioned for Tuor and Voronwe to ascend the great staircase. As they did so, he descended towards them from above, until they stood together on its midmost terrace. "I know thy names," he said to them, his voice carrying to every corner in the square, "for word of thee was sent to me by those who watch the Seven Gates; and news of thy approach was brought to me by the Eagles of Manwe ere yestereve. As yet my people know naught of thee except what they have seen. Therefore now I bid thee declare thy names and purpose before the assembly of the people of Gondolin, so they may know what manner of folk stand in judgement before their King."

It was Voronwe who first spoke, turning so that he could face both the King and the people at need. "I am Voronwe son of Aranwe, a child of the House of Fingolfin, and for many years one of the proud citizens of Gondolin. I am one of those who was sent by the King to Cirdan the Shipwright in the days following the Nirnaeth, to sail to the West and seek the aid of the Valar in the war against the Dark Lord. I alone have survived the perils of the Sea, which barred my vessel from the Blessed Realm, and was saved from death by the Dweller in the Deep to do his will: to act as guide and companion to his messenger on the road to Gondolin."

"And thou did this thing, knowing full well my law concerning incomers from the lands beyond, and the penalty that it bears?" said Turgon.

"Yes, my king," answered Voronwe. "I broke the King's law, for I was bound by the will of one greater than he, and dared not refuse the command of the Lord of Waters."

"Then before the witness of all I hold you excused on these grounds, and grant thee pardon from certain death," said Turgon. "Thou were obeying a law greater than my own, and a lord greater than I. Thou art but a player in a great drama whose stage was set long ago, when thou were but a youth."

A tense silence fell over the crowds as the Elven-king turned to Tuor. "And thy companion is also pardoned, mortal though he be; for he bears a token from Ulmo that none may mistake: the livery of Nevrast that I set in my hall in Vinyamar three hundred seventy-nine years ago at the bidding of the Lord of Waters. On that day Ulmo spoke to me on the shores of the harbor, saying:

When peril draws nigh, then one shall come from Nevrast to warn thee. Leave in thy house arms and a sword, that in years to come he may find them, so that by such thou shall know him, and not be deceived.

Now the messenger whose coming was foretold many years ago stands before me at last. I know thy name, and for this have let thee pass within, but speak it again before my people. Who art thou, and what is thy errand here?"

Tuor did as Voronwe before him, half-turning so that he faced both the King and the bulk of the crowd. "I am Tuor, son of Huor of the House of Hador, who once upon a time dwelt with you here in this place. I come before you now by the will of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who has words of counsel for Turgon the wise, son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor.

"And what is the counsel of the Dweller in the Deep?" said Turgon, his face a stern mask of formality.

As it was at the Great Gate of the Orfalch Echor when he spoke to Ecthelion, so it was again in the Square of the King, in the heart of the city of Gondolin. Tuor seemed to increase in stature until he stood above the tall head of Turgon, and his voice echoed with the songs of the deeps of the Sea as the words of Ulmo came to him in that hour, even as he had said they would. Tuor spoke with a majesty and power that could not be denied, and all the people of Gondolin, from the greatest to the least, heard the counsel of Ulmo to their lord and king.

Behold, Turgon son of Fingolfin, ruler of Gondolin! This is the warning that thou has dreaded for so long in coming. The Doom of Mandos hastens now to its fulfillment, in which all the works of the Noldor shall perish. Longest of all these works has Gondolin stood against the might of Morgoth, but the day of its doom now draws nigh. Therefore I bid thee number thy hosts, and leave the Vale of Tumladen. Abandon thy fair city that thou has built before it falls, and thou and thy people with it. Lead thy people down the shores of Sirion to the Sea while my power still flows within, and there build thy fleets as thou did before; for only from the West will the mercy of the Valar be gained.

Chapter 7 - Words of the Wise

All was quiet in the foyer of the great hall within the palace. Two guards brandishing long spears stood on each side of the room, guarding both of the doors leading from the chamber. Two more stood on either side of the door leading to the main audience hall. Within the foyer were placed several cushioned wooden benches, set for the comfort of those who awaited their audience with the Elven-king. There were long windows set in the walls above the benches, through which shone the bright light of the afternoon sun on the marble walls and floors. The foyer bore a strong resemblance to the great hall of Vinyamar, save that it would have easily fit within the confines of the old hall.

Voronwe sat impassively with folded arms on one of the benches along the southward wall, not far from one of the outer doors. He watched as Tuor paced about restlessly. The Man was obviously frustrated with the way events were shaping themselves. "The council will come to a decision in good time," he said to Tuor. "We must be paitent and await that time."

"I fail to see why a council was called in the first place," said Tuor. He did not stop pacing. "The words of Ulmo were plain enough: abandon the city and flee to the South. I am surprised at how the council of the Lord of Waters is being treated here."

"You know not what he asks of us, son of Huor," said Voronwe. He shook his head. The Man was obviously used to living on his own, answering to none but himself, and now here he was hemmed in by protocol and ritual. He felt sorry for him. "Try to understand. Our people were dwelling in the Vale of Tumladen untroubled by the Shadow long before you were born. It is not an easy thing to give up peace and security -- not even for the Elves."

"But will not the Shadow come here in the end, even as Ulmo has said?" Tuor replied.

"I doubt not the words of the Lord of Waters," said Voronwe, "but it is not my place to decide what course of action to take. That is what the king and his lords are debating even now. That is why the king called his counsellors to him: to judge the full import of your message against their lore and wisdom." (23)

Tuor suddenly stopped pacing. He looked up at the sunlight streaming through one of the high windows, then frowned. "The afternoon drags on, my friend, and still we wait. This delay does not bode well." He resumed his pacing again. "One might as well argue with a herd of goats."

Voronwe smiled at the mental image Tuor drew before him, but shook his head. "I do not think the king or his lords would appreciate such words, son of Huor, if they heard them. The king is a wise Elf, accounted among the wisest of my people. It is in his best interests to hear what advice his lords would give before he decrees his judgement on this matter."

"Forgive me," said Tuor. "I did not mean to offend. I am unaccustomed to using guarded speech when plain words show the way most clearly. I have not had to endure the dreariness of such things until now." He walked over to the Elf-mariner and sat down beside him. "Pardon if I seem uneasy, but it has been a long day, with no promise of ending, and I begin to grow famished again." He looked at the door to the audience hall. "One might think they have forgotten about us," he said, as if to himself.

"I think not," said Voronwe quietly, "but the affairs of the king are his concern. They have not forgotten us, son of Huor, but for now we must wait while he gives an ear to those who would advise him." He too glanced at the door. "Let us hope that their counsel is sound, for the mutterings of those in the square earlier today bode otherwise. Nevertheless, remain paitent but a while longer, and both your unease and hunger will be addressed soon enough."

When Tuor had spoken the words of Ulmo before the assembly of the people of Gondolin, it was as if he had uttered some grave pronouncement of plague or impending war. There had been a shocked hush in the square, and the face of every Elf had been darkened: from young to old, from male to maiden, from vassal to lord. Then the murmurings and angry whispers had begun, and Turgon had to raise his staff to silence the crowd.

"This is grave counsel that thou bringest from the Dweller in the Deep, son of Huor," Turgon had said. "I must confer with my lords before I can answer the message of Ulmo."

With that, Tuor and Voronwe had been escorted up the stairs and into the palace. A short time and several hallways later, they found themselves inside the audience chamber of Turgon. It was like the great hall of Vinyamar, but built on a larger and more elaborate scale, decorated with many-colored tapestries and carpets, and many gilt objects set about that shone in the bright light from the windows high above. A tall columnade of elaborately carved marble pillars led to a raised dais set with a great throne with a high back, and two lesser seats on either side. Elven-lamps were set within intricately worked clamps on each column, but they would not be uncovered until the coming of eve. Below and on either side of the dais were two sets of long wooden benches, one each on either side of the approach to the throne in front of the columnade, and angled so that they faced both the throne and each other. Tuor and Voronwe were led up the columnade to the open space before the throne, where two seats had been set for them between the benches and facing the throne.

There were many Elves already seated on the benches on either side, and more joined in the minutes that followed. These were members of the King's Council -- the lords and nobles of Gondolin -- and a servant introduced them to each in turn. On one side were representatives of the warriors of Gondolin, lords and lieutenants from each of its seven hosts. (24) Their leader was one Galdor, Lord of the White Tree, a tall and noble Elf who served Turgon as the marshall of his combined hosts in the field. Not all of the lords of each host were present, however, as some were posted afield and could not be spared from their duties. Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountains, whom Tuor had met in the Orfalch Echor, had been one of these, and had sent his lieutenant in his place. Of those Elf-lords that were present, though, two struck Tuor in particular. These were seated beside Galdor, and he was introduced to each in turn: Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, and Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch.

The High-elven Glorfindel was Lord of the Host of the Golden Flower. His armor was like that Tuor had seen worn by the guards at the Gate of Gold, save that it was more elaborate and intricately worked, and matched well with his long, golden locks. He was slender and fair, like most Elves, but he gripped Tuor's hand in greeting with the firm grasp of a seasoned warrior who had seen many battles. As it turned out, Glorfindel had been one of the first to appear at the council. He had been off duty, and was making ready to return to his warriors in the Orfalch Echor when word of the incomer's arrival had been brought to him. He warmly welcomed Tuor to Gondolin, as did the other Elf-lord beside Galdor.

Egalmoth, Lord of the Heavenly Arch, was a cheery-looking Grey-elf in silver mail, who stood somewhat shorter than his fellows. The Elf-lord was at that time in charge of the guard upon the city walls, and thus had personally witnessed Tuor's arrival. He reminded Tuor strongly of his foster-father Annael, despite the differences in both mood and looks. Tuor guessed, and correctly as it turned out, that Egalmoth was of those Grey-elves who had once lived in Nevrast but had left with Turgon for Gondolin. Tuor also could not help but notice the blade that Egalmoth bore. It was a curved sword very much like an Orc-scimitar, only larger. "Won this off of an Orc-captain in our first battle in Middle-earth," Egalmoth had said with a gleam in his eye. "Not as fair as an Elf-blade, but a good prize hard won, and now free of their cruel poisons. My lord has let me keep it in honor of that day -- and," he added with a wink, "I've had it reforged with Elven-steel."

It was now time to be introduced to the counselors at the other set of benches. These were the chief administrators and guildmasters of the city and realm of Gondolin. Again, a servant introduced Tuor to each in turn -- and again, two struck him in particular. The first of these was Salgant, head of the Guild of Harpists and titular head of all the city guilds. He was white-haired and stout - downright corpulent for an Elf - and he had the air of one who should be about better things than the matter at hand. He had hardly glanced at Tuor, and muttered only a formal greeting in reply. It was the first time Tuor could ever recall getting a bad impression about an Elf of any kind. The impression made by the second stood in stark contrast to that of the rotund Salgant. That had been Penlegod, the Royal Scribe and chief of the Guild of Loremasters. He was tall, thin, of seemingly mixed ancestry, and was the first red-headed Elf Tuor could ever recall seeing. The Elf-scribe had an air of insatiable curiosity about him, which no doubt accounted for the barrage of questions with which he pummeled Tuor after his excited greeting. Galdor had cut him short, and the introductions had continued, but Tuor noticed that the Elf-scribe kept watching him with that curious, inquisitive stare of his. He had the feeling that he would be meeting him again -- as soon as the Elf-scribe could contrive it. (25)

It was not long after Tuor and Voronwe had been shown back to their seats that the gong had sounded, and all had stood at the approach of the king. Turgon, king of Gondolin, Lord of the Hidden Realm, had walked the length of the hall, ascended the dais, and then stood before his throne. He did not do so alone. Two others ascended the dais with him, Elf-lord and Elf-maiden, and each took a place before one of the lesser seats. Turgon sat down, then nodded, and the rest of the assembly took their seats after him. Tuor and Voronwe did so as well, and Tuor looked at those who sat with the king.

Seated at Turgon's right hand was a tall Elf with dark hair: Maeglin, the King's sister-son, heir to the throne and foremost among his warriors and lords. He stood almost as tall as Turgon, and his bearing was as regal; yet there was an air about him that was quite unlike that of a High-elf. His robes were sable with traceries of silver, and his long, raven-black hair was bound in a thong of silver cord behind his head. (26) His skin and form resembled that of Aredhel, his High-elven mother; but he was grim of face and mood as had been his father, Eol the Dark-elf. Like his father, the brightness of his keen eyes could see deep into shadows and dark places. At his side he wore a mighty sword, and Tuor noted its likeness to that which had been borne by the Black Sword in the Forest of Nuath. In later days he would learn that it was Anguriel, the blade of galvorn steel wrought by Eol himself, and the only mate of that blade that the Black Sword had borne. (27)

Seated at Turgon's left hand was a slender Elf-maiden, the Lady of Gondolin; and as Tuor cast his gaze upon her, he was amazed at her beauty. He had known or seen few women in his life. Most of the young maidens of Annael's folk in Mithrim were sent away south when he was but a babe in arms, and those Elf-maidens that remained behind were those whose fairness had been worn away by war and sorrow. As a thrall Tuor had seen only the proud and barbaric women of the Eastrons - who had treated him as a beast - or the unhappy slaves forced to labor from childhood, for whom he had only pity. Nothing in his life, not even the pretty Elf-maiden he had seen earlier at the gate, had prepared him for the enchanting splendor of Idril Celebrindal, also known as the Silverfoot, beloved daughter of Turgon and the king's only child.

She sat now before his gaze, clothed in robes of dazzling white embroidered with gold thread, bound at the waist with a belt of garnets set in links of gold. She was tall for one of the daughters of the High-elves, and could doubtless look Tuor in the eye, yet she was still a half-head shorter than her father. Her golden hair glistened like the tree of gold in the King's Square, shimmering in the light of the sun falling from the high windows. Her tresses fell about her shoulders and down her back unbraided, and she wore no crown or circlet upon them. She gazed upon the Man before her, and the meeting of their eyes was like the light that bursts from the Sun as it rises above the horizon of the morning sky. She bowed her head and looked away, as if embarrassed by what she saw. Tuor had felt his heart leap within him, strangely excited by the gift of her gaze. The feeling did not last long.

Shortly thereafter, Tuor and Voronwe were questioned for almost an hour before the King's Council concerning every aspect of their trip -- from Tuor's flight from Hithlum and Voronwe's return to Middle-earth to their arrival before the Seven Gates. Their chief questioner had been Maeglin, who had left his seat on the dais and strode before them, grilling them on every detail no matter how small. His stern words and sharp glances had brought unease to the pair. Now and again a question had been permitted from the benches, but it was the King's heir who did most of the interrogating. His mistrust was obvious, and Tuor had felt as if he were on trial, being questioned by a prosecutor who did not believe his tale. So it had been with a great deal of relief, at the time, when the questioning had ended and they had been sent from the council to wait in the foyer.

The afternoon sun continued to traverse its slow, downward arc towards the west, but still the King's Council remained in session. Tuor sighed, then arose and resumed his pacing again. It was all part of this strange process of calling a council concerning the obvious, he reminded himself as he paced to and fro in the foyer of the audience hall, but still he saw no reason for their debate. As for Voronwe, he said nothing, paitently awaiting the summons of the King, while the sound of Tuor's footsteps echoed about him.

It was the long and unmolested existence of the Hidden Realm that had caused such consternation when Tuor had spoken the warning of Ulmo. The Elves of Gondolin were of one mind, having long trusted in the secrecy and inpregnable strength of the Hidden City, and were unwilling to just walk away from it now. Over the long years they had grown to love Gondolin, and after their losses in the Nirnaeth they desired never again to mingle in the woes of Elves and Men without, nor to return through dread and danger to the West. Shut behind their pathless and enchanted hills they suffered none to enter, though he fled from Morgoth hate-pursued. News of the lands outside came to them faint and far, and they heeded it little. Even Turgon their king had grown proud over the years, and to him Gondolin was as beautiful as a memory of Tirion, the fair city of the Elves that lay in the Blessed Realm far beyond the Sea. He too loathed the thought of giving up the Hidden Realm, so it was with a heavy heart that he had called his counselors before him to consider the warning of Ulmo.

Even now, the strident tones of Maeglin could be heard, he who rarely raised his voice on any occasion, as he argued with Penlegod the Elf-scribe before the throne of the King. "How can we even consider such a thing?" said Maeglin, anger coloring the edges of his words. "It is madness to flee the safety of the fences of the Echoriath, those which for so long have sheltered us from the Black Hand. Would you have us walk willfully to our deaths in the barren lands beyond?"

"What I may think has no bearing on this matter," said Penlegod, his voice calm and even. "I doubt neither the messenger nor the message, as you seem to do. It is folly to contest the will of the Valar, Prince Maeglin, and it is they who have proclaimed the doom of Gondolin. Ulmo's warning was given so that we might flee before ruin comes upon us all -- a possibility that he foresaw long before you were born. Did not the son of Huor come to us bearing the very tokens that the Lord of Waters had the king set in his halls in Vinyamar? Is this not proof enough that the words of Tuor are those that Ulmo himself has given him?"

"But why a Man?" ventured Salgant. It was the first thing that he had said in the King's Council all day. "Never before have the Lords of the West used one of the Younger Children in one of their tasks. Is this not true?"

"It is as far as we know," answered Penlegod, "but there is always a first time for everything. Remember, we Elves walked in Middle-earth for countless centuries before the fathers of Men came over the Blue Mountains into Beleriand. Who are we to say that the Valar have not had dealings with them before of which we know not?"

"I know of only one Vala who has shown any interest in Men," muttered Maeglin, "and I slew many of his mortal followers in the Nirnaeth. I trust this man no more than I do the rest of his kindred."

"Men of the East," retorted Penlegod. "Never forget that, my lord. The Edain remained faithful to us, and were it not for them you would not have escaped." The Elf-scribe's voice took on an edge of reproach as he continued. "You also seem to forget the teachings of your youth concerning the ways of the Younger Children. They have their own destiny within the fabric of the World, and the Lords of the West have not put them out of their thoughts. Do not let your feelings cloud your wisdom, my lord."

At that moment, the Elven-king cleared his throat. Maeglin's scowl disappeared as he turned to face the king, his face settling quickly back into its familar impassive lines. Penlegod looked somewhat fearful, sensing he had overstepped his bounds. Turgon spoke slowly, but there was no note of reproach in his voice. "If you have a point, friend Penlegod, please make it."

Penlegod bowed his head. "Forgive me, my king, for speaking to your heir so, but I believe that prejudice drives reason from his mind."

Turgon thought for a moment, then nodded. "You are forgiven, friend, and your point is well taken." He then turned to Maeglin. "You may continue your path only if you have something worthwhile to say."

Maeglin's face remained fixed, betraying no response to the king's rebuke. The sharp eyes of Penlegod saw a bit of a flush color the tips of his ears, but that was all. Maeglin's next words were carefully chosen, and he softened his voice. "I only meant to say, my lord, that I agree with Salgant. Why send a Man? Why not speak to the Elves? Why not deliver his message through the waters of the Hidden Realm, as the the Lord of Waters has been wont to do before?"

"When was the last time Ulmo spoke to us in such a manner?" said Penlegod.

He cast his gaze across the hall, searching for someone, anyone, to respond. After a time, it was Salgant who stammered a reply. "Well, I, uh ... ahmmm, I don't know. It hasn't been that long ago, I think. No, it hasn't. I know that."

Penlegod shook his head. "Yes it has, friend Salgant. Twenty-three years of the Sun have passed when last the King heard the voice of the Lord of Waters in the Place of the Fountain. Not long by our reckoning, perhaps, but long to the lands beyond." He looked to the throne. "Was it not so, my king?"

Turgon nodded. "It was indeed, friend Penlegod. It was in the spring of the Year of Lamentation that I heard the whisper of the Lord of Waters in the fountain before my tower." A shadow passed over the Elven-king's face as he recited the words Ulmo had spoken to him on that day.

Gather your hosts and give aid to your brother Fingon, for the Union of Maedhros is not strong enough to challenge the Dark Lord without your swords.

"You followed Ulmo's counsel then, but what did it gain you?" said Maeglin, looking squarely at the King. "Naught but a front-row seat to the utter defeat of the Union. Naught but to watch the host of Fingon fall, along with some four thousand or so of our own in a vain attempt to rescue them. Forgive me if I remind you of your brother's death, my king, but I see naught else that was gained by following Ulmo's counsel save your brief reunion with the sons of Huor."

"And it was the last stand of Hurin and Huor and the House of Hador that kept the rest of the host of Gondolin from joining the ranks of the fallen on the field," said Penlegod. "You reckon little of the ways of the Lords of the West, my lord. Ulmo's purpose may have been other than what it seemed at the time."

Maeglin turned on the Elf-scribe, and there was the barest hint of anger in his voice. "What purpose do you see in our defeat that I do not? What reason could there be in the king coming together with the sons of Huor that day save to see them one last time before they died?"

"I know not," said Penlegod, "but consider this. What better way to honor the valor of the House of Hador than for Ulmo to chose the son of Huor as his messenger? If it were not for that name he would have been slain at the Outer Gate, but the king remembered his debt of old and let the son of Huor pass within. Remember, it was not until he reached the Seventh Gate that he was found to be the messenger of Ulmo."

Maeglin pretended not to hear him. "There was no reason for us to march forth to the aid of the Union, even as I counseled back then. Those of us who survived barely escaped the Nirnaeth with our lives, not to mention those few of the stragglers we were able to save. Yes, we were fortunate that the armies of the Dark Lord were held off long enough for us to make good our escape, and flee back within the Echoriath undetected, but to what end? Now we are bidden forth again, but this time to abandon Gondolin and flee to the South? How are we to manage it?" Passion now began to color Maeglin's words again. "Nargothrond has at last fallen to the Enemy, and with it the road to the South is closed against us. The armies of the Dark Lord now watch all the lands from the Pass of Sirion southward, save in Brethil and in Doriath beyond, but Doriath is closed to the High-elves and Orcs walk the eaves of Brethil Forest. It would be suicide to go down Sirion with a host as great as ours surely would be."

"Your pardon, my lord, " said Galdor, "Doriath is not closed to us, but only to those of Feanor's house. The House of Fingolfin still has ties of friendship with Thingol."

"I do not fancy Elu Thingol would be pleased at the thought of so many of the Noldor entering his realm," said Penlegod. "Such a thing would have to be discussed with him, and he does not grant his favors readily -- especially to the Noldor."

"He would have to," said Galdor. "There is no other safe road for us to travel down Sirion to the sea. The Dark Lord now holds the South-road all the way to Nargothrond. Even if we swung around the far side of Brethil Forest and came at the Sea that way, we would still be passing through lands held by the enemy."

"And that was not the counsel of Ulmo." said Penlegod. "He said to follow Sirion while his power still ran therein."

"Then I say again, how are we to manage it?" said Maeglin. "It does not matter what road we take. All of our roads begin in Dimbar, and that land is not unknown to the Enemy. Were we to go east to Doriath, we would run afoul of the Orcs at the Pass of Anach before we got there. Were we to go west around Brethil, we would still have to cross the South-road, and again cross the forces of the Dark Lord. There is also the size of our folk to consider." He looked at Turgon. "Your people came to this land long ago over many years by splitting into small companies and taking untrod ways. At that time you did not have to worry about spies from Morgoth on the road. But now, all of the paths we might trod are watched day and night by the Dark Lord, so it matters not if ours is a large host or many smaller ones. He will see us long before the last of us leaves Dimbar, and then it will only be a matter of time before he assails us."

"Aye, true enough," said Galdor. "It is almost a certainty that our folk will be attacked long before we can reach the safety of Sirion, or of the Girdle. Any who survive will be harrassed and attacked again for as long as they remain upon the road, and vunerable. Passing through Doriath would be but to delay the inevitable, for all the Dark Lord has to do is wait for us on the other side, which is still far from the safety of Cirdan's folk. Orcs have been sighted as far south as Nan-tathren, and the lay of the land is against us. There is no guarantee we can stay within the saftey of Sirion, and none that the the Orcs will not find us during that time."

"Are you saying that we could not make the Havens?" said Turgon.

"No, my king," said Galdor. "I am saying that not all of us would make it."

There was a pause, then Turgon spoke again. "What would you estimate our losses to be on the southward road?"

Galdor thought for a moment. "Based on what we know, and what reports we have received from the lands beyond concerning the fall of Nargothrond, I would guess that at least one-third of our people will be slain before we could reach the Havens. Probably more, I fear, should the Dark Lord press the matter."

"Even should Ulmo's power shield us?" said Penlegod.

"As I said, it cannot shield us all the way." said Galdor. "The fall of the land works against us, whether we take the short road to Doriath or the long road to the South." He looked about him at his lords and lieutenants, then back at the king. "The warriors of Gondolin are strong and valiant and will defend our folk as best we can, but the Dark Lord has numbers on his side. It will not be an easy journey, nor will it be a peaceful one."

The hall became quiet as the import of Galdor's words sank in. The Elf-lords and ladies eyed one another uneasily, disturbed by the prospect of the long march south while fighting a bloody running battle the whole way. They continued to ponder Galdor's counsel until Maeglin suddenly spoke. "This is ill counsel that this Man brings us," he said quietly, "even if the Dweller in the Deep gave it himself, as he claims."

To the surprise of everyone Idril bestirred herself and spoke. "What have you against the son of Huor, to continue speaking of him so?" she said. "What evil has he done you, that you so bitterly attack him with your words? If you will not accept the tokens of the Valar, then why not the word of a fellow Elf? What of Voronwe's testimony, he of whom all in this hall knew and trusted before he was sent forth?"

Maeglin shook his head. "I see a high doom upon the brow of Tuor son of Huor," he said, "and darkness comes with it. The same I saw in Hurin when he dwelt here. I do not trust the counsels of Men, and I would not fall under the shadow of the House of Hador."

"Then you should have spent more time with the father, to better judge the son," said Idril, and none could miss the reproach in her voice. "I saw no darkness in Huor when I watched over his ways during the time he dwelt with us in Gondolin, and I see none now in his son. There is a shadow there, Maeglin, but it is the shade of one touched by sorrow, and not the darkness of a doom such as was laid upon Hurin Thalion. Speak not of shadows you cannot fathom, son of Eol." She stopped speaking, and regarded the King's Heir with an even stare, but Maeglin said naught.

"The Lady of Gondolin speaks with the voice of wisdom," said Penlegod in a quiet voice. "It has been said that the House of Hador is beloved by the Lord of Waters. I do not think that for one moment that Ulmo would chose one who lives under the Dark Lord's shadow for his messenger. What doom may be in store for the son of Huor we know not, but it is not an evil one."

At that Turgon lifted his staff from across his knees. "Enough," he said, as he stood up and planted his staff before him. His daughter Idril likewise rose from her seat beside the throne. Both Maeglin and Penlegod, who were already standing before the dais, turned towards it and bowed slightly. All others in the room likewise rose from their seats and turned towards the throne. The Elven-king looked down upon his council. "I have heard enough. My counselors are not in accord one with another, and will never be, however long they may debate this matter, judging from the passion of the words they have spoken before me. Therefore, I must judge this thing for myself. Leave me now, and let each return to his or her own tasks, and I will make my decision known before the setting of the sun this eve."

As one, the lords and nobles of Gondolin bowed to the throne. Turgon bowed in reply, and then they began filing out of the hall in twos and threes, continuing to talk among themselves. Maeglin and Idril remained standing where they were, saying nothing but looking at each other, their eyes betraying many words left unsaid between them. Penlegod was just about to depart when the king called to him. "Friend Penlegod! Stay a moment, if you would. I have an errand for you and the Lady of Gondolin."

At these words Idril looked at her father strangely, but Maeglin's face remained impassive, and he said nothing.

The sound of approaching footfalls brought Tuor and Voronwe to their feet. They stood at attention, facing the door that opened into the great hall. "At last someone comes for us," said Tuor.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the doors were opened, and through them stepped a tall scholarly Elf and a vision in white. Tuor's grumpy mood vanished at once when he saw who had come to speak with them. He now stood beside Voronwe, gazing in wonder as he beheld their approaching visitor, taking little notice of her companion. The strange feeling in his heart returned now, that which he had first felt under her gaze. He felt somewhat nervous and unsure of what to say, as he watched the approach of the Lady of Gondolin.

The first thing he noticed were her bare feet gliding across the carpeted floor, visible now and again as they slid out somewhat from the hem of her robe, then just as quickly darting back underneath. All of the other Elves of Gondolin wore some type of boot or slipper made of leather or cloth, and he had even seen some in the city wearing sandals. Only children walked barefoot, he thought to himself, surely not the loveliest maiden of the High-elves. Yet here she was in her embroidered dress of gold and white, walking towards him barefoot as if it were a long-accustomed practice. (28) The soft patter of her unshod feet on the carpet blended with the faint swish of the folds in her dress and the quiet clinking of the links in her belt. The sheen of her clothes caught the light of the afternoon sun and cast it about her such that it looked as if she were bathed in a soft glow of white highlighted with hints of gold. It seemed to Tuor that she glided across the room, floating across the floor until she came to rest but an arm's reach away.

The two High-elves bowed, and Tuor and Voronwe bowed in return. Tuor now took notice of the scholarly Elf. It was Penlegod, the King's Scribe, and it was he who first spoke. "Our pardon, son of Huor, to have kept you waiting. I am Penlegod, as you may recall. May I present to you Idril Celebrindal, the Lady of Gondolin, daughter of the king?"

Idril smiled at Tuor as she held out her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet with you, son of he who once dwelt here of old."

Tuor swallowed hard, then took her hand and kissed it. "And it is an honor to be in the presence of the Lady of Gondolin," he said, "fairest of all maidens of the High-elves, greatest of the treasures of Turgon. It is rare indeed that one of mortal race is given the chance to behold such beauty."

"A gentleman, and one of noble tongue!" exclaimed Idril softly, and her eyes brightened. "You bear the noble spirit of your father and that of the House of Hador, greatest of the houses of the Edain. I am honored by your words, son of Huor."

"My lady is gracious," said Tuor, and suddenly he felt at ease again. He looked up at her. "May I take it that the council of the King has ended?" he said.

"It has," said Idril. "The council has adjourned, and the King now meditates in his tower, weighing their words against yours. He has bid me come and see to your needs, for he felt that you might have grown hungry in your long labors today. We will go to the palace kitchens, where sustenance may be found, and then I and Penlegod are to remain with you and answer whatever questions you may have until this evening."

"And what happens then?" said Tuor.

"Then the King will pronounce his judgement," said Idril. She then looked at Penlegod, who cleared his throat. "But before then," she continued, "we have a message for you -- for Vornwe, that is, that we received on our way here. Penlegod?"

"It seems," said Penlegod, "that a certain Aranwe and his house await the return of his son, one Voronwe, to their company this day for reunion and much rejoicing. We presume that you are he?"

"I am indeed," grinned Voronwe, and he turned to Tuor. "My friend, this is where we must now part. My service to you at the command of Ulmo is at an end, but do not think that this is the last time we shall walk together."

"I look forward to that day," said Tuor, and he clasped the Elf-mariner's hand. "Perhaps the day will yet come when we can walk together in the fields of Nan-tathren, and then you can show me the wonders of the Land of Willows."

With that they clasped each other in embrace of friendship, then parted. Voronwe left the foyer through the southern hallway at a quick trot. The other three smiled as they watched him leave.

"A truly remarkable person," said Penlegod. "I know of few other of our folk who might have done as did he in his place." He thought for a moment. "He is the only one of Turgon's messengers to return to us from the Havens, and the only one to survive the attempt to reach the West. He is fortunate that the Valar have permitted him to return to his kindred. Not all of us have that chance."

"No," said Tuor, "not all of us."

Seated in the topmost pinnacle of his tower, Turgon looked out from his seat through the arch of the balcony and into the skies beyond. The sun had disappeared behind tall plumes of grey clouds growing ever more numerous above the vale, and he could feel the faint echo of a cool northern breeze dancing about the upperworks of the turret. The lands beyond would feel the wrath of the Fell Winter again on the morrow, judging from the signs at hand. He sat in silence, watching the clouds build, and his mind turned to the living memory of that dreadful Midsummer's Day twenty-three years before -- when he watched his brother die.

It was as clear in his Elven-memory as if it had happened but a moment before. He remembered the black waves of the host of Gothmog flanking the Elves as they retreated across the Gasping Plain, cutting them off from the shelter of Hithlum's mountain fences. There was the desperate sally of his own host to win through their ranks, all for naught, even as Fingon's outnumbered host was surrounded and beaten down. Turgon's host had been pushed back, and forced to withdraw to the Fens of Serech with the Men of Dor-lomin and the survivors of Gwindor's folk from Nargothrond -- those few who had not followed their lord inside the Gates of Angband to their death. (29) Even as the army of Gondolin fell back through the whispering reeds, he had watched with horror as the host of Fingon was cut to pieces, helpless to stop the slaughter unfolding before his eyes. The last image he had of his elder brother was that of a mighty warrior, wounded many times by blade and fire, his body sinking to the earth as a great white flame sprang from his hewn helm, cloven asunder by the black axe of the Balrog. They had not even left his body to rest upon the field, but had beat it into the mud with their maces, leaving behind a bloody mire of flesh and bone.

Fingon was dead, and with him Hithlum had died. The sons of Feanor now wandered far and wide, their kingdoms broken and their people scattered in the aftermath of that dreadful battle. Nargothrond, once a sister secret Elven-realm, had just recently fallen to the might of the Black Hand, and was now the lair and abode of Glaurung the Fire-Drake -- the same that had blown open the Doors of Felagund and slain its folk and king. Gondolin alone remained of all the High-elven realms of Beleriand, but what horrible fate awaited his people if he led them on the southward road, even if it was the counsel of Ulmo?

Turgon stood up and walked to the balcony. He placed his hands on the stone rail and looked over the white city shining below. A single tear ran down his right cheek as he gazed upon the white walls and tall towers of his beloved Gondolin, and saw and heard the plume of the dancing spray from the fountain at the foot of the tower. He could just make out the cooing of the doves in the courtyard around and the distant murmur of his people below, happy and content in their peace and security. The fall of Nargothrond meant loss of safe access to the South. There was now no safe road to the Sea for his folk, if they were going to follow the counsel of Ulmo. How could his people leave and yet escape the Dark Lord's clutches? How could he honor the words of Ulmo, when every path he might take was held by the Enemy? Furthermore, provided they somehow survived, was all this to be sacrificed for an uncertain future on the shores of the Sea, where every one of his past endeavors had met with failure? Was the peace and security of the Hidden Realm to be traded for the whims of prophecy?

"No!" he whispered to himself, clenching the rail as he spoke. "I will not lead my people to their deaths, no matter what counsel Ulmo may give. I will not leave Gondolin."

Idril and Penlegod had taken Tuor to a small dining hall not far from the palace kitchens. It was normally used by the kitchen staff and other small gatherings of servants, but today had been commandeered by the Lady of Gondolin for Tuor's afternoon meal. The palace servants did not mind, and graciously treated the Man to the first sumptuous meal he had enjoyed in his life. In later days he could remember little of what was served, save that the food tasted better than any he had eaten and the wine refreshed his spirit like no other he had tasted. After the leavings were taken away, the three of them had remained seated around the table and talked the afternoon away.

Penlegod had questioned Tuor at length about some of the matters that had been raised but not pursued in the King's council concerning his days before the summons of Ulmo. Tuor had shared much with the Elf-scribe concerning his upbringing by the Grey-elves of Mithrim and his years of thralldom under the heavy hand of the Eastrons. In turn, Tuor had questioned Penlegod about the ways of the High-elves of Middle-earth: their kingdoms and lords, their customs and folkways, and their statutes and lore. Idril had for the most part sat quietly as they talked, only speaking when asked by one of the others, and spent most of her time watching the Man seated next to her. There was something about Tuor that fascinated her in a way she had never known before. He had never lost his nobility despite his thralldom, and she found that fascinating. She said little, but instead contented herself with being in Tuor's presence, taking such pleasures as to to be had in one so charming as the son of Huor.

"It is a tale worthy of the loremasters," said Penlegod as he leaned back in his seat, eyeing Tuor with newfound appreciation.

"It would be a sad tale, if it were put to song," said Tuor, "and I know not the end of it yet. There is still the judgement of Turgon to be said before I can decide what to do from here."

Tuor's comment moved Idril to speak. "What will you do after that?" she asked. "Will you leave the Hidden Realm, should the King permit you as he did your father?"

"I do not know," he said. "This is a wonderous place, fairer than any I have seen, and it moves my heart in strange ways. But I also feel the call of the Sea, and am likewise moved to return to the shores of Belegaer in the west. I am bound by my errand until the King makes his judgement. That was the command of Ulmo. After my erand is finished, I am free to do as I please."

"And what would please you most?" she asked.

"For now, to live a life free from both Shadow and Doom. Then I could be my own man, and earn the respect that comes with being one of the House of Hador, as my father and uncle did in their day." Tuor sighed. "I wish I had known my father."

"I knew him," said Idril. "I knew him well. He was but fourteen when he was brought to Gondolin by the Eagles with his elder brother Hurin; so as is the custom with our people I was placed in charge of his fostering. Hurin speny most of his time with the King and his lords, but I was the one who watched over Huor's ways."

A look of longing filled Tuor's eyes. "What can you tell me about my father?" he asked.

"There is much to be said that cannot be told in the space of a few hours," said Idril. "I will say this, son of Huor. You are the very image of your father in both looks and mood. Had he lived, he would have been proud of a son like you."

Idril had more to say, but their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a page. "The King bids you come to the great square and stand with him before the people," he said. "He has ruled on the counsel of Ulmo."

They arose from their places and began walking down the long corridors to the palace doors, Tuor escorting Idril with Penlegod behind. The Elf-scribe smiled to see them walking so. It was a gallant gesture on Tuor's part to be sure, but somehow it seemed right and proper, as if it were meant to be so. The two remained quiet for a space, and then Tuor spoke. "If I stay, will you tell me the tale of my father?" (30)

"I would be honored," said Idril, and she gazed upon him with a warm smile.

It was about an hour before sunset when the people of Gondolin assembled once more before the great staircase of the King's Palace. They were anxious, and spoke one to another in hushed whispers. They would have followed their beloved king wherever he would lead them, no matter what his decision. Truth be known, though, most of them were not pleased at the prospect of forsaking the Hidden Realm. The Elves of Gondolin, regardless of kindred, had grown to love their home over the centuries even as Turgon did -- proud of the city in the vale that was now fit to compare with Tirion upon Tuna, chief city of the Elves in the West. They loved the work of their hands with a cunning love, like that of a craftsman's desire for his art, and were loath to give it up now.

Silence fell uipon the square as the King, accompanied by his court, emerged from the palace and walked to the head of the stairs. There they were joined by Tuor and Idril, with Penlegod in tow, and Turgon nodded in acknowledgement as the Man presented his daughter's hand to him.

"Your hospitality has been most generous, O king," said Tuor. "The Lady of Gondolin and the Royal Scribe have treated me well, and showed much forbearance in listening to my traveler's tales while we awaited you." At that Idril smiled, and so did the King.

"The son of Huor comes from a noble house to show such humility before us, and we are pleased," said Turgon. "But come! I would have thee stand with me before the people of Gondolin; for thou art the messenger of Ulmo, and must stand in his stead while I answer the words of the Lords of Waters."

Together Tuor and Turgon descended the great staircase until they stood alone on one of its terraces -- the next one down from the top. From here they could clearly be seen and heard by all the people, and the King turned to his guest and spoke.

"Tuor son of Huor, Man of the House of Hador, thou stand before us today as the messenger of Ulmo, come through many perils and dangers to deliver his counsel to the king of Gondolin. Thou declared to one and all at my bidding the warning of the Dweller in the Deep: that we should abandon Gondolin at once and flee to the Havens in the South. As the ruler of this people, and as the one to whom the message was sent, I now answer the words of the Lord of Waters before them so that all may hear for themselves what I have to say." With that Turgon turned from Tuor and faced the crowds below, planting his staff before him as he spoke his doom.

"The counsel of Ulmo would have us flee from the one place that has kept us safe these many years, the very same that he himself showed me centuries ago, and appointed them as our safe refuge in the dark times to come. They have descended upon us even as was foretold, and this place has shielded us from the storm that has devoured our brethren beyond the hills. Are we to abandon our peace and tranquility in this place for the uncertainty of the lands beyond? Are we to trade the security of Tumladen for the slavery of Angband? Nay!

"Hear me, people of Gondolin! Well do I remember the counsel of the Lord of Waters, which he spoke to me of old:

Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart; and remember that the true hope of the Noldor lies in the West, and comes from the Sea.

Little did I reckon then with the glory that Gondolin would become with the passing of years, nor did I foresee how the Shadow would spread across the land. It would be folly for us to leave this place and walk among our foes -- an open invitation for the Dark Lord to slay us all. Are we to embrace the toils and dangers of the long and hard road to the Havens, beset by the might of the Dark Lord all the way? Nay, I would not have it so. Our time will doubtless come, even as it has to our brethren, but we are better served to defend ourselves in Gondolin than any other place in Beleriand.

"The Lord of Waters bids us seek the West. This I have done these many years, and no good has come of it. My embassies to the West have been turned away one and all, and only one of those whom I sent to seek the aid of the Valar has returned to us from the perils of the Sea. s this the hope of which Ulmo speaks? If so, it is a false hope, and I no longer have faith in it.

"Hear me, messenger of Ulmo! It is with heavy heart that I must reject the counsel of the Lord of Waters. I will not lead this people forth from the Hidden Vale to the tender mercies of Morgoth. I will not expose them to slaughter by his Orcs, nor will I watch them wither in the fires of the dragons of the Dark Lord. We will not pass down Sirion to the Sea. We will remain in Gondolin."

Tuor felt himself moved to speak, and once again his voice filled the square with the majesty of the words of Ulmo. "In Gondolin lies the last hope of the High-elves; yet if you will not trust the counsel of the Lord of Waters, O king, and forego your pride, daring the dread of the lands beyond, then surely this city will fall. All your works will perish, and you and your people with it."

An uneasy silence settled over the square after Tuor had spoken. The Elves of Gondolin looked at each other, their doubt and uncertainty written on their faces. Something of the might of the Lord of Waters still echoed in Tuor's voice, and the Elves looked upon him in wonder and fear. To stay would brook the counsel of Ulmo, and it was unwise to gainsay the Lords of the West; yet to leave would surely mean death at the hands of the Dark Lord's minions. They continued to ponder Tuor's words among themselves, until Turgon raised his hand and addressed them again.

"Gondolin has remained safe and secret for many lifetimes of Men," said the Elven-king, "and no creature of the Dark Lord has yet found the way. My heart tells me that to follow the counsel of Ulmo will be the ruin of us all, and few indeed will survive to deliver our sad tale to Cirdan at the Havens. It is said that none will ever find the Hidden Realm or take this city save by treachery from within; and that shall never be, so long as I am king here. We will not be forced against our will to abandon our long labors over the years. We will not leave Gondolin."

"Then it is as Ulmo feared," said Tuor. "You now follow your heart instead of sound counsel. Even in the days before the Nirnaeth, the Lord of Waters sensed your growing reluctance to abandon the Hidden Realm, when against all hope you followed his counsel and sent messengers into the West."

"That now seems folly to me," said Turgon, "for only one has returned, and he will confirm what I fear: none made it into the West. Nay, enough of my people have been lost in the lands beyond never to return for me to ever do such a thing again. We must now trust in ourselves and the strength of Gondolin rather than embark upon a hopeless flight that will end in the certain death of this people. We will remain within the Hidden Realm. We will not flee Gondolin."

With this Tuor pressed the King no more, but bowed and remained silent, accepting the judgement of Turgon. Yet the wisest of the King's counselors were filled with disquiet, and chief among their number was his daughter Idril, whose heart was now heavy with foreboding. And as he stood with his kindred at the foot of the stairs of the King's Palace, the silent tears rolled down the face of Voronwe as he wept, perceiving the folly of Turgon and his people.

Chapter 8 - Patterns and Paths

From that day forward the Elves of Gondolin were a people divided. The great majority of them were in accord with the King's decree, but there were some who doubted the wisdom of Turgon's words. They would murmur among themselves and speak of breaking the King's law, daring the dangerous journey to the South, but this matter went no further for reverence of the King. The words of Tuor before Turgon on this matter were known to all, and there were not a few who secretly shared the Man's disapproval.

In the warning of Ulmo, the Elven-king heard once again the words of the Doom of Mandos spoken to the High-elves many years before, and the fear of treason was stirred in his heart. For on the road to Middle-earth, Mandos the Doomsman of the Valar had decreed the following to the host of the High-elves, not long after the Kinslaying of Alqualonde:

Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously, and with it have stained the Undying Lands. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond the West ye shall dwell in death's shadow. To an evil end shall all things turn that ye begin well, and ye shall suffer in all your wars and councils from treachery. By treason of kin unto kin, and from the fear of treason among thine own kindred shall this come to pass.

And as he brooded upon the words of Ulmo, he saw himself once again standing on the shores of Nevrast, hearing the warning of the Lord of Waters: It may come to pass that the Curse of the Noldor shall find thee too ere the end, and treason awake within thy walls.  Therefore, before the coming of the next year, the Hidden Way was sealed and blocked up, even from the cave-mouth of the Dry River to the Gate of Wood. Thereafter, none went ever forth from Gondolin on any errand of peace or war while the city stood. Tidings from the lands beyond were brought to Turgon by Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles, but Turgon shut his ear to woes from without, and forbade his people to ever pass the leaguer of the hills again.

In the days that followed, Tuor chose to dwell within the city of Gondolin among the Elves of the Hidden Realm with the grace of the King, as did his father Huor before him. He had been of a mind to leave after resting for a time, for the sound of Ulmo's horn still stirred his heart, and he desired greatly to return to the shores of the Sea, living once again beside the music of its waters. But there was a new vision to ponder -- that of the enchanting beauty of Idril Celebrindal, the Lady of Gondolin. Tuor's heart would move strangely within him whenever she would pass him by. He did not understand this, neither did he fully comprehend why she should impress him so; but she was the key to his missing past, and he culd not bear the thought of telling her farewell just yet. So, with great reluctance, he set aside the call of the Sea and accepted Idril's offer to share with him the story of Huor his father. Thus by his own free will he chose to remain within the confines of the Hidden Realm. He set aside journeying across pathless and friendless lands and instead dwelt in peace, learning from Idril such as she knew of the lore of the House of Hador, and taking delight in the wonders of Gondolin.

The High-elves of the Hidden Realm were the greatest in both skill and lore that ever walked the ways of Middle-earth, and under their care Tuor grew both in knowledge and arts. From them he learned their long and sad history, from the day of the Summoning until their exile from the Blessed Realm and their return to the shores of mortal lands. He learned of the vision of Turgon and the raising of Gondolin, and of its pleasures and wonders, as well as its strengths and defenses. He was taught many skills at works of the hand and eye -- from mining and forging to smithcraft and tool-making, from woodwork and stone-sculpting to engraving and embossing. Over the years that would follow, from the fine arts to handicraft, from fighting skills to the leadership of hosts, Tuor would become the mightiest and most learned of all the fathers of Men who ever lived, and the greatest warrior save Hurin only.

It was also during this time that the words of Ulmo grew dim and lay half-forgotten within the heart of Tuor. He no longer thought of his life in Hithlum, and set aside the memory of the hard road that had led him to Gondolin. The Elves gave him a home within a tower set upon the heights of the southern walls of the city in which to dwell; for he loved the free air, and did not like the closeness of the other dwellings and towers within the walls. (31) There he delighted at times to walk on the battlements and behold the glory of the dawn and the fading fire of the sunset; for if he had set his sea-longing aside for a time, it was not completely forgotten.

There would be times when he could be found seated beside the banks of the Hidden River, or gazing upon the glistening waterfalls that flowed down Amon Gwareth, or strolling along the edges of the pool beneath the fountain of Eithel Ninui, listening to the songs in those waters. In their splashings he could hear as it were the faint echo of breaking waves upon the shores of the Sea, and deep within he would once again hear the horn of Ulmo bidding him return. It was at those times that his heart would yearn so within him that he thought of leaving the Hidden Realm; but the King's law held him back, and the thought of Idril's clouded face troubled him. Always the image of Idril would drive doubts and longing from his mind, and renew his resolve to remain within the Hidden Realm. This was fortuitous indeed; for it was not his fate to leave Gondolin just yet.

As the weeks and months passed, and the day of his arrival faded into memory and song, Tuor grew close with the folk of the Hidden Realm. For the sturdy son of Huor was now in the full flower of manhood, strong in body and fleet of foot, and become fair in both face and heart. He was also held in honor by the lords and nobles of Gondolin, and within their ranks he found such brothers-in-arms as one could only find in days of old: Ecthelion of the Fountain, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, and more. All of them treated him as one of their own save Maeglin the king's sister-son, who kept his own counsel, and had as little to do with the son of Huor as he could manage. As for the rest, they held him as an equal not only because of his place as the heir of the House of Hador and the honor granted him as the messenger of Ulmo, but also because he availed himself to become one of their number on his own merit, taking it upon himself to perform every test and task set before him without complaint. At first they asked why he did this when he did not have to, but he merely smiled and said, "Honor is granted, but respect is earned. I would have your respect, if I can earn it." That he did, and his valor in his efforts soon drew the praise and admiration of the King's warriors. It was not long before he was admitted within their ranks, for his foster-father Annael had trained him well in the arts of war. There was little more that they could teach him, save in the use of the sword, for in this his skill was far below theirs. He said nothing at the time about this, for the sword was the weapon wielded by the King's warriors; yet he continued to practice with the axe in secret, for that was his weapon of choice.

It was now a little more than two years since the coming of Tuor to Gondolin. (32) Summer's green was fast giving way to the reds and golds of autumn, and the wind at times bore a chill air from the North, heralding the change of seasons. It would not be long before the trees of the vale would be forced to surrender their brilliant garb and be laid bare in stark nakedness to winter's tender mercies. The Elves of Gondolin noted the passing of summer and adjusted themselves to it, as they always had, mourning in silence the loss of the songbirds as they began to take flight for their winter homes.

The approach of autumn had little effect on the son of Huor, for Tuor was now hard in training to become a knight of the King's Host. There was now but one thing that held him back, and that was his skill with the blade. He had been many months in labor sharpening his sword-wielding skills, and in this he had the help of Egalmoth; for the Lord of the Heavenly Arch was one of the most seasoned warriors of Turgon's folk, and it was he who taken it upon himself to assist Tuor in his desire. Thanks to Egalmoth his skills with the sword had improved considerably, so that by now he was fighting among the best in the daily practice duels held by the warriors of Gondolin in the Hall of Warriors. (33)

Today Tuor was paired with one Gildor Inglorin, a High-elf of the House of Finrod who had once been a lord of Nargothrond. Gildor had been one of the few of that folk to escape the rout of Fingon's host in the Nirnaeth. He and his companions had never returned home, but had instead fled south with Turgon's host, and sought refuge with them. Thus it was that Gildor had come to dwell within the Hidden Realm and now served as a warrior of Gondolin. The hall rang with the clash of steel upon steel as Tuor and Gildor fought, each pressing the other for the advantage in their duel, and it was unclear as to who would gain the final mastery.

They fought in the arena pit within the center of the hall, instead of one of the training rooms, where contests of skill could be staged for the observation of many. This was a common practice, so that other warriors could watch and learn, and use that knowledge to sharpen their own skills. It was also open to any of the folk of Gondolin who wanted to watch, and there were not a few who would come and see as they were able. Galleries of stone benches ringed the rim of the arena pit, upon which both warriors and spectators could sit and look down upon the action. It was not meant to hold many, as this was a venue for training more that sport; yet seldom was there a bare spot in its tiers whenever warriors of skill fought below. Today there was the usual crowd of the common folk, along with a larger than usual scattering of warriors from the hosts of Gondolin, resting from their own bouts or visiting to watch Tuor's progress. For it was known that this was the last day of Tuor's training in the way of the sword, and the duel that he fought now would determine whether or not he became a knight of the King. As if to emphasize the importance of this event, another Elf-lord had just joined Egalmoth upon the bench of the captains high above the arena. It was Glorfindel of the Golden Arch, come to watch his friend, and he nodded in approval at the way Tuor was handling himself below.

It was not long after Glorfindel's arrival, and the duel was still in progress, when there was a quiet commotion from one of the gallery doors. Egalmoth and Glorfindel looked up to see Maeglin and Idril, escorted by two warriors of the King's Host, descending towards them. They rose from their bench at once and bowed. "My lord," Egalmoth said to Maeglin, "welcome to the Hall of Warriors."

"Indeed," said Maeglin. His voice was cool to the Grey-elf. "The king wishes to check on the Man's progress to become one of his warriors. He understands that the time has come for his worth to be judged by those of greater skill. I am here to judge him."

"And there is not a better judge to be had in all the king's hosts," said Glorfindel quickly, seeing the anger flare in Egalmoth's eyes. "Only the finest warriors may serve as a knight of the king, and only a lord of the king's hosts is fit to make that judgement."

"Precisely," said Maeglin, "and as the prince and heir of Gondolin, I am here to do that. My lady?" he said to Idril, waving towards the stone bench.

The Elf-lords stood to one side as the Prince and Lady of Gondolin took their seats, then joined them -- Egalmoth beside Maeglin and Glorfindel beside Idril, with the two guards standing behind them. Both noted, with hidden amusement, as Idril refused Maeglin's proffered hand and seated herself on the bench. Maeglin ignored the implied insult as he sat beside her.

"We are honored, my lady," said Glorfindel, once they were all seated. "It is an unusual thing for the Lady of Gondolin to grace us with her presence in this place."

"It is an honor to be here," she replied.

"What brings you within these walls, if I may ask?"

"You may," said Idril. "The training of the messenger of Ulmo as one of the king's warriors is not a small thing to him." She cast a sidelong glance at Maeglin, who was now intently watching the duel below, his face as impassive as ever. "I too have been sent here by the King to judge the worthiness of the son of Huor."

Glorfindel looked at Egalmoth, who glanced back. "But did not the king send Maeglin for this purpose?" he said.

"The king values the opinions of all his lords," said Idril, slightly stressing the word all. "I am here to see with another set of eyes than those of the Prince of Gondolin. I am also here to ensure that your reports of the skill and worth of the son of Huor reach the King's ears." As Idril finished, Glorfindel though he saw one corner of Maeglin's mouth twitch ever so slighly. Other than that, he seemed to be ignoring them. She then cast her glance to the arena and the duel below, and they watched with her. After a few minutes, she spoke. "He fights well, does he not?"

"He does indeed," answered Egalmoth. "He has learned much in the way of the sword since his training began, although it remains hard for him."

"What do you mean?"

"The sword is not in his nature," Egalmoth said, measuring his words. "He is still slow in his footwork and remains stiff with the blade. Not enough to be noticed save by the worthiest of opponents, to be sure, but it is still there. Nevertheless, he has come far, more so than one might hope for one less stubborn."

"And how do you judge him?"

Egalmoth glanced at Maeglin before he spoke, and chose his words carefully. "If it were up to me, I would say that he has earned his place as a knight of the king. There is nothing more I can teach him. I daresay he can now wield a blade as well as any of the king's knights."

"Is that so," said Maeglin, still watching the duel. "He fights like one harvesting the fields. Gildor should have finished him by now."

"You are too stern in your judgement, my lord," said Glorfindel. "Forget not the strength of the Edain, which makes his strokes seem more bold than they are." He looked at Idril beside him. "I daresay that I would not look forward to trading blades with him, my lady."

Idril smiled. "You say that to smooth my cousin's words," she said.

"Nay, my lady," he answered. "The son of Huor is a competent warrior, and worthy to be a knight of the king."

Suddenly Maeglin stirred. "Your pardon," he said as he stood up. "This mutual admiration society is becoming tiresome." He turned and left the bench. The others quietly ignored his departure. None spoke until after he had left the tiers.

"I agree with Glorfindel," said Egalmoth, speaking to Idril. "The son of Huor can now wield a blade as well as any of the king's warriors. Such is my judgement."

"Truly?" said Idril.

"Truly," said Egalmoth, and he chuckled. He had noted the pleasant look that had spread over Idril's face when he and Glorfindel had praised Tuor. "This pleases you, my lady?"

"Yes -- well, that he has come so far in so short a time," said Idril. She recovered quickly, but not fast enough to stop a faint blush from tinging her fair skin. "I mean," she continued, "it has taken him two years to come this far, has it not?"

"Yes, my lady," said Glorfindel, who had also marked her reaction, "but do not forget his years before he came to us. He trained for many years in the warrior's way under his foster father, Annael of the Grey-elves. His teachings were quite sound, and his present skill rests upon what he learned then. All he needs now is a worthy foe to test his limits."

"One such as yourself?" said Idril.

"Perhaps later, when my duties permit," said Glorfindel. "I daresay even Egalmoth the mighty would like to cross blades with his student."

"I shall be doing so on the morrow," replied Egalmoth. "Both you and the Lady are invited to watch, if you wish. As I said before, I have taught him all that I know. The rest must come from within." At that moment, a peculiar-sounding clang came from the arena, and all three of them looked down towards the sound. "Aaahhh, our champion has triumphed!" he said, smiling. "Let us praise him for his victory."

Tuor had noted the arrival of Idril and Maeglin but had paid it little heed at the time. All of his attention and skill was needed for his practice duel with Gildor, for the High-elf was a skilled and nimble opponent. He caused Tuor to exercise every skill with the sword that Egalmoth had taught him. This had been his most difficult duel to date, but he was determined to win. This was the one that mattered, the one that would earn him a place as a knight of the king. He was determined not to lose.

The practice duels fought in the Hall of Warriors, such as the one in which Tuor and Gildor were now joined, were not like the normal sword bouts one fought when undergoing training as a warrior. These were meant as tests of skill and finesse. The point of the duel was to disarm one's opponent, not to maim or kill. Strokes that would do so or cause serious injury were forbidden by the law of the King, but since not even the greatest swordsman could be perfectly delicate, small wounds or cuts were overlooked -- so long as they were not serious. They were a consequence of fighting with real blades, instead of the practice ones used in training. Also, and this was understood by all who received warrior's training, to receive such a wound in a practice duel was considered dishonorable, as it spoke of the lack of skill of the bearer.

Tuor finally managed to find an opening in Gildor's attack through which he could pounce. It took but a moment, and then the sword was wrested from Gildor's surprised hand and fell clattering to the arena's stone floor. "Do you yield?" said Tuor, as he lifted his blade towards the High-elf.

Gildor drew himself up, then bowed. "I yield, son of Huor. You fought well today. Never have I fought with such a determined foe save on the battlefields of Beleriand. It was an honor to duel with you today." He looked up as the sound of cheers and clapping came from the galleries. His eyes suddenly fixed on the captain's bench, and he smiled. "It seems that a guest of honor has joined us."

Tuor looked up to see Idril smiling at him. It was she that had started the clapping, judging from the looks of those in the galleries. She also seemed to be looking straight at him. "Indeed," he said, all too aware that his cheeks had become warm.

They both turned to face the captain's bench, then bowed to their royal guest. Idril arose, as did Egalmoth and Glorfindel, then nodded in reply. A sudden hush fell upon the rest of those in the galleries. They were all too aware of the special honor being bestowed upon the combatants below. The match had been given the blessing of the King's house. There was no doubt now about Tuor becoming a knight of the king. "Well done!" cried Idril, so that all could hear. "Well fought, son of Huor."

Tuor bowed his head again, suddenly feeling small and unimportant, embarassed by the attention she was giving him. "Your pardon, my lady, for such an ill-fought contest. I thank you for your blessing, but I still have much to learn."

"Then perhaps the time has come for someone of surpassing skill to teach you," came a cool voice from behind him.

All eyes turned towards the fighters' entrance in the arena. Tuor saw Gildor start, and heard Idril's quiet gasp from above. Standing before him was Maeglin, the Prince of Gondolin, blade in hand. He had traded his black tunic for a leather doublet and a light coat of elven-mail, and he held his black sword Anguriel before him in token of challenge. Maeglin's face was as emotionless as ever, and his voice never wavered from its accustomed calm tone. "I have heard that your skill with the sword has improved considerably, son of Huor. I am here to test that tale. Do you dare to match blades with me?"

Maeglin's challenge gave Tuor pause, and he was unsure of what to do. The galleries remained quiet, save for the hushed murmurs as news of the challenge spread. The news would travel fast, he knew, and already he could hear the footfalls of other warriors rushing in to see for themselves. At the bench of the captains, the faces of both Egalmoth and Glorfindel were in doubt, and that of Idril had gone pale. Tuor suddenly knew that he had no choice in the matter. His honor was at stake.

"I will cross blades with you, my lord," said Tuor quietly.

Egalmoth turned as he spoke, addressed both the combatants below and the growing crowd about him. "Challenge has been given and lawfully received, in accordance with the King's law concerning the training of one of his knights," he proclaimed. "By the King's own decree, let none interfere with what is about to proceed. This contest shall be governed by the rules of knight training, and neither of the fighters may stray from their bounds." He waved to Tuor and Maeglin. "Warriors, prepare yourselves."

Tuor and Maeglin went to the appointed places to begin their duel, even as Gildor retrieved his sword and left the arena. They took up their stances, but already the crowd had begun to swell in the galleries. Word had reached the streets outside, and the common folk were joining the warriors on the tiers in droves. A worried-looking Idril glanced up at Egalmoth, then looked at Glorfindel. "Somebody stop this."

"Nay, my lady," said Glorfindel gently. "I cannot, nor will you find any in here that will. Prince Maeglin acts in accordance with the king's law, whatever his intent may be. Tuor has accepted his challenge as honor dictates. Now we can but sit and watch." He glanced for a moment at Tuor, then back at Idril. "Do not worry, my lady. He will not give your cousin an easy victory, whatever he may think."

They both looked up at the sound of approaching footfalls. Ecthelion of the Fountain was making his way past the rising tide of watchers to join them on the bench of the captains. "Your pardon, my lady," he said, nodding his head in deference to her. "My lord Galdor has just heard news of this duel, and he sends me here in his stead."

"Then will you stop this?" said Idril.

"Nay, my lady," said Ecthelion. The Elf-lord looked at his two fellow Elf-lords beside her, then back at Idril. "You must know by now that I cannot. The son of Huor must account for himself."

Egalmoth now raised his hand, and at that the galleries grew silent. All eyes were upon Tuor and Maeglin in the arena below. They were measuring each other: broad-shouldered Man and quietly confident Elf, staring across a plain of stone, waiting for the signal to begin. Maeglin's air was that of a skilled swordsman awaiting a lesser foe. Tuor bore himself with the same grim determination for the contest now ahead that he had shown when fighting Gildor. Both were armed with sword alone; for Tuor had not been using any shield or any other type of blade when the challenge was made, so Maeglin was bound to fight by the weapons Tuor had wielded at the time.

"Begin!" shouted Egalmoth, and his hand fell.

The two fighters sprang at each other. The air rang with the clash of locked swords. The fighters moved across the length and width of the arena as they strove one against the other, matching blow for blow, each seeking mastery that would enable him to overcome and disarm his foe. Cheers rang out from above their heads as they fought. Voices there were that cried for Maeglin and for the Prince of Gondolin, but these were few and largely warriors of his host. The greater of the folk by far, both warriors and common folk, cried out in support of Tuor and shouted encouraging words to the son of Huor. This was not lost on the combatants below, as the Elf neatly parried a thrust from the Man. "They cry in vain," he taunted quietly as he countered with a thrust of his own.

"We shall see," grunted Tuor, deflecting Maeglin's stroke.

As the duel continued, it soon became apparent that the Man was holding his own against the more experienced Elf, and the cries in favor of Tuor grew. On the bench of the captains, the three Elf-lords seated with Idril noted that she was watching the contest with a strange intentness, and her face was a mirror of Tuor's changing fortunes. It brightened each time he went on the attack, and grew worried with each desperate defence. Glorfindel was the first to offer a comment. "Tuor defends himself ably," said the Elf-lord.

"He has lasted longer that would most Elf-warriors in his place," said Egalmoth. "Longer than I expected."

At this Idril's eyes brightened. "Then he fights well?" she said, her voice betraying her inner fear.

"He fights valiantly," said Ecthelion. "But look!"

The shouts in support of Maeglin now rose above the din as the Prince of Gondolin launched a blistering series of strokes against his opponent. The agile Elf seemed to dance around the Man, who looked slow in comparison, and twiced swapped the sword with each hand as he struck at each and every opening that presented itself. It was all Tuor could do to ward off the blows, and he was now falling back towards the arena wall at a steady pace. On a sudden Maeglin struck wide, leaving himself open, and Tuor leapt at the desperate chance. It was a feint, for at that instant Maeglin recovered and moved hard into Tuor's side. The Man lost his balance at the body blow and stumbled, and with that his sword was struck from his hand. Tuor fell to one knee and caught himself, even as he looked up to find Maeglin standing over him, the point of Anguriel but a breadth away from the tip of his nose.

"Yield," said Maeglin in a calm yet commanding tone.

The air was now full of shouts of praise for the Prince of Gondolin, yet somehow the cries seemed hollow, for there were far fewer than there could have been. The three Elf-lords and the Lady of Gondolin said not a word. Glancing aside, though, the three could see that Idril had been saddened by the outcome.

Tuor had no choice. "I yield," he said, bowing his head.

Maeglin made a sudden motion with his sword. There was a buzz from the crowd, and Idril gasped. A thin, red line now ran across Tuor's right cheek. "Stop it!" she cried.

Maeglin ignored her. "If ever we cross blades again," he said to Tuor, "pray it be with battle-axes in the deepest dark of night." (34)

Tuor looked up, and his eyes were full of challenge. "So be it," he said evenly, "but I will grant you the light of day, to better see by."

Maeglin laughed. "You would be bested twice in one day, son of Huor?" He suddenly withdrew his sword. "Come, then! I await you." He then called to the servants standing at the warrior's entrance. "Bring us more blades!"

Once again, the combatants stood in their appointed places, awaiting the word from Egalmoth to begin. This time, though, the blades they held were quite different than those they had fought with before. These were the battle-axes of the High-elves -- blunted, so as to minimize injury in practice, but nevertheless exactly like those used in actual combat. It was rare that a practice duel was fought with such weapons, for even blunted they could cause considerable harm in the hands of a skilled warrior. Dueling with axes required a great deal of finesse that only the best warriors could achieve. Perhaps this explained Maeglin's air of confidence as he stood facing the Man he had already beaten but a short time before. He was smiling now, holding his axe loosely in his hands. As for Tuor, he stood across from Maeglin with a seemingly puzzled look on his face, slowly turning his axe about. "I have never fought in battle with a blade quite like this," he finally said.

"This is not an axe you hew wood with," said Maeglin. His calm tone was now beginning to grate on Tuor's ears. "You should have thought of that before you made your challenge."

Meanwhile, up on the bench of the captains, Idril was arguing with the Elf-lords over the second duel. "I want this stopped, right now," she demanded. "Maeglin intends to do harm to the son of Huor. He does not deserve this."

"But my lady--" Glorfindel began.

"Do not tell me again about your precious warrior's code," snapped Idril fiercely. "Maeglin's last stroke was uncalled for, and you know it." She turned to Egalmoth. "If you do not stop this now, I will."

At that Ecthelion put his hand on her arm. "Nay, my lady," he said calmly, "there is no need to stop this. Tuor will not lose a second time."

Idril looked at him in surprise. "And how do you know that?"

Ecthelion smiled, and then turned to Egalmoth. "I think that it is best that you tell her, as you are his teacher."

Idril now looked at the Grey-elf, who was also smiling. "Then tell me, for I do not like conspiracies among my lords."

Egalmoth turned away from the arena to face her. His back was now to the combatants below. "Take a good look at Tuor," he said in a low voice, looking at Idril, then turned away again to face the ring.

"What--?" Idril said

Glorfindel pulled her aside, whispering to her. "Take a good look at Tuor, my lady. He only seems to fumble with his axe. In truth, he is measuring its haft and weight, finding its chief points and judging its grip. Now look at Maeglin. Your cousin has not noticed. " He pulled back, then smiled at her, still speaking low. "Tuor has handled a battle-axe before. The prince is in for a surprise." (35)

Meanwhile, in the arena below, Maeglin appeared to be growing impaitent with Tuor. "It is time to begin the duel," he said. "Your feeble fingers only delay the inevitable."

At that Tuor looked up, and there was a strange light in his eyes. "Your pardon, my lord," he said, as he settled down into a not quite accurate copy of Maeglin's pose. "Wielding the axe of the High-elves in battle is a thing new to me."

"Then now is the time to learn its uses," said Maeglin.

"Indeed," said Tuor.

Egalmoth now arose from his seat and raised his hand. The crowd grew quiet again, waiting with baited breath. "Challenge has been given and lawfully received, in accordance with the King's law concerning the training of one of his knights," he proclaimed. "By the King's own decree, let none interfere with what is about to proceed. This contest shall be governed by the rules of knight training, and neither of the fighters may stray from their bounds." He waved to Tuor and Maeglin. "Warriors, prepare yourselves."

Both Maeglin and Tuor gripped their axes, tensing in their fighting stances.

"Begin!" came the cry, as the Elf-lord's hand fell, and with that the duel began.

This contest did not begin the same as the last. The natures of the different weapons required different tactics. The fighters briefly sparred, more with their handles than their blades, then backed off and began to circle, each watching the other carefully. This went on for several minutes, until Maeglin suddenly stopped. "Strike, if you dare," he said. "I will grant you the first charge."

Tuor shook his head. "You first."

"Do not say that I was not generous," said Maeglin, and he suddenly lunged at Tuor. The Elf-warrior delivered a series of broad, carefully calculated swings at Tuor. Under normal circumstances, they would have disarmed any normal Elf-warrior. It seemed to all in the galleries that the man somehow just missed or barely blocked each before stumbling out of the Elf's way. He turned, then resumed his crouch opposite Maeglin.

"You wield the blade well, my lord," said Tuor.

Maeglin's response was another attack, more subtle yet more fierce than before. No normal warrior could have escaped injury under the rain of blows that now fell upon Tuor. Again, though, it seemed to all who watched that by some miracle Tuor escaped Maeglin's assault, and then resumed his crouch before him.

"Yes," said Tuor, shifting his blade in his hands, "better than any I have seen."

Maeglin charged a third time, the strongest and most devious attack he had yet launched. This time it was quite obvious that each blow was intended to cause injury or bodily harm should any land. Again, Tuor fought off the attack; however, this time he made no effort to conceal his moves. He met Maeglin's astonished grimace with a fierce look as the two grappled close together.

"But not good enough," Tuor hissed.

Suddenly Tuor launched his own assault. Maeglin fell back, and it was all he could do to shield himself as he was forced on the defensive. The air was now filled with cries for Tuor as the Elves watched in awe, the bold strokes of the Man driving the Prince of Gondolin as Tuor had been driven by him only a short time before. Egalmoth shook his head, amazed by what he saw. "No wonder his steps were off," he said. "I was training him with the wrong blade."

"He needs no training with that one," said Ecthelion, watching as Maeglin tried to keep up with Tuor. He looked to Idril, but she said nothing as she watched the son of Huor in the arena below.

By now it was quite obvious to all, even Maeglin, that the Elf was outclassed. Beads of sweat had formed on his skin as he parried the steady rain of blows from Tuor, watching for any hope of an opening for assault, for the Man surely had to let up sometime. He did, and with that the Elf moved swiftly to the attack. Tuor suddenly and unexpectedly countered, thrusting his blade at Maeglin's face. Maeglin was forced to try to block it. In that same moment Tuor suddenly reversed his axe and struck Maeglin hard in the stomach with the butt of the handle. Maeglin doubled over and fell to his knees, dropping his axe and crying in both surprise and pain. Tuor was on him in an instant, a blur of speed and motion. The next thing Magelin knew he was prostrate, his shoulders pinned by Tuor's knees, looking up at a pair of crossed axe blades hovering above his neck.

"Do you yield?" said Tuor in a stern voice.

Maeglin was too humiliated to reply. All he could manage was a nod.

The arena erupted in shouts and cheers as the majority of the crowd above cried in praise of Tuor. Idril sat among the Elf-lords on the captain's bench, visibly relieved, and none could miss the look of joy on her face at Tuor's victory. Egalmoth stood, his arm outstretched, and cried above the din, "Victory belongs to Tuor!"

Below, in the arena, Maeglin grimaced at the Man. "That was a foul move," he said.

"Only to those who would not expect it," said Tuor. "Expect the unexpected. It was the first lesson my foster-father taught me." He got up off the Elf, then stood beside him as he took both axes with one hand, then offered his fallen foe the other. Maeglin glared at him and then stood up on his own, refusing Tuor's proffered hand. He turned and walked out of the arena, never looking back. Tuor was left standing alone, as the shouts from the galleries rose and rang about him.

It was but a short time after Tuor's victory in the arena. He was now in one of the dressing rooms, having bathed and changed his clothes back into his daily garb. He had already laced up one boot and was starting on the other when he heard a knock on the wall near the hallway. He looked up to see the Lady of Gondolin standing there. She was alone, for there were none in the dressing room and none with her. "My lady," he said as he bowed his head, embarrassed by her presence.

"Be at ease, son of Huor," Idril said as she walked up to him. "You fought well today."

"Nay, my lady," he replied as he finished with the laces. "I fought only as I was able." He rose, then reacted with surprise as Idril handed him his sword belt. "My apologies for besting your cousin," he said as he took it, "but he deserved it."

"Maeglin needed humbling," said Idril. She was now holding his sword in its sheath, watching as he finished buckling on his swordbelt. She handed it to him after he finished, then continued to speak while he clasped it into place. "My cousin does not like you. He sought out the opportunity to best and belittle you. He has a stiff neck, and I for one am glad that someone has finally come along to bend it."

"Even so," said Tuor, "I should have beat him with his own weapon. An axe, I am told, is an uncouth weapon for a king's knight to wield."

"And who made that law?" said Idril, handing Tuor his cloak.

"It is their way," said Tuor, taking the cloak from her and putting it on. He bowed slightly and waved towards the door with one hand. Idril curtsied in reply, then went before him out the door into the hallway beyond. It did not miss Tuor's notice that she paused until he caught up with her before continuing down the hallway.

"Egalmoth carries an Orc-blade," said Idril as they walked. "Consider what a warrior's valor and prowess may earn him."

Idril's words gave Tuor cause to ponder. "Then he has not always carried such a blade?"

"No," said Idril. "Remember, he won it from an Orc-captain in one of the first battles of Beleriand long ago. In honor of that victory, the King has granted him leave to wield it as he may."

"But Egalmoth is an Elf-lord, and I but a lowly warrior," said Tuor.

"I was under the impression that you were the messenger of Ulmo," said Idril. "That ranks you among the great in the king's eyes. Why then do you bother with such things, when there is no need for you to do so?"

"Because I must," said Tuor, and there was earnestness in his voice. "My lady, please understand. One of the things that my foster-father Annael taught me is that one must never take one's place for granted in this world. Respect is earned, not bestowed. You and your people hold me in awe for what I represent. I would rather you respect me for what I have earned."

"Such wisdom for one so young," said Idril, and she meant it. "The son of Huor has learned his lesson well."

"My lady is generous," said Tuor.

Suddenly Idril stopped. "Just a moment," she said. The hallway was empty save for the two of them, and now Idril moved in close to him. She reached up with her hand and touched the wound on his cheek. "You did not deserve this."

Tuor was acutely aware of her closeness. "A dueling mark, and nothing more," he said softly. "It will heal soon enough."

"Yet the scar will remain," said Idril. "I may only be a maiden, but I know something of these things. He wanted to put his mark on you -- a constant reminder of who was the better. Is it not so?"

"It is, my lady," said Tuor. He felt strangely excited, with her being as close as she was. "Things did not go as he planned."

"Yet the mark is still there," said Idril. She ran her finger down the cut. Her eyes narrowed, and she said, "This shall not be."

With that she closed her eyes and began to chant. Tuor did not know the words, but he recognized the sensation at once. Idril was singing a healing spell, most likely in High-elven. He stood there as still as a stone, she pressed close to him, with one hand on his shoulder while the other played across the cut, all the while singing in an enchanting, sing-song voice. Tuor felt his cheek tingle under his touch, and could almost sense the cut healing itself. (36) That paled to the other feelings he was having, with the beautiful Lady of Gondolin being as close to him as she was at that moment. It seemed to him that he could have stood there forever under the healing touch of her hand. He longed to respond in some way, to show her how he felt, but he could not. She was the Lady of Gondolin. He was but a lowly Man, the least of all the king's knights. Instead, he savored the moment under her gentle ministrations for as long as he could, until at last the tingling sensation stopped in his cheek.

Idril lowered her hand and opened her eyes. She suddenly realized that she was standing quite close to Tuor. "There will be no scar now," she whispered.

"Thank you," said Tuor in a hushed tone, gazing deep into her elven-eyes.

She knew he could have easily taken her in his arms at that moment, but he did not. To her amaze, she realized that part of her wished he would. There were a thousand reasons why he should not, but she wished it all the same. Then the moment passed, and she was in control again. They both turned and backed away a pace. Idril knew she was blushing. She wondered if he might have seen it. "Come, son of Huor," she said, beginning to move quickly down the hall. "The others will be waiting."

Tuor followed after Idril as she trotted down the hall. She kept her face turned away from him as they walked, and he wondered why she did not look back.

The three Elven-lords were waiting for them at the entrance to the Hall of Warriors. Eyebrows were raised as Tuor followed Idril through the entrance, but no one mentioned it. Instead, Egalmoth turned to Tuor. "Ah, there you are," he said. "You young rascal! My apologies for mistraining you. Why did you not say something before about your skill with the axe?"

"Because my skill with the sword has always been weak, and I needed the practice," said Tuor. "No apology is needed, my lord. I would not lasted as long as I did against the prince had it not been for everything you taught me, and I am grateful."

"Thank you, son of Huor," said Egalmoth, and grinned. "Then I take I our practice duel for tomorrow is still on?"

"Yes, my lord," said Tuor.

"Good!" said Egalmoth, and clapped him on the back. "You are a vailant and stout-hearted warrior, and have the makings of a noble lord within you. Few there are who would have carried on as did you after your loss today."

"May I be permitted to come and watch?" said Idril.

"You do not need my permission, my lady," said Egalmoth, "but I am honored all the same. I look forward to seeing you in the Hall of Warriors on the morrow."

"I shall be there too," said Ecthelion, smiling at Tuor. "I wish to see more of this Man's prowess."

"So be it!" said Egalmoth. "May I choose the blades, son of Huor?"

"As you wish, my lord," said Tuor, "but if I may, why do you ask?"

"Because I was impressed by what I saw in your second bout today," said Egalmoth. "Up until now I have been the master, but tomorrow I shall be the pupil. I chose the battle axe, and I have a favor to ask of you, young champion. Will you teach me those moves you made today?

None needed to hear words from the silent lips of Maeglin to know his foul mood. His countenance spoke for him. None in the Hall of Warriors could fail to mark the scowl on his normally impassive face as he strode away from that place. He did not acknowledge the bows of the other Elves along his way as he walked down the city streets, and he did not return their proffered greetings.

His path led him in a generally southeastern direction across the city, down side streets and back alleys, and other ways less traveled but sometimes faster than the mains. They eventually led him to a squat, two-story building with a large courtyard not far from the Lesser Market. Despite its simplistic contours it was more lavishly decorated than its neighbors, and also had its own short tower. The guard at the gate, who bore the livery of the Harp, bowed before Maeglin and stood aside, allowing him to pass within.

There was a pleasant garden within the courtyard, but Maeglin was not in the mood for such unnecessary frills. His attention was instead focused on the stout Elf relaxing on a couch by the pool at the base of the tower. Beside him was a small table or stand, upon which food and wine were set. Behind him were two servants, one servicing the stand and the other holding scroll and pen. The Elf held a harp in one hand, and apparently had been in the act of composing a song when Maeglin's arrival had interrupted him.

The plump harpist looked up at the scowling prince. "Yes?" he said, deliberately drawing out the word.

"We need to talk."

Salgant seemed not the least bit perturbed by the interruption. He smiled, a look that spoke of things known but best not voiced in public. He clapped his hands and arose from his seat. "That will be all," he said to his servants. They bowed and departed, closing the doors behind them and leaving the two alone in the courtyard garden. The pair made quite a contrast as they stood before each other - the tall, handsome Elf-prince in his black attire, and the small, plump Elf-harpist in everyday merchant garb. Salgant chuckled. "A little bird told me that the Man bested you in the Hall of Warriors today."

"Is that what you heard?" Maeglin said evenly.

"Is it true, then?" asked Salgant, but Maeglin said nothing. Salgant's eyes twinkled. "Ah, so it is true." Salgant took a sip from a goblet of wine that stood on the stand next to his seat. "Be advised, my lord, that the news has spread through the city swifter than hind's feet." Salgant was still smiling, much to Maeglin's annoyance.

"I see you take delight in your lord's discomfiture," Maeglin growled.

"Well spoken!" said Salgant. "Others are using words less precise."

"Oh?" said Maeglin, still irritated. "And what report do these others bear of this matter?"

"They say my lord was bested with weapons by the Man in the Hall of Warriors today," said Salgant. "They say the Man made a fool of you, and that you fell for his trickery."

"Had I but known he was skilled with the axe--" Maeglin muttered.

"--then the fight would have but lasted a little longer, yet end the same way," finished Salgant. He shook his head, then poured a second glass. "It is also said that you let your pride get the better of you. That was your mistake, my lord. It is quite unlike you, to let others humble you so."

Maeglin eyed Salgant coolly, taking the offered glass. "Who are you to speak of such things?"

"Humiliation and I are old friends," Salgant said. "We know each other all too well. It is only when you are brought low that you gain the resolve never to be in such a state again."

The two drank the wine from their glasses. Maeglin drank but a little, but Salgant took a deep draught. Maeglin frowned at his companion's excess. "I sometimes wonder why I talk to you of such things."

"Because I am the only Elf-lord in this realm in whom you can confide," Salgant replied. He set down the glass, and delicately wiped his mouth with a small cloth that lay on the table. He showed no fear at Maeglin's gaze, but there was instead a gleam in his eye. "You bought me many years ago, and never have I betrayed your confidence. That is why you are here now. You need an ear that will listen, but on the same head as a mouth that will not speak." He turned, then sat back down, picking up his harp and idly plucking at it. "Someone who knows you as well as anyone ever will; that is, as much as you will let them. A mirror, so to speak, into which you can stare."

"No matter how misshapen the glass?" said Maeglin.

Salgant laughed, and slapped his belly. "Indeed, my lord. It is also said, or so I hear, that the Lady was witness to these events."

"Is there any place in this realm safe from your prying eyes?" said Maeglin.

"One needs not hidden spies when all can see with open eyes," said Salgant. "She came there with you, but not for you. Her purpose was not yours, and you knew it. You tried to take advantage of the situation, and in so doing draw her eyes to you, and not the Man. You needed to prove that he was unworthy of her affection." Salgant clucked his tongue. "In so doing, you let the Man catch you off-guard. It was a serious miscalculation on your part. No wonder you are so rattled, my lord."

Maeglin managed a grim smile. "It is a mistake that I will not make again."

"So you say," Salgant said, nodding his head.

Maeglin did not miss the obvious sarcasm in Salgant's tone. "Do not bandy words with me, guildsman. I always get what I want, sooner or later."

Now Salgant shook his head. "Perhaps this time your aim is too high."

"So you say," Maeglin replied, mocking Salgant's words.

"I do not speak lightly, my lord. The choice of a mate is always a perilous thing, even for one so mighty as you."

Maeglin frowned. "This, from an Elf who has no mate and claims never to have desired one? What know you of these things?"

"Enough to know that you will never have her," said Salgant.

"She is the key to the throne," said Maeglin in a half-whisper. "I must have her."

"But you will not," said Salgant again. "She will not have you, for she perceives the darkness in your heart; nor could you even if she would somehow draw to you. Our ways would not permit such a thing, my lord, as you well know. There are some laws not even a prince of Gondolin may break."

"Even so, I will have her," said Maeglin, calmly and evenly. "Someway, somehow, I will claim her for my own."

"My lord, this is madness, but I know better than to stand in your way. I am a sounding board, not a roadblock. I know my place." Salgant set aside his harp and stood up, then walked to the door. "Yet even a sounding board may have a say, if its master is willing to listen." He stopped by the door, looking back at Maeglin. "This desire of yours jeopardizes all the hard work over long years you have put in to claim the throne for your own by lawful means, and all for the sake of your own lust."

"Do you not mean our hard work?" said Maeglin.

Salgant smiled, and bowed his head. "I stand corrected. Even so, be warned, my lord. Trading ambition for lust is not an even exchange."

"Nor would I ever consent to such a bargain," said Maeglin, who now came to the door as well. "I intend to have both."

Salgant shook his head. "You are reckless, my lord."

"Persistent," said Maeglin, holding up a finger and waving it before the Elf-harpist's face.

Salgant sighed, "As you say, my lord. Persistent. Even so, do you think that your becoming king of Gondolin would make things any different? You might bend the ways and will of our people, but you will never bend her. She is too much for you."

"We shall see," said Maeglin.

Again Salgant shook his head. "You are as stubborn as you are willful. Perhaps that is why I have chosen to cast my lot with you. Only an Elf with such a will could ever hope to seize the throne of Gondolin."

Chapter 9 - The Pain of Longing

For long had the Elves of the Hidden Realm lived in peace and security, safe from the woes of the world without that lay beyond the heights of the Echoriath: yet the Dark Lord of the North had not forgotten the House of Fingolfin, and the thought of Turgon was never far from his mind. Morgoth had known the younger son of Fingolfin during the days when both had dwelt in the Blessed Realm, and a shadow had fallen on his heart whenever Turgon had passed him by. He hated the House of Fingolfin for the wounds their lord had given him before the Gates of Angband in the Battle of the Bragollach, and for their friendship with Ulmo. He also knew, with the foresight of one of the Powers, that from Turgon would come his ultimate ruin.

Of Gondolin the Dark Lord knew only the name, whispered as a rumor of hope among Elves and Men. He knew not where it was, nor how it was made; but there was one among his captives who might, one of the lords of Men taken in the last days of the Nirnaeth, when the power of the High-elves had been utterly broken. This one had resisted all the spells and tortures that Morgoth had brought to bear against him, and even now sat enchanted in a chair of stone high atop the craigs of Thangorodrim. Not once over the long years of his bondage had he yielded any word of Turgon to the Dark Lord; yet the wiles of Morgoth were many, and what could not be taken by threat of force might be discovered with cunning and guile. Therefore he pondered on this matter, until in the spring of the year after the death of the Black Sword, six years after the coming of Tuor to Gondolin, the Dark Lord came upon a plan.

The morning mists were riding low over the grey land of Dimbar when a long figure appeared in their midst, walking with even strides across the fells as he followed the Dry River northward. He strode across the land at a firm and steady pace, wielding a great black staff with which he occasionally supported himself. Though an old man by his countenance, his form was that of a young warrior, hale and hearty, though it now bore the marks of hunger and many days travel on hard roads. He bore no helm or armor, yet at his side hung a long sword in a sheath. He was but recently released from long years of imprisonment by the Dark Lord, and now sought refuge with the one friend and ally that remained to him in the North -- one beloved and fondly remembered from the days of his youth. (37)

The sun was already well along its march across the skies when the old man reached the foot of the hills. He stopped for a moment and rested, sitting on a large grey stone and looking up at the rocks and craigs before him. The fury of the Fell Winter had torn apart the faces of the mountains, and in many places there had been great rockfalls, where the stones had been cloven from the cliffs. He was resting now before one of these, a particularly large rockfall that covered the face of the slope and completely filled the bed of the Dry River below, all but burying a great thicket of thorns that once had stood there.

He looked up at the shattered cliff-face, shaking his head in dismay. "It must be here," he thought to himself. "It must lie here somewhere. But where can I find the Hidden Way?" He looked all about him, but all he could see was emptiness and desolation. There was no indication of what he sought. There was no sign that this was, or had ever been the place where once had been the secret entrance to Turgon's realm. All he could see was rock and stone, and no sound could be heard save for the faint whistle of the chill morning breeze. He raised his hand to shield his eyes and looked up into the sky, as if seeking for something he once had known, but naught was there to be seen but the grey sky and thin clouds that swirled about the heights of the mountain peaks.

It was not long before the noonday meal when Tuor was suddenly summoned to the King's Square. He was brought up to the roof of the King's Palace where Turgon awaited him, and before the Elven-king stood a mighty eagle.

"This is Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles of Manwe," said Turgon. "He and his folk guard the Hidden Realm from their eyries in the north of the Echoriath, and bring us tidings far and wide from the lands outside. I bring you before him now, for his tidings today concern the House of Hador as well as the House of Fingolfin."

"My lord," said Tuor, bowing to Thorondor, "it is an honor to meet with you. Ever have I been grateful for the aid you people gave me on my journey here, and for long I have wanted to thank you for your help."

The great eagle nodded in reply. "Greetings, son of Huor. It seems but a day ago that I espied your coming and brought word to the Hidden Realm. We were but doing that which we have done for many years, and little did we know that we would play a part in bringing the messenger of Ulmo to Gondolin. But now another of thy kindred comes seeking the Hidden Way, and I know not what this portends."

"What is this?" said Tuor. "The House of Hador is no more. Who is there left that would trod the way to Gondolin?"

"Hurin Thalion, lord of Dor-lomin," said Thorondor. "He seeks a path through the mountains over which I bore him in the days of his youth, when he and thy father were rescued from the Orcs and brought to Gondolin to dwell with Turgon and his people."

"My uncle?" said Tuor, a look of surprise on his face.

"The same," said Thorondor, who then turned to Turgon. "The Lord of Dor-lomin now begs admittance once again to the Hidden Realm. Should I bear him here?"

"That cannot be, as I said when news of this was first brought to me," said Turgon. "It was reported that he was taken alive by Gothmog lord of Balrogs on the last day of the Nirnaeth and dragged in captivity to Angband. He cannot walk free now, unless the Dark Lord sleeps."

"The eyes of the Eagles of Manwe are keener than any in Middle-earth," said Thorondor. "If we were given to make such mistakes, lord, then long ago your hiding would have been in vain."

Turgon pondered for a moment, then turned to Tuor. "I doubt not the sight of the Eagles," he said. "Hurin stands before the Echoriath even now. I would hear what you have to say on this matter, son of Huor. As the kinsman of Hurin, you have the right to speak on his behalf before I pronounce my doom."

Tuor looked at the Elven-king and his counselors, then at the stern visage of the Lord of Eagles, and it was some time before he spoke. "My lords, I am not qualified to speak in this matter," he said slowly. "Though I am the kinsman of Hurin the Steadfast, and would fain look upon him now, I have never seen him or known that he still lives until this day. I cannot speak for one whom I do not know. I cannot defend Hurin before your throne, O king."

"Then will you honor my judgement on this matter, whatever that may be?" said Turgon.

"I will, my lord," said Tuor, bowing to the king.

"Then stand now as witness to my words to Thorondor," said Turgon, raising his staff. "This is my doom. Your tidings are ill, Lord of Eagles, and can mean only one thing: even Hurin Thalion now walks under the Shadow of the Black Hand. My heart is shut against him."

Hurin stood before the rockfall all that day until evening, when the light of the setting sun stained his white hair with red. Then a fit of anger seized him and he cast his staff aside. He climbed up on the rock and stood facing the hills, shaking his fist at the torn cliffs.

"Cursed be this pitiless land," he cried, "hard and barren as the hearts of Elves and Men! O Turgon, do you not see me?! Do you not hear my call?!" But there was no answer save for the whistle of the wind in the rocks.

"Turgon!" he cried again, spreading his arms wide. "Turgon! Have you forgotten the Fens of Serech? It is Hurin who calls to you. Can you not hear me within your hidden halls?" But there was no sound save for the hissing of the evening breeze through the dry grasses in the rocks.

"Even so they hissed in Serech at sunset," he muttered. As he spoke, the sun set behind the Shadowy Mountains, and darkness fell on the land. With that the old man stepped down from the rock. Picking up his staff, he slowly walked back the way he came, his head bowed low.

He was long gone by the time the Eagles once again appeared in the skies overhead, seeking in vain for Hurin Thalion to bring him within. He never learned that Turgon had not forgotten the Fens of Serech and relented his decree, for a dark doom was laid upon him, and it was not his fate to spend his last days in peace. Yet there were ears that had heard the words that Hurin spoke, and eyes that marked well his gestures; and report of all that was done came soon to the Dark Lord of the North. Then Morgoth smiled, for he now knew clearly in what region Turgon dwelt; yet because of the vigilance of the Eagles, no spy of his could yet come within sight of the lands beyond the Echoriath. But he set his scouts and spies all about the circle of the hills and waited, biding his time.

The following evening Tuor walked with Idril upon the wide field of the Vale of Tumladen due east of the city, somewhat north of the forest that lined the banks of the Hidden River. It had become their custom to walk together ever since he had accepted her offer to tell him about his father many years before. By now it had become a regular event that both enjoyed. Their friendship had grown over the years, so much that each now shared with the other their joys and sorrows, and told each other about their doubts and fears. The coming of Hurin had troubled Tuor, and he spent most of the evening talking with Idril about his uncle.

"I was surprised when the king later rescinded his decree, and bid Thorondor seek Hurin once again to let him in," said Tuor. "Your father does not strike me as one who would do such a thing."

Idril smiled, and there was a wistful look in her eyes. "The sons of Galdor were beloved by the king during their stay here," she said. "My father and your uncle Hurin were especially close. It seemed to me that he treated Hurin as my brother -- the son that he never had. The Shadow claimed many among the noble and valiant among Men and Elves in the Nirnaeth on that terrible day, and two whom my father loved greatly: his brother Fingon, and Hurin the Steadfast. Is it any wonder that he would have second thoughts when one beloved, long taken for dead, comes knocking at his gates?"

"I cannot say," said Tuor. "Until today, I did not know I had any kinsmen left to me."

"Love of one's kinsmen is one of the greatest forces that move the world, son of Huor," said Idril. "It moves both great and small, and will move even an Elven-king to risk the Shadow in order to reclaim a loved one long thought lost."

"Even so," said Tuor, "there is a hole in my heart where the love of my kindred should be, and it troubles me. I would have spoken on Hurin's behalf today, but he was a stranger to me. I could not speak for a stranger." He shook his head. "Almost all I know of my kindred comes from tales, and I would have more."

"What else would you know?" said Idril. "What more would you have?"

"To feel, to touch, to see -- to share the burdens of mortal life," said Tuor. "The only one of my kindred that has shared in my life is my mother. That time was all too brief, and I was but a babe in arms, and thus I cannot remember her. All I know about her is that her name was Rian, and she died not long after I was born."

"Why?" asked Idril. Never before had Tuor spoke of his mother, and his sadness moved her heart.

"She was never the same after she learned of my father's death. The Grey-elves told me that they had known and loved each other since the days of their youth, and they had been wed only two short months before he was slain in the Nirnaeth." Tuor paused a moment, remembering. "Annael told me my mother never shed a tear, but the light in her eyes went out when he told her the news. Not long after my birth she left, and that was the last he ever saw of her alive."

"What happened to her?"

Tuor again paused, searching his mind. "From what I could gather during the days of my thralldom among the Eastrons, she apparently went to the Mound of the Slain before the Dark Lord's doors. It was there that my father's body had been cast, and it was there that she died."

"How?" said Idril.

"She grieved herself to death, there on the mound. I was told that she went to the mound unhindered, because her grief was so great that none of the Dark Lord's creatures would molest her. She spent many nights on the mound, where at last her pent-up sorrow was loosed, and one day her still body was seen lying there, never to move again. It is said that the grass that grows there grew for her, watered by her tears." He stopped speaking, noting Idril's expression. The Elf-maid had been deeply moved by the tale of Rian's death, and her eyes were moist.

"Forgive me," said Idril, and put one hand on her heart. "Yours is a sad tale, and yet moves the soul as well, that your mother Rian could have so great a love for your father. Perhaps Illuvatar the All-father was being kind to spare you such grief so soon in your life. Not all of us are so fortunate."

Now it was Tuor's turn to question. "What do you mean?" he asked Idril.

"I watched my mother die."

Tuor was taken aback, and could say nothing for a while. He could see the remembrance of a pain long past in Idril's eyes. He was not sure that this was a place where he wanted to go, yet she had brought up the subject, and he could not bear the sad look on her face. "May I ask how?" he finally said, in as gentle a tone as he could.

"She fell to her death during the crossing of the Grinding Ice, during the days of my people's long journey from the Blessed Realm back to Middle-earth."

"If you would rather not talk about it--" Tuor began.

"It helps if I talk about it," said Idril, interrupting him. "It helps to ease the pain. It is not an easy thing to forget, Tuor, even though it happened long ago, long before you were born. Men's memories may fade and be forgotten with the passing of years, but it is not so with the Elves. You have shared your grief with me. Let me share mine with you." To that Tuor could but nod in reply.

Idril began to speak in a quiet voice, recalling the living memory within her of that dreadful day. "I was but a young girl then, new-come to maidenhood," she began. "We marched with the host of Fingolfin my grandfather, largest of the three hosts of the High-elves to flee the Blessed Realm. Mandos had warned us when we left that death would fall upon us sooner than our wont, and it was not long after that his words were borne out.

"The host of Feanor had stolen the ships and fled across the sea, abandoning us and the host of Finrod son of Finarfin on the Western Shore in its mad rush to pursue the Dark Lord and win back Feanor's precious Jewels. Even so, our hearts still burned with the desire to go to Middle-earth, so after much debate our lords decided to risk the crossing of the Grinding Ice, that narrow strait choked with tumbled ice floes that lies between the West and Middle-earth. It was bitter cold, and the footing on the slippery ice was treacherous, but nothing happened to us until we were well on our way across the strait."

"And then?" asked Tuor.

"Without warning the ice cracked and gave way, and great crevasses opened in many places. Many of our folk fell through, never to be seen again. I and my mother Elenwe were among these, but she managed to catch herself on a slippery ledge some ways down, and I fell on top of her. A handful of others managed to save themselves in similar fashion, but far too few, and there was no way back up.

"There was a great commotion among the Elves above. My father was frantic and all for rescuing us, but he had to be restrained lest he too fall in. After a while ropes were lowered, and they began to pull up those few of us that had survived. My mother took one of the ropes, and fastened it about my waist. Just as she finished she slipped, and could not catch the rope in time. She fell to her death before my eyes.

"With careful effort the Elves above managed to pull me up, along with the others they had rescued in like fashion, but my father was inconsolable. It was a long time before he got over my mother's death, and had I not survived I believe he would have lost his mind. He always blamed Feanor and his folk for my mother's death, and never had anything to do with them from the time we arrived in Middle-earth even to this very day." With that the Elf-maiden ceased speaking and stood still before the Man -- a lonely figure in white lost amid the rolling green waves of the plain.

"Perhaps the All-father was kind to you, to spare you the death of both parents," said Tuor. "I do not pretend to know or share your anguish, but at least you still have your father to you. I have none, and knew that none were left until Hurin came today. The king says that his coming bodes ill, and I agree with him; yet I would have give much to just speak with him, and look into the face of the only kinsman left alive to me."

"We each have our sorrows, Tuor, and grief is but a part of the fabric of this world," said Idril, turning and looking into his eyes, "but know that I would that you could have the chance to know the love of kindred, even as do I. The days are evil inded to keep kin apart from kin, and in this I see the moving of the Black Hand. Be glad you were not pinned beneath its palm as was your kinsman, Hurin the Steadfast."

"You are kind, my lady," said Tuor, clasping Idril's hand in his own.

"Idril." She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. "Call me Idril."

"You are kind ... Idril." (38)

Chapter 10 - A Day of Decision

"Now the speech of the Noldor and Sindar were at first one and the same, but were sundered in the Elder Days. When my kindred answered the Summons and made the long journey to the West, our tongue was both enriched and changed during our long stay there. Though it was based on our speech of old, it now had many new words and ways of describing things that it did not have before. In time, even the manner of our speech was changed.

"Our speech is the Elf-tongue that we call Quenya, which Men call the speech of the High-elves and the Sindar speak not. For in the lands outside the realm of Turgon it has been barred from use by Thingol, King of Doriath, as the speech of those who struck down his kindred at Alqualonde many years ago. There are some among his people who indend know the High-elven and can speak it fluently, but no Elves save the Noldor will honor its use. Here in Gondolin is the only Elf-realm where the high-elven is still spoken in daily use; for Turgon has decreed it so. As High King of the Noldor, he desires to keep the tongue of our people from passing away, and becoming a language of lore." (39)

Penlegod ceased speaking, and closed the books before him. "And that, I think, is enough for the day, Tuor. We can pick up here tomorrow."

Tuor arose from his seat before the Elf-scribe and walked to the northern balcony. It overlooked the royal garden, which lay nestled within the northwest corner of the King's Square between the royal quarters and the palace library. Below him in the garden was the king's daughter Idril, seated on a stone bench next to a fountain, chatting with two of her handmaidens. She must have sensed him looking down on her, because she returned his gaze, then smiled and waved to him. He waved back, then leaned against the balustrade, watching her in silence from above. Behind him, he heard the Elf-scribe get up, then come and join him at the balcony.

The afternoon breeze eddied soft and cool within the courtyard walls as Penlegod spoke. "Would you keep her waiting?" he asked.

Tuor smiled. "Nay, I would not, but we cannont walk together just now. Next is my regular practice with the king's swordmasters. I now wait for Voronwe to come and accompany me there."

"And yet she waits for you nonetheless."

"Yes," said Tuor, "she does. She and I will be walking together later, of course, as is our custom -- after the serving of the evening meal."

Together Elf and Man walked back into the small study room, one of many in the upper tiers of the royal library. Penlegod watched Tuor as he gathered his things and placed them in a small satchel. "You are fortunate among us, son of Huor," he said, "and in singular company among the kindred of Men to have captured the heart of the Lady of Gondolin. There are many of the Elves here who would gladly trade places with you. The All-father has blessed you indeed to grant you the gift of Beren: an Elf-maiden to love."

"You see things that are not there," said Tuor. "I am held in high honor among the people, and in favor with the king, as the messenger of Ulmo. She treats with me no differently than any other lord in her father's court."

"Does she?" said Penlegod, and there was a twinkle in his eye. "Who idea was it to receive instruction from me in the lore of our people? Who arranged for your tutelage in the ways of the Elves? Who sponsored your place among the ranks of the king's warriors? Who comes to the garden below every day to see you on your way? Who has spent every moment of her spare time with you since your coming to Gondolin? If your eyes cannot see what mine do, then you must be blind, son of Huor."

"I am not blind," said Tuor, "but neither have I dismissed the lore in which you have instructed me, friend Penlegod. I am not Beren, and it would be foolish of me to hope for something that cannot be. Did you not teach me that the kindreds of Elves and Men were not meant to be joined?"

"I did," said Penlegod, "but there are exceptions to every rule, and the love of Beren and Luthien proved that. Elves and Men can be joined, if the All-father deems it so. It was he who made the decree in the first place, and he alone can bend it to suit his purpose."

Tuor was about to reply when there came a knock on the door. Penlegod answered, and let Voronwe into the room. The former Elf-mariner was dressed for the arena. "Ready for sword practice today, friend Tuor?"

Tuor chuckled. "Think that I will not go so easy on you today, friend Voronwe."

"I would hope not," said Voronwe, and he chuckled. "Long years in training have worked their wonder on you."

"That may be," said Tuor, "but still the sword is not my weapon of choice. Now if you would but let us use axes, then this would be a different matter."

Voronwe looked at Penlegod in mock dismay. "I dare not!" he pretended to cry. "I would not last a minute against the best axe-man of Gondolin!" He bowed to Tuor, waving towards the door as he did so. "You can wish for the axe as much as you like, but mine was the choice, and it is my blade you must deal with next, son of Huor. Ready?"

"Ready," said Tuor, and he moved to join Voronwe.

Before the two of them could leave, Penlegod spoke. "Tuor?" he called, and the Man stopped in the door, looking back at the royal scribe. "Remember what I said today. Beren's doom was great, and so is yours. No mere mortal would the Lord of Waters chosen to be his messenger to the king. Think about that the next time you walk with her upon the plain."

Tuor nodded, and with Voronwe left the room. As they walked down the long corridor towards the stairs, Voronwe looked at him. "What was that about?" he asked, as the two of them descended to the ground floor.

"Some other time," said Tuor. Yet his face was thoughtful -- and above, Penlegod leaned over the balcony and winked at the daughter of the King.

It had been almost seven years since the coming of Tuor to Gondolin. In that time he had become as one with its people, and he had made many friends among the Elves of the Hidden Realm. Chief among these were the two who first had shown him friendship on the day of his arrival: Penlegod the Elf-scribe, and Idril Celebrindal, the Lady of Gondolin.

Penlegod of Gondolin had a quick mind and remembered everything he had ever read or written. He wrote many books on a wide variety of subjects, and was considered the most learned in lore of the Elves of Gondolin -- hence his positions as the King's Scribe and head of the Guild of Loremasters. His position as the King's Scribe gave him a seat on the King's council, and his duties as the chief loremaster of the realm included supervising the schooling of the young Elves of Gondolin. Thus he was in a position to both know and see a great many things, and it was both of these that made him disagree with Turgon's decision concerning the warning of Ulmo. He held his tongue despite his doubts, though, and did not betray the loyalty of his king. Instead, he befriended the young Man who had brought the message, for he could already see in Tuor the makings of a great warrior -- or perhaps even a lord. Since that day he and Tuor had become fast friends, and with the Elf-scribe's help Tuor was learning all that Penlegod would teach him. It was due largely to the teaching of Penlegod during these years that Tuor would become the most learned in Elven-lore of any Man that ever walked in Middle-earth.

The other chief companion of Tuor during these years was Idril Celebrindal, Lady of Gondolin and daughter of the king. As the years had passed, though, it soon became clear to all that Tuor was in love with her, and she with him. What had first started with a question about Tuor's father had grown into a series of visits, then Idril's sponsorship of Tuor in learning the ways of Gondolin, then long walks and talks together, and so on. By now, it was quite common for the people to see the son of Huor as the escort of the Lady of Gondolin on many an occasion. Tuor had long cherished the vision of Idril's beauty at their first meeting in the court of the king, but had also come to know that it was augmented with knowledge and wisdom, far-seeing and common sense. It was little wonder then that by now his heart was full of love for her. Likewise felt the daughter of Turgon towards him, for Idril had seen in the Man the fufillment of her own desires. Visions and dreams half-remembered from her youth were made clear once she saw the sturdy son of Huor, and she knew beyond all doubt that it was her destiny to join with him. She longed to return the love of the Man who would court her, and said to herself, "Here is a Man worthy of the memory of Beren." Like Luthien of old, the strands of Idril's fate were woven with the kinsman of Beren -- even from the day when she had first gazed upon the young Man clad in elven-mail who stood before the seat of the king.

Now there were those in Gondolin who spoke ill of Tuor and Idril, and the affection they obviously shared for each other. Their chief was Maeglin, Turgon's sister-son and Prince of Gondolin, who desired Idril for his own despite their being so close in relation. Their numbers were few, however, and they would not press the issue openly for fear of invoking Turgon's wrath. As for the Elven-king, he had spoken not at all against Tuor and Idril all this time, nor had said one word against their growing love, even though this ran contrary to all the lore and wisdom of the Elves.

The nightbirds were singing softly in the boughs of the mallorn trees as Tuor and Idril strolled through the grove along the Hidden River, hand in hand, basking in the beauty of the twilight. The mallorn were in full bloom with the season, and the scent from their yellow-gold blossoms filled the air with a fragrance both plesant and refreshing. The pair wound their way through the moonlit grove, walking on a thick layer of moss and fallen leaves that gently brushed the soles of their unshod feet. The evening breeze was cool but light, and the moon shone brightly amidst the innumerable stars in the night sky, devoid of any cloud. It was as fine a spring evening as one could ask.

They were both dressed appropriately for a moonlight stroll in the woods. Tuor wore garments of dark brown trimmed in red and gold, and was girt about the waist with an embroidered belt. About his shoulders was cast a brown elven-cloak, hood drawn back; and in his free hand he carried a pair of sandals. Idril wore a light green summer frock bound about with a long tassel, and her golden hair danced unbound about her shoulders. In design her dress was little different from those that Elf-maidens had worn for countless centuries, and its simplicity served only to accent the graceful form of the one it adorned. About her bare shoulders she wore a mantle of dark green, and she hummed a tune to herself as they walked through the silver shafts of moonlight falling through the trees.

"Indeed, you spoke the truth," said Tuor to Idril as he walked beside her, relishing the sensation of his bare feet upon the forest floor. "I feel like a child again, like the many nights I was allowed to play in the small forest nigh to the caves of Androth."

Idril stopped humming and smiled at him. "Those who walk the world with shod feet soon loose the feel of earth beneath," she said. "So my father said when I was but a child, and I have never forgotten his words."

"And does the king follow his own advice?" said Tuor.

"Not any more," said Idril. She sighed, casting her eyes downward. "It is long since he walked unshod beneath the leaves."

They walked in silence for a space until their steps led them to a small clearing within the wood -- an open place in which stood a shallow pool nigh to a small hillock. It was the kind of place in which one could see both sky and leaves, and rejoice in the beauty of the night. It was made by the Grey-elves of Gondolin in memory of Beren and Luthien and their first meeting in the Forest of Neldoreth, and many an evening had Tuor and Idril passed there in recent days. The light of the moon shone in the clear, untroubled waters of the stone basin, and its soft white sheen cast an enchanting glow all about the glade.

The clouds on Idril's face parted as soon as they came to the clearing, and she tugged at Tuor's arm. "Let us put aside such troubling thoughts for now," she said with a gleam in her eye. "Here is a place where no thought of darkness can find us."

To her surprise, Tuor looked at her strangely. He released her hand and remained standing at the edge of the glade, gazing at the calm waters of the pool before them. He stared at it for a moment, transfixed as it were by the light reflected from above. He then began to sing in a low, singsong voice, chanting words from a recent lay that the Elves and their friends among Men knew well (40):

The twilight lingered faint and cool

in shadow shapes upon the pool

beneath the boughs of sleeping trees

standing silent. About their knees

a mist of hemlocks glimmered pale

and ghostly moths on lace-wings frail

went to and fro. Beside the mere

wakening, rippling, rising clear

the piping called. Then forth she came,

as sheer and sudden as a flame

her maiden-bower on white feet leaving;

and as when summer stars arise

radiant into darkened skies,

her living light on all was cast

in fleeting silver as she passed.

He stopped, then beheld her with a wistful look in his eye. She caught his gaze, seeing the magic of the glade in the moonlight working its wonders on him like it never had before. For long she had wondered if this moment would ever come, but here it was. She had no intention of letting it slip out of her grasp. She too began to chant, singing more from the same lay in a clear and soft voice:

Each day before the end of eve

she sought her love, nor would him leave,

until the stars were dimmed, and day

came glimmering eastward silver-grey.

Then trembling-veiled she would appear

and dance before him, half in fear;

there flitting just before his feet

she gently cried with laughter sweet:

"Come! Dance now, Beren, dance with me!

For fain thy dancing I would see.

Come! Thou must woo with nimbler feet,

than those who walk where mountains meet

the bitter skies beyond this realm

of marvelous moonlit beech and elm."

She stopped, then without warning ran out before him into the light of the clearing, looking back towards him with an enchanting smile upon her face. "Come, Beren!" she called. "Come dance with me! For you must woo me with nimbler feet than in your father's house!" Her own nimble feet flitted above the greensward, and she sprang away from him towards the hillock.

The magic of the moment had Tuor completely in its grasp. He ran after her, tossing his sandals aside, pursuing the Elven-maid that moved with such grace before him. "Tinuviel!" he cried as he bounded after her. "Tinuviel!"

She stopped on the summit and turned towards him, her long golden hair spreading in the breeze of her turn, her long dress and flowing mantle filling with the wind of her movements. One moment it was, but in that moment Tuor was upon her. He caught Idril in his arms, his breathing labored, his eyes ablaze. She trembled in his grasp, her face flushed, her eyes half-closed, her sweet lips beckoning. One moment it was, but it was enough. Tuor pulled Idril close to him, and there in the forest glade under the twilight stars the Man gently kissed the Elven-maid. Their lips met in loving embrace, and Tuor knew that he had found the cure for all his longings at last.

They stood upon the mound for some time, their arms entwined as they kissed each other again and again. When Tuor would withdraw, then Idril would close in; and when she pulled back, then he would press forward. It seemed to both of them that an eternity passed while they were caught in the magic of the moment, their long pent-up love now bursting forth in unchecked torrent. At last, though, they ceased and looked at each other, standing together in their embrace on the smooth summit of the mound.

"For long have I desired this moment," said Tuor.

"And long have I wished for it," said Idril. "What was it that brought us to this, after these many years of shared longing?"

Tuor chuckled. "Wise words from a wise Elf," he said, caressing her cheek. "One who told me that love can surmount any obstacle, even the gulf that stands between our kindreds."

With those words Idril's face grew troubled, and she looked down, unsure of what to say. Tuor did not press the issue. Instead, he remained silent, letting her work out on her own whatever inner conflict strove within her. She remained silent, as the moon mounted higher in the sky and the shadows of the wood lengthened, until at last Idril bestirred herself and spoke.

"I love you, Tuor," she said. "I desire to be with you like I have for no other. I say this from the depths of my heart, and wish it from the wellspring of my soul."

"And I love you, Idril," he said. "I have always loved you. No other fills my heart as do you. No one else soothes the pains of my life as have you. I could not think of sharing the rest of my days with anyone else but you."

"Nor I," she said. "I want to be yours for the rest of time. Never again do I want to be parted from your side."

This time it was Tuor who looked down, weighing the import of her words. "Do you know what you are saying?" he said.

"Yes," she replied.

"You would be parted from your kindred for all eternity?" he asked, looking her in the eye. "You would follow me to Mandos, and to the Circles of the World?"

"To the Circles of the World and beyond, if the All-father wills it so," said Idril, returning his gaze.

Tuor smiled. "Penlegod was right," he said, then kissed her again. "I am indeed a fortunate man."

With that they kissed once more, then left the clearing with their arms about each other, Idril's head on Tuor's shoulder while his hand caressed her side. So enraptured were thay in the joy of the moment that they forgot to recover Tuor's sandals, which remained lying in the shadows near the edge of the clearing where he had thrown them. They did not remain there long. As soon as Tuor and Idril were gone, a pale hand reached out from the darkness and picked them up -- a hand belonging to an arm sheathed in the long sleeve of a black robe trimmed in silver.

The two parted company within the city at the gate of the King's Square. Each went their separate ways: Idril to her chambers within the royal quarters, and Tuor to his home in the south of the city. Their parting kiss drew many an amazed stare from the Elves moving about the streets that evening, but Idril no longer cared what her people might think. She was never one to shirk from the truth of a matter, so if she had chosen to break millennia of tradition and culture, and be wed to a Man, well the sooner they knew of it the better. Nevertheless she would have a lot of explaining to do on the morrow, when news of her actions would have spread far and wide, and there was also the matter of dealing with the king. How would her father Turgon react to this turn of events? He had not hindered their relationship up to this day, but this new change might not please him. After all, he was the custodian of High-elven culture within his realm, and this ran contrary to everything he was bound to uphold. She did not look forward to that encounter.

The guards did not question her solitary arrival at the royal quarters, nor did her handmaidens. By now her habit of spending the evenings with the son of Huor was long established, and the palace servants were well accustomed to her comings and goings these past few years. The guards let her pass unchallenged, and her handmaidens quietly set her things in order before leaving her chambers for the night.

Idril sat in front of her vanity, brushing her long golden hair. She had changed into her sleeping gown, and a light robe lay draped over a stool beside her. The events of the evening had left her tired, and she was looking forward to a good night's rest when there came a knock at the door. "Enter," she said, continuing to brush her hair. She thought it might be one of the servants returning on some errand.

To her surprise Maeglin slipped into the room. His eyes never left her as he pulled the door shut behind him. "The king bids me check on his daughter before he retires for the night. He wishes to make sure that the Lady of Gondolin is well rested. Tomorrow will be a busy day. All is well?"

"All is well, she said, putting her brush down and rising from her seat. She quickly put on her robe, uncomfortable at the thought of being alone with her cousin within the small confines of her room. She wished that her father had chosen someone else to run his errand. Best to end this as quickly and politely as possible. "Now if you would, please go and leave me in peace. I am tired, and I wish to rest."

"Small wonder, with what events have unfolded this evening," said Maeglin. His words had a strange tone to them, and his eyes gleamed with a strange light.

"What do you mean?" said Idril. She did not like the look on his face, nor the sound in his voice.

"I mean this," said Maeglin. He reached under his cloak, then pulled out Tuor's sandals, holding them up in front of her.

A wave of mixed emotions swept over Idril: surprise, resentment, anger, outrage, fear. She tried to keep her voice calm as she regarded her cousin with a stern gaze. "What have you done?" she said evenly. "You have no right to spy out my ways, son of Eol, king's heir though you may be. It is not your affair how the Lady of Gondolin chooses to spend her days, nor with whom she deigns to spend them."

"Even if she breaks our law?" said Maeglin.

"If any have broken our laws it is you, Maeglin," said Idril. "You persist in following after that which you cannot have, even though you know it to be wrong."

"The Elder and Younger Children were not meant to mingle," said Maeglin. He walked up before her, and laid the sandals beside her brush on the vanity.

"And the Elves are not wont to wed to kindred so close," said Idril, backing away from him. "Besides, Elves and Men have mingled ever since the days when Finrod Felagund came upon the people of Beor on the slopes of the Blue Mountains."

"You know of what I speak," said Maeglin, following her. "You seek to love that which is forbidden, and deny the love of one who stands near -- one of your own."

"I desire that which is forbidden?!" said Idril. She gave him a cool stare. "I think that it is time you should leave."

"I love you," said Maeglin, pressing close to her now, as he lifted up his hand and caressed her cheek. "You know I love you." He had her backed almost to the wall now, and there was little room for her to escape him.

Idril shrank from his touch and turned aside. "I love you, cousin, but not like that. Never that way."

Suddenly Maeglin seized her by the shoulders and spun her around, pressing her up against the wall. Idril stiffened in his grasp as if to wrest herself free, but to no avail. He had a firm grip on her and would not let go. He bore down on her now, and with his prize firmly in hand leaned in and kissed the Lady of Gondolin. Her eyes opened wide in shock and horror as her cousin's lip pressed upon hers, and her whole body shook at his unholy touch. She did not resist him, wisely perhaps, and endured under the press of his lips for what seemed like an eternity, until he lifted his head and looked her in the eye.

"You like when you say you do not desire me," he said, a look of satisfaction on his face. "I could feel you trembling at my touch. What thought lies behind those elven-eyes of yours, dear Idril?"

"Disgust." (41)

With that single word a terrible grimace twisted across Maeglin's face -- one of surprise mingled with fury. Fearing for her safety, Idril seized the moment and managed to wrench herself free of his grasp. She quickly made for the door, but Maeglin was there before she could reach it. He stood before her now, breathing heavily, and for the first time in his presence she feared for her life.

"It is time for you to leave my chambers, Maeglin," she said evenly. She drew herself up to her full height, and spoke in her most imperious tone. "I will only ask this once, and then I will call for the guard. Leave now, and the crime you have just committed will remain here within these walls, unknown to any save you and me. Now go, and never pass my door again."

For a moment Idril feared he would refuse and seize her before she could cry out, and she saw him gauging the distance between him and her, and from her to the door. Hers was no empty threat. She would have time to call out before he could silence her, and the guards would certainly hear her cry. For a moment it seemed he would try anyway. Then he smiled, and bowing low turned towards the door.

"Your pardon, my lady," said Maeglin. His face was now as impassive as ever, yet his eyes glowed with the frustration and rage that burned within him. "We vassals forget our places at times. Things will be as you have said."

Keeping her eyes on him at all times, Idril watched as her cousin left her room and closed the door behind him.

The following day was spent in preparations for the great spring festival. It gave Idril no clear opportunity to speak with her father in private. She and Tuor had agreed that she would be the one to broach the news to her father, as was her place; however, the intrusion of Maeglin the previous night had so upset her that she had not thought to talk to the king before the business of the day commenced. Yet she could not help feeling that other tongues were already wagging behind her back -- tongues that were always silenced whenever she drew near -- and always did Maeglin regard her with a wry half-smile as they went about their various duties.

The sun was sinking westward when Turgon, finished for now with the day's preparations and other affairs of the realm, dismissed his court for the day. At the sounding of the gong Idril began to rise from her seat along with the others in the court, but a glance from her father caused her to sit back down. She watched from her seat by his side on the dais as the great hall emptied. Last of all to leave was Maeglin, who rose from his seat and bowed to the king. She refused to look at him, and did not even nod in reply as per court custom. The king raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing. As for Maeglin, his face remained as impassive as ever; but it seemed to her that there was a hint of bemusement in his eyes as he turned and left the dais. The tall Prince of Gondolin strode the length of the hall and out the far doors, his footsteps echoing behind him.

The Elven-king arose from his throne. He sat his staff back on the high seat, removed his crown and placed it on its accustomed cushion, which was born by a nearby servant. The servant bowed and left the hall, leaving Turgon and Idril alone. He then came over and stood before the Elf-maiden seated before him. Turgon offered his hand to her.

"Walk with me, daughter."

Walking together, the two of them left the hall. They moved in silence down the corridors of the palace. They were alone save for the guards at their posts or the occasional servant, bowing as they passed by, then continuing with the duties of the palace. As they walked together, Idril's mind was full with foreboding at her father's intent. He knew. Somehow, he already knew. Maeglin? Surely he would have been wise enough to seek other sources for the truth of the tale. There had been more than one witness to her kiss with Tuor the night before. Would he understand? Would he forbid their relationship? What was the king going to say?

Turgon led Idril out of the palace. Together they descended the great staircase, then crossed the square and passed within the entrance of the King's Tower. Once inside, they began the long ascent toward his chamber within its topmost pinnacle, and it was some time before they reached the top of the stairs. It was within his tower that Turgon would reflect upon matters of grave counsel, and there had been times when she had keep him company, sitting with him as he judged some grave matter in the cool airs of the heights. There were also times, though, when she would see him alone up there, pacing to and fro in silence upon the balcony with bowed head, now and again lifting his gaze to the West. It once occurred to her that both he and Tuor trod a path of frustration on the stones of Gondolin: Turgon on the tower balcony, and Tuor on the city walls, both desiring the wide spaces of the world beyond, but denied the freedom to trod upon them ever again.

"Idril?" said Turgon, breaking in on her thoughts.

She managed a smile and shook her head. "Forgive me, father. I was just thinking."

"About what, may I ask?" he said as he sat down upon a small bench set within the open airs of the balcony. "What disturbs the Lady of Gondolin so that she says not one word to her king on the long walk from the throne room to this place?"

Idril chose her words carefully. "Many things, my lord. One of them is that this was such a lovely day to be spent inside the walls of the city."

The king smiled and motioned for her to join him. "A wandering mind is not hard to forgive, if it comes back to roost in the end," he said. "It is easy to do in this place. Perhaps that is why I come here time and again, whenever my mind needs to be set at rest." He took her hand and clasped it within his, then rejoiced as his face was warmed with the red glow of the setting sun. "My lady is right, of course. This was too beautiful a day to spend within these walls."

Together they looked across the courtyard of the King's Square westward towards the sunset. The whole of the square was bathed in an azure glow, much like that of the embers of a dying fire. The doves that nested about the marble walls and buildings were just settling down with the coming of night, returning to their roosts and nests scattered far and wide throughout the eaves. On the courtyard below, various lords, ladies, and lesser persons were streaming through the gates set about the square, returning to their homes in the city after a long and tiring day. They could now easily see the glow of the trees in the Place of the Fountain below them, adding their mingled gleam to the light cast by the setting sun. The fountain below was a plume of red flame rising above brilliant beacons of silver and gold, and its quiet song mingled with the voices of the departing Elves below. The shadows of the walls and towers lay long across the city and eastward across the plain, and the shades of the western hills were reaching ever longer for the slopes below the city walls.

Turgon sighed and smiled. "It was on an evening like this when news first came of Tuor's coming to Gondolin."

"Well I remember it," said Idril. Her fears had not been unfounded. Tuor was the reason why he had brought her here, where none could intrude. "He stood upon the stairs before the palace the following day and pronounced the counsel of Ulmo -- a warning you chose not to heed."

"Nay, child, for I heard the words of the Lord of Waters well enough," said Turgon, "yet many things have changed since last we spoke. I am no longer the Elf I was back in those days. But come! This is an old argument between us, and I would that you not raise it now to shield yourself from another matter we must discuss."

"Such as?"

"Such as your love for the man, Tuor son of Huor."

There was a long silence. Idril turned away from her father's eyes, unable to bear his stern gaze. "What makes you think I love him?" she said softly.

"You may think me grown foolish and stubborm with the passing of many years," said Turgon, "but age does not bring to me blindness of eye as it does with the Younger Children. I have both sight and mind to see where my daughter's heart lies. He is a stout fellow, a bold warrior, and honorable in both thought and deed. He will make a fine husband for a deserving maiden someday."

"For some maiden among the Children of Men, you mean," said Idril. She stood up and walked to the edge of the high balcony, leaving her father alone on the bench.

"Idril, my child," came her father's voice from behind, "I have not spoken against you and Tuor until now. Long have I known of your growing relationship, but even so I was not sure that things would come to this. Yet you know as well as I what is set forth in the Athrabeth, the great discourse over the fates of Elves and Men (42):

If any marriage can be between Elves and Men, then it shall be for some high purpose of doom. Perilous it is to cross a gulf set by such a doom; and should any do so, they will not find joy upon the other side, but the griefs of both kindreds. Brief will their union be and hard at the end, and the least cruel fate that could befall would be that death should soon end it.

"Is this what you want, my child? Would you challenge that gulf of doom?"

"Others have," said Idril in a half-whisper, still staring out over the city.

"Yes, others have," said Turgon. "But he is not Beren, and you are not Luthien. And if the tale that has come to us of their deeds is true, then the prophecy of the Athrabeth was borne to fulfillment. Their time together in this world was brief by our measure, and Luthien had to surrender all -- yea, even her place among the Elder Children to remain with her beloved." He paused for a moment, letting the impact of his words sink in before continuing. "Would you sacrifice all that you are for him? Would you dare to make the choice of Luthien? If you do, then you know what fate awaits you.

"You are my only child, Idril, and I love you more than anything else in all of Arda. When your mother died in the perils of the Grinding Ice, and I was nearly lost to this world in the depths of my sorrow, it was you who kept me from madness and despair. Would you bring all that back on me again? Would you be parted with me forever? If ever you have taken to heart the wisdom of my words, then heed me now. This man is not the son of Barahir, and you are not the daughter of Thingol. Other is your fate than to pass beyond the Circles of the World and be lost to me forever, Idril Celebrindal."

Idril turned and met her father's gaze, her inner anguish clearly written on her face. "Then what am I to do, Father? What am I to do? I love you, as much as you love me, and I do not wish to hurt you or cause you sorrow in any way; but I also love him, and that I can no longer deny. Yes -- I say it openly to you. I love Tuor son of Huor, a child of Men, and would not be parted from him for all the lore of the Elves. You say that mine is not to be the fate of Luthien; but I say to you that if her choice were mine, then I would chose to follow my beloved, no matter how hard the road. Forgive me, Father." With that she sat down beside him in silence, staring out across the darkening walls and towers of the city below.

A moment passed, then Turgon put his arm around his daughter and squeezed her ever so gently. "Thank you," he said to her.

"For what?" she said.

"For telling me," he answered. "It makes easier what I now must do."

At those words Idril looked into her father's face. It wore a countenance of kindness, in pity at her anguish, but her father's eyes were veiled in shadow. Idril looked away, unable to gaze upon her father's face any longer.

Turgon took his arm from around his daughter and stood up. He walked over to the edge of the balcony before her, where she has stood only a short time before. He stood there facing her, leaning against the marble rail as he spoke.

"Idril ... look at me."

Reluctantly the daughter of Turgon looked up. "What is your judgement, my lord?" she asked.

To her surprise Turgon smiled. "I wish to tell you something, daughter," he said, "something I have not told you before, something only a few in this whole city know. On the field of the Nirnaeth, when I last looked into the eyes of Hurin and Huor, I heard words that have puzzled me until this day -- words spoken by Huor, father of Tuor."

"What were they?" asked Idril.

Turgon looked away, as if reliving the memory in his mind. "He said:

Out of thy house shall come the hope of Elves and Men. This I say to thee, lord, with the eyes of death: though here we part forever, and I shall never look on thy white walls again, from thee and me shall a new star arise.

"I never understood what he saw on that day until word of your love for Tuor came before me." He looked back at Idril. "That is why I did not stop you once I became aware of what whas happening, as it was my place to do. Forgive me for testing you in this manner, Idril, but I had to be sure. I had to know that this was indeed of what Huor foretold on that day."

Idril's mind was spinning. "I still do not understand, father," she said.

Turgon sat down beside her and took her hand. "Do you not see? From thee, he said: from your house. From me: from my house. Shall a new star arise: a child born from a union of Elves and Men, even as it was with Beren and Luthien. He saw this, a Man, even beyond the long sight of the Elves. Do I oppose your love for Tuor? Nay, I welcome it! I will not be the fool that Thingol of Doriath became. I will not deny the love of my daughter for one of the Younger Children." (43)

"Father ..." Idril choked, and then clasped him tightly, tears streaming freely down her face, her thoughts too confused for words.

"I know, daugher," Turgon said, holding her shaking form. "Your choice has been made, and now your fates are joined. Yet if there is any foresight left to me in these troubled times, then I say to you that ours is not to be the fate of Thingol and Luthien." He reached down and lifted her chin so that he could look into her tear-dimmed eyes. "Not lightly did Ulmo choose the son of Huor as his messenger. He bears the mark of the One, and with this Man rests the hope and future of both our kindreds. What destiny the All-father has in store for him I know not; but such as it is, I will not stop you from sharing it with him."

To that Idril said nothing, but afterwards she remembered her father's words, and pondered them in her heart .

Little cause had Turgon to withstand the love of Tuor and Idril and he rejoiced in it, seeing in Tuor a kinsman of comfort and hope. At the great festival of Midsummer Tuor and Idril were wed, and thus came to pass the Second Union of Elves and Men. Less bliss than many had they, and they suffered many sorrows together as was foretold; yet great was the mirth on that day when Tuor and Idril were wed before the people of Gondolin in Gar Anion, the Place of the Valar, nigh to the King's Square. And when their union was sealed, Turgon proclaimed to all the people that the first male child of Tuor and Idril would receive the throne of Gondolin after him, thus becoming the heir of the king and displacing Maeglin his sister-son, for the child of Tuor and Idril would be of the king's own blood.

On that day Tuor assumed his place as a lord of Gondolin and became the captain of his own host, the Company of the Wing, and was second only to Maeglin in the counsels of the King. In that time was made the great war-helm of Tuor, forerunner of the helms of Numenor in latter days; and it was adorned with swan wings, one on each side. The Elves also wrought for him the great battle-axe which he named Dramborleg, for its buffet stunned and its edge clove all armor. He carried it in place of his sword, for the axe had been his weapon of choice since the days of his youth, and much he taught to those who would learn the wielding of an axe in battle.

The stillness of the garden was broken by Salgant's words. "I warned you," he said.

There was the sound of shattering glass. The fat Elf glanced at a far column, which had been the target of Maeglin's throw. It now had a large stain of wine, which was already beginning to streak down to the broken shards below. "Waste of a good wineglass," he muttered.

There was a pause, and then Maeglin drew himself up. "My apologies," he said. "I will have it replaced."

Salgant chuckled. "There is no need, my lord, but I accept your intent." He sighed. "I guess we will have to start over, will we not?"

"She is the key to the throne," said Maeglin. His voice was as emotionless as his face. "Without her, you cannot succeed."

"We, my lord," said Salgant. "Or have you changed your mind on this matter?"

"I was the rightful heir," Maeglin said. "The throne should be mine. She should be mine."

"Well, you shall not be getting either now," said Salgant, who took another sip from his wineglass. "Our world has changed, and we had better change along with it. Much can be salvaged, perhaps, but new alliances must be made, new plans forged. We shall have to work twice as hard as before, perhaps more, if you still intend to go through with this thing."

"Perhaps you are right," said Maeglin. He walked over to the column, knelt down, and began picking up the shards of the broken glass.

"Why, thank you," said Salgant, genuinely surprised. "I believe that is the first time you have ever said I was right about anything."

"There is always a first time," said Maeglin, "... for anything."

At his seat on his lounge, Salgant smiled triumphantly and sipped again from his drink. Over by the column, Maeglin finished picking up the broken glass. He held one piece before him, still stained with wine. It flickered with a strange red gleam as he turned it in the light. "Yes," he said softly to himself, "a first time for anything. She will be mine, no matter what. Someday, some way, she will be mine. And if the Man gets in my way ... well ... so much the better."

In the spring of the year after the wedding of Tuor and Idril there was born to them a son, and that was some five hundred years and three since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth. Of surpassing beauty was their child, for there was a light in his face such as that which shines down from the stars in the clear of night, and his blue eyes gleamed with a hue surpassing that of the cloudless southern skies. He had the golden hair of his mother and the beauty and wisdom of the Elves, but he was also blessed with the ruggedness of his father, and the strength and hardihood of the Men of old; and the people of Gondolin rejoiced that the All-father had blessed the daughter of Turgon with such a beautiful son.

That was a great day of merriment in the streets of Gondolin when Tuor and Idril presented the heir of Turgon to the people of the city in the Place of the Valar, and Turgon's heart was glad within him. No less was the joy of Tuor and Idril, but their joy was mingled with sadness; for Idril was long in labor with the birth of her son, and remained weak for many days thereafter. She was borne to the naming ceremony of her son on her sickbed -- her first public appearance after the birth -- and was unable to stay for the festivities afterwards. Nevertheless she rejoiced with her people as best she could, and the mirth of the Elves did much to speed her recovery. (44)

Now it was the custom among the High-elves that at the naming ceremony each child was given two names -- a father-name and a mother-name, though for the most part the father-name was used for daily converse. And when the time came for Tuor to name his son, he stepped forward and placed his hand on his son's brow, and said, "I name this child Earendil, the Sea-lover, for the Sea shall speak ever in his heart and ear, even as it does with mine." But when it came time for Idril to name her son, and she was borne forward so she could lay her hand on her son's brow, then she remembered the prophecy of Huor and said, "I name this child Ardimire, the Jewel of the World, for with him lies the hope of our people." At that many of the Elves wondered, but none at the time knew what she meant.

Then there was made that day a great feast, for the hearts of the people were full of joy, and after all was said and done Tuor and Idril dwelt with their son in the house of Tuor upon the southern walls of Gondolin. Yet dark was the mood of Maeglin, and he spoke to no one of the evil in his heart.

Chapter 11 - The Gathering Storm

Autumn was passing fast, and the signs of winter were in the air. The year's harvest had been particularly bountiful, more so than it had in many years. There was red and gold upon the leaves of the trees in Tumladen and in the city, and the time would soon come when they would let loose and fall. Another year was drawing to a close in the Hidden Realm, little different from countless ones that had preceeded it -- save that the lords of Gondolin were in confusion and disarray.

The King's Council had been called into session in the palace that day concerning the watch in the hills. Maeglin, Prince of Gondolin, had been prominent as he stood beside the throne of the King, and his hand was evident in what had transpired. King Turgon had noted that it had been three years since the coming of Hurin Thalion to Dimbar, and as yet the Dark Lord had not sought to assail them. It was the king's judgement that since Hurin had not found the Hidden Way, then Morgoth's release of him had failed its purpose. The threat to the Hidden Realm was now no more. Because of this, the watch in the hills would be reduced to its ancient numbers, such as they had been before the coming of Hurin.

At this a cry and a clamor had arisen among the ranks of Turgon's lords, and Galdor spoke for all when he said, "Think me not rash to question thy words, O king, but it is still too early to judge the Dark Lord's intent. Forget not that Hurin came straight to the entrance of the Hidden Way. Even though that is now sealed, it still points to Gondolin. The Dark Lord may have missed the entrance, but he could guess Hurin's intent as well as any. I daresay I speak for many in here, my lord, when I say that the Dark Lord will continue to spy out the Crissaegrm until he has satisified all doubt. I would advice that we wait on reducing the watch, until we know for certain that he no longer seeks for us within these hills." (45)

But even as Galdor finished speaking, Salgant arose from the ranks of the nobles to challenge him. His voice was smooth, and his words carefully chosen, as befitting the talents that had allowed such an Elf to rise to so high a station. "My lord, Galdor speaks as befitting his wisdom. All of us here value his knowledge and prowess in the arts of war, and he speaks as befitting his place as commander of your hosts. Yet we are not at war. The Dark Lord has not assailed us, as the King has said. Valuable time and effort is being wasted manning the extra watch on the hills, waiting for a foe that has not and will not come. I believe my lord would do well to return the abilities of his people to more useful things, instead of being wasted on this useless endeavor."

"He would come quickly enough if he knew the way, Salgant," said Ecthelion, rising to his own feet. "If it were not for the vigilance of the warriors manning the guard of the realm, you would not be here to belittle our valor."

That was but the start of it. Many other such heated words were exchanged on both sides of the issue in the King's Council. Soon, Turgon intervened to silence them, and with Maeglin standing silently by his side he addressed his lords.

"In this place my word is law," said Turgon. "You are here to provide advice and counsel, but not to question my judgement. The vigilance of the Eagles has once again driven away the servants of the Dark Lord from the hills, as they have done countless times these many centuries past. Our extra vigilance is no longer required. The watch will be reduced to its ancient numbers. That is my will. So I have spoken, and so let it be done." So said the king and so it was done, and the people rejoiced at the news; yet not all of his counselors were convinced of the rightness of his deed.

Later that afternoon, Tuor stood wrapped in his cloak on the battlements of the city next to the North-gate, gazing toward the tall peaks that lay in the distance. Idril stood beside him in her furred mantle, her golden hair streaming behind her in the cool breeze. Their friend Penlegod sat on the stones of the inner rampart, looking nowhere in particular, absentmindedly playing with one of the tassels hanging from his sleeves. It was a dark day with the faint scent of a storm in the air, and the sky was overcast with dull grey clouds. The birds cried in the high airs above as they departed for the long journey to their winter homes, and the sounds of the people moving about their business in the city rose form the streets below. No one on the walls said a word, nor had done so for quite some time. Each was lost in their own dark thoughts, their troubled minds brooding over the king's sudden decree.

It was Penlegod who first broke the silence. "The king is mad, I tell you," he said. "Forgive me, my lady, to speak ill of your father so, but this goes against all wisdom. He walks willfully to his doom."

"And would drag his people with him," added Tuor.

"Nay," said Idril, shaking her head. "They go of their own free will. Their minds are in accord with his, for the most part. They desire peace at any price, even should a Vala gainsay it. They wish to go about their own affairs untroubled by thoughts of war, and give no thought to the darkness from the North that creeps over the land. My father is mad, and so are his people. We are all mad to remain within this vale while the Shadow descends."

"But theirs is not the full blame," said Tuor. "Surely the counsels of Maeglin played a large part in shaping the king's will before he pronounced his judgement. This bodes ill for the hidden realm. Today is a dark day for Gondolin." To that none among them would argue.

Penlegod rose to his feet and walked over to the outer rampart not far from where Tuor and Idril stood, gazing at the snow-laden peaks to the north. "There is evil brewing beyond those hills, an evil that does not look kindly on the Hidden Realm. There is evil within these walls, a darkness within the palace that may yet reawaken the curse of our people. The Dark Lord may no longer search the hills, but he has not forgotten us." He shook his head, then smiled at them. "I depress even myself with such portents, and brooding on them does little good. Perhaps a draught of wine and pleasant company will do much to lift my spirits. Will you join me?"

"Not for now," said Tuor, and looked at his wife. Idril nodded in agreement with him. "We will stay here a while longer, and maybe this chill wind will whisk our doubts away."

"Suit yoursef," said Penlegod with a chuckle. He bowed to them, then walked away, leaving Tuor and Idril alone on the battlement. Idril's face remained troubled even after the Elf-scribe had left, and Tuor was worried at seeing her fair countenance disturbed so.

"Penlegod was right," said Idril at last, leaning her head on her husband's shoulder. "My father is unwise to do this thing. Even a dullard such as Galdor can see the danger we are in, and the folly in lowering our defenses, but the king will have none of it. It is Maeglin who is behind the king's new counsel, and he uses his silver tongue to soothe my father's fears. I am sure of it, even as I am sure of the doom that now draws night to Gondolin -- the same that Ulmo foretold."

She stopped speaking and clasped her husband's side. Tuor returned her embrace but said nothing. He stood silent beside her as he stared out over the city walls and onto the vale below, their glory dimmed by the dark skies above. (46)

It was not long after that Thorondor himself visited Turgon, and brought him ill tidings of the lands about.

"The spies of Morgoth have not relented as thou might think," said the Great Eagle, "but have instead increased their vigilance. They now surround the whole of the Echoriath. They have tried to probe the eastern fences of the Pass of Sirion, and have also made trial of the western heights of the Pass of Anach. We have even seen some of them clambering about the craigs and precipices below the Well of Rivil, far north of thy abode. None have yet passed beyond our watch, son of Fingolfin, but I fear that the Dark Lord hath discerned the region in which thy abode lies, thanks to Hurin."

"Always has the Dark Lord sought us, and now we trust ever more in the vigilance of thee and thy people," said Turgon, and his face was troubled. "Yet this news is not sufficient enough to bring the Lord of Eagles himself to meet with the King of Gondolin, when he could instead send one of his vassals, as is his wont to do."

"Nay," said Thorondor, "it is not. Darker tidings than these have brought me here today. Thingol of Doriath has been slain by the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, and the Girdle of Melian is no more."

"What?!?" said Turgon, and his surprise was mirrored in the faces of all those about him. "Surely this cannot be, unless Melian herself walks no more in Middle-earth."

"She does not," said Thorondor impassively. "She returned to her kindred among the Maiar after her beloved was slain. Dior Eluchil, son of Beren Erchamion and Luthien Tinuviel, now rules the remnant of the Grey-elves of Doriath." And as Thorondor and Turgon talked, the sad tale of Thingol's pride and the fall of Doriath was made clear. (47)

Thingol, king of the Grey-elven realm of Doriath, had received from Beren a Silmaril for the hand of the king's daughter Luthien in marriage. The Jewel of Feanor had been decreed by Thingol as her bride-price, and the full tale of the long love and labors of Beren and Luthien to achieve the Quest of the Silmaril is still sung by the Elves in the Lay of Leithian. But as the years passed and Thingol dwelt in thought upon his treasure, he became obsessed with its beauty and possessed by its fire, and desired never to walk without it. It came into his mind to have it set within the gems of the Nauglamir, the Necklace of the Dwarves, which Thingol had received as a parting gift from the aged Hurin, for the care of his wife and son in the days after the Nirnaeth. For this purpose Thingol commissioned the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, his allies of old, to remake the necklace so that the Jewel of Feanor sat at its heart. This they did, but lust for the Silmaril arose in their hearts also, and when Thengol made to claim the finished necklace from them, they arose as one and slew him within his very halls.

Many days thereafter open war raged between the Grey-elves of Doriath and the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, for there was now nothing to prevent the foes of Doriath from crossing its borders. Melian the Grey had fled Middle-earth with the death of her beloved Thingol, and without her enchantments the Girdle of Melian was no more. In the end the Dwarves had the mastery and overran Thingol's halls, and slew many of the folk of Doriath, then left bearing the Silmaril and the rest of the hoard of Thingol with them. But they paid a terrible price in lives for the conquest of Doriath, and in the end final victory was not to be theirs. Beren Erchamion and his son Dior assailed the lessened Dwarf-host on the return road with the help of the Green-elves of Ossiriand and the Ents, the Shepherds of the Trees. That was the last time Beren son of Barahir entered into the tales of Middle-earth, and in his ambush of the Dwarf-host not one of them escaped back to their halls to tell the tale. And not long after the battle was won his son Dior Eluchil, heir of Thingol by his mother Luthien, went to Doriath with his wife Nimloth to build anew that kingdom; and once again a Silmaril rested in the treasury of Thingol, much to the chagrin of the Sons of Feanor.

"Longest of all the Elven-realms of Beleriand has Doriath stood against the Dark Lord," said Turgon, "protected by the power of Melian. Now it has fallen, and though Dior may seek to rebuilt it, never will it return to its strength and glory of old. Without the power of Melian, the Grey-elves cannot stand against their many foes. As long as Dior keeps the Silmaril within his halls, the ruin of Doriath is certain."

"And so another Elf-kingdom falls victim to the Curse of the Noldor," said Thorondor, "and the Shadow lengthens ever longer across Beleriand. The Doom of Mandos comes closer to thee and thy realm, even as Ulmo foretold. Wilt thou not now heed his counsel?"

"The Guarded Realm fell to treachery from within, when Thingol gave the Dwarves safe passage through the Girdle, and thus invited his own ruin," said Turgon. "The Hidden Realm cannot be taken save by treachery from within, and that will never be, so long as I am king here. I cannot be betrayed as was Thingol, now that the Hidden Way is closed and none can enter within."

"Always will evil find a way," said Thorondor.

Now it had come to pass that in the days whe Earendil was still but a babe in his mother's arms, there came a morn when Idril begged leave not to come to the court of the king. She was not long after recovering from the birth of her son, so Turgon granted her request, fearing that illness might be returning to her once again. Yet other things troubled Idril Celebrindal on that day, and she said naught to the king of the darkness that lay on her heart.

It was late in the day when Idril dressed, and joined her husband upon the rampart of the city wall. Tuor stood there on the wall as was his wont, below the tower that housed their home, facing towards the West. He had one foot planted on the battlement, and his gaze looked over the mountains and across the lands beyond to a place of sandy shores, where the waves sighed under salt-laden winds as they sang the unending song of the Sea. He heard her approaching steps and smiled to her as she came to his side. She returned his smile, but hers was forced, and her face was clouded. Discerning her troubled mood, he put his arm about her and hugged her close. She returned his embrace, and together they walked along the top of the wall, following its course towards the West-gate of the city.

"Your sleep has been troubled much of late," said Tuor. "Does the thought of Maeglin still hover on the edge of your dreams?"

"Still," said Idril, and she sighed. "My heart has misgiven me for doubt of him since long before your coming to the Hidden Realm. Often in the court of the king I have seen him watching me with a strange gleam in his eye, and I grow chill each time he does so, wondering what dark thoughts lie behind his gaze."

"And what does the king have to say about this?" said Tuor. "Have you not shared your fears with your father?"

"What would I say?" said Idril. "That he stares at me strangely? Many stare at the Lady of Gondolin, but there is no crime in the looking. It is not unusual for Maeglin to cast his eyes about in a strange manner, for he was not born one of our people, and has done so ever since he came to us. I would not speak of that which I fear, for I have no proof to support the truth of my tale. Nay, none would believe that malice now lurks where once wonder and reverence held sway."

Tuor pondered her words for a moment. "Why do you think he looks upon you so?"

"Can you not guess?" said Idril. She had never told him about her encounter with Maeglin within her chambers. "It troubles me to even think about it, let alone speak of it."

Tuor wondered at what she said, but decided not to press the issue. "Then what will you do?" he asked.

"I will trust in the wisdom and strength of my husband, and seek his counsel," said Idril. She stopped, and leaving his side leaned over the inner battlement, looking over the white towers and buildings of the city below. "My father says that I was born with the far sight of my mother's folk, the Vanyar, and many times in the past I have seen things that bear on events that one day come to pass. That is how I knew we would one day be joined, Tuor, for I saw in a vision the day we first met."

"Did you?" said Tuor.

"Yes," said Idril. "I saw in a vision you standing before me and my father in his council chamber, bearing the message of Ulmo."

Tuor walked up beside her. "What has this to do with Maeglin? What do your eyes see concerning him?"

Idril shuddered, and her slender hands clenched and trembled as she spoke. "Last night, I dreamed that the whole of the Vale of Tumladen was on fire, burning with a terrible heat that consumed all who stood or walked upon it. I saw this as I stood in the topmost pinnacle of the King's Tower, watching as the city burned below, glowing like the inner chamber of some vast furnace. I could not move, for I was manacled to the spot, and before me stood Maeglin, holding our son Earendil in his arms. I tried to cry out, but words would not come, and he stood there laughing at me while I struggled uselessly with my bonds. Then he turned, and with a great throw pitched our son into the flames below. I could hear the screams of our son as he fell, and with that I awoke in great fear. See?" she said, and held up her shaking hands. "I tremble even now when I think of it." (48)

Tuor took her hands, and clasped them within his own. The trembling abated, but the troubled look did not leave her face. "I believe you, Idril," he said softly. "I believe you. My heart does not turn to Maeglin, for he begrudges my place before the king, and I too have had times when I felt him watching with malice unseen."

They turned about, and walked back in silence along the top of the wall towards the tall tower that was their home. They ascended the stairs, but Idril stopped as they reached the landing before their door and turned to face Tuor. "The words of Ulmo warned of treachery from within," she said. "Might this be of what he spoke?"

"It could very well be," said Tuor. "No other would be in a better place to bring about the fall of Gondolin save Turgon himself. If any had reason to bring the Hidden Realm to ruin, it would be Maeglin, given what we know." He thoughtfully glanced at the guards on the wall, then lowered his voice. "Do you think he has fallen under the Shadow?"

At that Idril looked at him, and he could see the fear in her eyes. "Not yet, I believe," she said softly, "but it is only a matter of time. His heart is ripe for the picking."

With one arm Tuor put his arm around her. With the other he opened the door to the tower. He then escorted his wife inside and shut the door behind him. They were alone, for Earendil was in the keeping of his nurse Meleth in the court of the king, where Turgon could take delight in the presence of his grandson and heir. "We speak dangerously for the open airs," he said, rejoining her side. "Now we can speak our mind in peace."

"Whether it indeed be my cousin, or some other, we must make ready should Gondolin fall," said Idril. "It was foolish of my father to seal the Orfalch Echor, the only way whereby all of our people could depart in safety. Would that he had heeded the message of Ulmo!" Now we stand on the edge of ruin, and the Shadow seeks without and within."

"There is still the high pass of the Cirith Thoronath, running below the eyries of the Eagles," said Tuor. "It is the only other way out of the vale over which a host as large as ours would be can pass. I do not think the Enemy will dare it for fear of the Eagles, and it lies hidden from prying eyes. Even so, it is a hard road, and will not allow a great host to pass with any speed. In addition, to reach it our people would have to cross the open plain of the vale, upon which they could be easily spotted. If we try such an escape while the city is under assault, it would be easy for our foes to scatter and slay us at their leisure."

Idril thought for a moment. "What if we went under the plain?" she said, motioning with her hand.

"A secret tunnel?" said Tuor.

"Yes," said Idril. "One that would go well beyond the assault of any foe and come out near a safe route of escape. I have been thinking about this for some time, and it seems to me that the best way would be northwest towards the Eagles' Cleft, as you say."

"I see," said Tuor, and he smiled. "Going north would be the route that the Dark Lord would least expect his foes to take."

Idril nodded. "We could make a tunnel from the city to the foothills of the high pass. Once there we would have an unshakeable lead over any pursuers, even if they were mounted."

"That is well and good, but I see two problems with this plan," said Tuor. "How are we going to delve such a thing without Maeglin the master-delver learning about our efforts, and how are you going to deal with the hard rock beneath the city? Even Maeglin will not deign to delve the black stone of the Hill of Guard, deeming it too troublesome and worthless upon which to waste his talents."

"The first I will leave to you," said Idril. "You are loved and held in high honor by all in the city save Maeglin and his following. Gather in secret those delvers and quarrymen who neither are in the service of my cousin nor have any love for him because of the arrogance he shows to those he deems of lesser skill. Set some of your warriors to keep track of Maeglin's ways, so that your efforts will not be discovered, and then you can begin the delving of the secret way. You can dispose of your diggings while he and his folk are away mining the hills, and thereby escape detection. As for the hard rock of the Hill of Guard, I must trust in the skills of your servants, for I do not know the ways of stone-delving. However hard it may be, however long it may take, whatever lengths to which we must go to keep this secret, this work must begin at once and proceed with all haste, no matter what the cost. My foresight may be clouded but it never fails, and I fear some great calamity awaits Gondolin in the near future."

Tuor smiled. "I will do what I can, my love," he said, as he kissed her on the forehead. He drew back, looking at her. Her face was still troubled.

"One last thing," Idril said. Her eyes were as clear as Tuor had ever seen them. "I want you to teach me the way of the sword."

Tuor's eyes opened wide in surprise. He started to say something, then thought better of himself and stopped. He just looked at her, and she back at him with those clear, determined eyes. "Why?" he finally said.

"If things get as bad as we fear they might be," she said calmly, "then my maidenhood will do me no good. Nay, it may very well work against me." Her voice now took on a grim tone. "I would rather die fighting then to let the Shadow have its way with me -- or perhaps others."

Tuor nodded. "Then I will teach you the way of the sword, as soon as I am able." He suddenly smiled. "In secret, I might add, lest your father know."

She returned his smile. "I will do my best, my lord."

Now he started to grin. "I will not go easy on you, my lady. The way of the sword is a hard school -- and as you say, your maidenhood will be no shield."

Idril returned his gaze, and now her eyes twinkled. "Then may I at least earn my own sword, should I prove worthy?"

He gazed at her for a moment, then smiled and bowed. "Let it be so. Should my lady prove herself as fit with the blade as any of my warriors, then I will have our smiths make her a blade."

They looked at each other for a moment, and then the mask of formality broke. They laughed and embraced each other, with all their cares for the time being lost in the mirth of their love.

It was but two days later when Penlegod, the Royal Scribe, requested an audience with the king. The court loremaster had rarely done so before, so it was with many a curious stare and glance that he was ushered before the throne of Turgon.

"My pardon, O king," said Penlegod, "to trouble you on so small a matter, but space in the royal library runs short. I beseech you that I may order the construction of a new and larger library, so that I may continue to have one central place in which to store the lore of our people." (49)

"Will not the storehouses of the schoolrooms serve for thy bounty?" said Turgon, and he smiled. "They have ample room enough."

"True, my lord," said Penlegod, "but I fear that this scattering about the city will do more harm than good. You appointed me as your scribe, my lord, and the keeping of the written lore of our people has been my responsibility ever since we came here. I have worked hard to make sure that the lore of the Elves is saved and stored in an orderly, presentable fasion, in such a manner as to be easily available to all seeking to expand their horizons. If I were forced to begin storing it in more than one place, then future seekers of knowledge might be forced to run themselves ragged moving about from storehouse to storehouse in order to find what they need."

There was a snort from the left of the throne where Maeglin stood by the king. "My lord, this is ridiculous," said the prince. "If the Royal Scribe would but unload some of the useless trifles he keeps on his shelves, then there would be ample room enough."

Penlegod started to protest, but the king waved his hand. "What may be trifles to one are treasures to another," said Turgon, and he smiled again at the Elf-scribe. "I trust ye have given this matter much thought before coming before us? As to where this new and larger library should be built?"

Penlegod nodded respectfully. "I would that it remain in your court, my lord, but there is not enough room to safely do such a thing. Instead, I believe that the best thing to do is to build a new and larger library in the south of the city, in place of the storehouses that lie nigh to the city walls at the end of the Way of Running Waters. These were built long ago for times of bitter need, yet they have stood unused since the city was raised."

"This is true," said Turgon, and he thought for a moment. "I see no harm in this. In fact, it is an excellent idea. Very well, ye shall have thy new library. Ye may have thy choice of craftsmen, laborers, and materials, and ye may begin this work once ye are ready."

Penlegod bowed low before the throne. "Many thanks, my lord," he said. "I will see that an edifice is raised worthy of thy praise. However, it will require much effort from the workers. The old storehouses will have to be torn down first, so that the new edifice can be raised. Also, we will have to delve deep into the hard rock of the hill below the city for the new foundations and basements."

"Then no help will you receive from me and my folk," said Maeglin. "I do not stoop to wasting my time breaking the black iron of Tumladen."

At that Turgon turned and gave his sister-son a stern stare, but Penlegod rose and waved his hand. "Let it be so, my lord," he said. "I and those workers who will can manage without Maeglin."

"Let it be so," said Turgon, after a pause.

"I have much to do if work is to begin at once." said Penlegod. "My lord?" The king nodded, and then after bowing to the throne the Elf-scribe left the hall.

Idril turned her gaze upon her cousin and fire flickered in her eyes. "That was a fell thing to say to the King's Scribe, Maeglin. You are not lord of the city, and you cannot deal with those under you as you see fit."

"Enough," said Turgon, cutting her off, and with a look from him she fell silent. The king then turned his attention to Maeglin. "The Lady of Gondolin speaks with the voice of anger, sister-son, but hers is our thought as well. We will not require thee to stoop to a task thou deem beneath thy talents, but thou shalt beg pardon from the King's Scribe in my presence before the setting of the sun this day, else ye shall feel my wrath."

"As you command, my lord," said Maeglin, and Idril felt his cold gaze fall upon her again.

In the early days of the fifth year since Tuor and Idril were wed, in the five hundred and seventh year since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth, tidings were brought to Turgon by Thorondor of the final fall and ruin of Doriath. Dior Eluchil, the heir of Thingol, had refused the demands of the sons of Feanor to surrender the Silmaril he had in his possession. Therefore they assembled their hosts, and without warning assailed Doriath during the winter months. Thus took place the Second Kinslaying of Elf aginst Elf. Both Dior and his wife Nimloth were slain, as was most of the Grey-elves of Doriath; but Elwing daughter of Dior and a small company managed to escape and flee to the Havens of Sirion far in the South, bearing the Silmaril. With Doriath thus gone, only Gondolin remained as the lone Elf-realm of Beleriand.

Tuor's heart grew heavy with news of the ruin of Doriath, for now the words of Ulmo came ever to his mind, and their purport and gravity he understood more fully than he did of old. No comfort did he find in Idril, for her heart boded more deeply than his own; and she fell into a dark mood and the light of her faced was clouded, and many wondered at that. Their only solace was in the delving of the secret way, which went much as they had planned. Such did they contrive to hide their labors that not one word of it reached the ears of Maeglin or his folk during all the days of its building.

When but two years has passed since the fall and ruin of Doriath, there came a bright spring day when Earendil son of Tuor was playing with his friends in the Place of the Fountain, running upon the curb of the wide pool. The lad missed his footing and fell into the waters, but when he arose to the surface, there was a strange look upon his face. "The waters sang to me," he told his friends. "I must speak of this to the king." (50)

It was with some amusement that the palace herald brought word before the throne that the heir of Turgon begged an audience with the king. Smiles and gentle laughs were to be seen throughout the chamber on most faces, though that of Maeglin remained as impassive as ever. "Can it wait for now?" said Idril from her place beside the throne. "The king is busy with affairs of state."

"He is quite insistent, my lady," said the herald, shaking his head. "He says he has to speak to the king at once."

"I will handle this, my lord, if you will," said Idril to her father. (51)

"Nay, let him pass," said Turgon, a kind look on his face. "The king must hear the pleas of all his subjects, no matter how young they might be. The affairs of state can wait. Let the heir of Turgon approach the throne."

The six-year-old boy was escorted to the throne still in his damp clothes, then he descended on one knee and bowed to the king. "Forgive me, my lord, to disturb you so, but something just happened to me and I had to tell you about it."

A gentle titter could be heard from the lords and ladies about the hall at Earendil's appearance. Idril looked sternly at her son, but said nothing. The kind smiled and answered him. "And what is so important, my prince, that it could not wait until the end of the day -- or at least until some dry raiment could be sought?"

"I was playing in the fountain, and I fell into the pool," said Earendil, looking up at the king. "While I was in the water, I heard a voice singing to me, calling your name. I thought you should know at once."

As soon as the little boy mentioned the voice in the water, he had the attention of everyone in the hall. Turgon's face was troubled, and he spoke in a quiet tone. "What did the voice say?" he asked.

A strange look passed over Earendil's face as he answered the Elven-king. "It said: Turgon ... Turgon ... the end comes at last .... It was saying that over and over again, softer and softer each time it spoke. What does it mean?"

Turgon looked at Idril, and their eyes met in mutual accord. The look on Earendil's face was the same as that which had been on his father Tuor's fourteen years before, when the Man had first spoke Ulmo's message to the King of Gondolin. Even the tone of the boy's voice was an echo of that which his father used, as it had rang across the King's Square as he spoke to Turgon and the people on that day. There was no doubt in either of their minds as to what the boy's words meant: this was the final warning of Ulmo to Gondolin.

In the words of Earendil Turgon heard once again the echo of the Curse of the Noldor sounding ever louder, and at last he regretted not heeding the warning of Ulmo when there had been time. Therefore he strengthened the watch in the hills threefold, and commissioned the building of new defenses for the city. The system of pools about the foot of Amon Gwareth was expanded and deepened, so that the city was now ringed by a wide moat from which the waters of the Hidden River now flowed. A second outer wall was raised beyond this, over which slender bridges were built, and upon which were set towers and engines of war at strategic points. The walls of the city were likewise fortified and armed, and great store was made of arrows and other darts and missiles to hurl at their foes. It was said at the time that the whole folk of Gondolin shooting with bows day and night might not expend their hoarded arrows in many years; yet Turgon remained troubled, and ever did he seek for new ways to protect his realm from assault.

Chapter 12 - A Dark Bargain

It was dusk, and all was quite in the northern reaches of the Echoriath. The Elves who stood watch in the hills below the cairn of Fingolfin were going about their regular duties, until they were aroused by the sounds of a small band approaching from below. The were not too concerned, but it was their duty to enforce the leaguer of the hills; so their captain and a half-dozen well armed Elves came down the steep path towards their guest. They stopped at a place where the path narrowed between the rock walls, such that the band could not escape them, and waited utnil they came within bowshot.

"Who would ascend to the cairn of Fingolfin, and for what reason?" said the Elf-captain.

A glint of keen eyes shone from a hooded face at the front of the band. "It is I, Maeglin, first prince of Gondolin and your lord. I am come on my regular errand."

The Elf-captain smiled a strange smile, then motioned for the others to lower their spears. "Return and resume your duties upon the gate as before," he said to them. "I will be with you shortly."

Maeglin and his band followed the Elf-captain up the path until it leveled off along the shoulder of the steep peak. It ran on for some ways until it came to a stone wall set across the narrow pass, in which was set a thick wooden gate. A sturdy guardhouse stood behind it not far from where the path branched -- one way going towards the gate, and the other leading to stone steps cut in the rock above, that wound up the steep slope until they were lost from sight. On the other side was a high stone platform within sight of the vale below, arrayed with wood set for firing: a ready beacon to be lit should foes ever assault the gate.

This gate was but one of many that were set in the low places of the hills surrounding the Hidden Realm, sealing them off from approach by outside foes. If one were to come upon such from outside, he would see nothing but impassable rocks fallen within the pass and then move on, tricked by the skill and craft of the High-elves. These had no towers and courts as there were on the gates in the Orfalch Echor; nevertheless, they were worked with the same skill and enchantments as the Seven Gates, and could just as stoutly resist any assault from the North.

The Elf-captain led them into the guardhouse, past a group of warriors, and into a small room in the back. Once inside, he closed the door and lit a small lamp, setting it on a rough-hewn table. Maeglin reached under his cloak and drew forth a small bag, setting it next to the lamp on the table. It made a clinking sound as it was set down. The Elf-captain opened it and spread out its contents on the table. Thirty silver coins gleamed dully in the light of the lamp. He eyed them for a moment, then spoke to his lord. (52)

"The deal as before?" he said in a hushed tone.

"The same," said Maeglin.

The Elf-captain grinned, then scooped up the coins and put them back in the bag. This went under his cloak as he doused the lamp. He then opened the door and barked a series of orders to the warriors in the room beyond. Immediately changes of raiment were brought to Maeglin's band, along with provisions and stores already packed for a long journey. It took them but a short while to change, and then Maeglin and his band were arrayed in nondescript mail and cloaks such as the Elves of the outer lands might wear. They took their packs and set their cloaks over them, then followed the Elf-captain back outside.

Before the guardhouse were arrayed laden horses and carts drawn by ponies already prepared for the errand at hand. The guard on the wall stayed at their posts, pretending not to notice the doings below. They were arrayed as were their captain, as were their fellows assisting Maeglin in the preparations for his errand: black armor and sable raiment, with close-fitting rounded helms and the embossed symbol of the Mole on the left breast of their hauberks. Maeglin's band quickly mounted and rode up to the gate, making little noise save for the sound of hooves on stone and the dull grind of the axles of the carts.

On either side of the gate stood two sentinels with long spears, staring curiously at Maeglin and his followers. The Elf-captain strode up to them and gave a signal. They bowed, then lowered their spears and stepped aside. The Elf-captian produced a silver key from a chain about his neck, then fit it into the lock on the gate. He turned it, then gave a gentle push. The gate slid open soundlessly, revealing an opening just wide enough to allow the carts through. Maeglin stood to one side while the rest of his company passed through, then spoke to the Elf-captain. "We will return in three weeks," he said. "Listen for the call of the shrike at sunset."

"We will listen, my lord," said the Elf-captain.

With that Maeglin rode through the gate, and it shut behind him. To the others, it seemed as if Maeglin's horse stood before a pile of broken boulders rising high in the cleft. There was no sign of the gate they had just passed through. Maeglin adjusted his hood, then quickly rode to the head of his company. He led them northward along the unmarked road to the mines of Anghabar, away from the cairn of Fingolfin and into the darkness beyond -- out of the reach of the law of the King, and away from the safety of the Hidden Realm. (53)

Maeglin lay on his side in the sand, his parched lips and dry throat a constant reminder of his thirst. He was fettered hand and foot with short chains attached to a heavy iron collar locked about his neck. His skin was bruised and torn where the manacles were clapped on him, singns of the hard road he had been forced to trod these past two days. The other members of his band were more or less in the same shape, save for those who were wounded. They had been chained to litters that their captors bore with many curses.

As he struggled to catch his breath, a swart Orc loped up and tossed a filthy waterskin and a rancid-looking strip of meat in front of his face. "Fill up while you can, whiteskin," he snarled. "You're lucky the Master wants you alive. Otherwise me and my boys would have some fun with you, and you wouldn't like that, would you? I didn't think so." With that the foul creature roared in laughter, then shambled off to join his fellows by the watchfire.

Maeglin greedily emptied the brackish water from the skin. He did not touch the meat. It looked unhealthy, and no telling from what creature it came. After he had slaked his thirst, he let the waterskin fall and sank back down in silence, watching his captors arguing among themselves. "How did this come to be?" he thought to himself. "How did they find us?"

He and his company were resting under guard within the confines of an Orc-camp nestled in the shade of the foothills of the Iron Mountains, a day's journey south of the triple peaks of Thangorodrim. The Elves slept where they lay save Maeglin, who now eased himself into a sitting position, his back resting against the cold stone of the hill. He idly fingered his manacles for the umpteenth time in a fultile exercise to find some weakness or hidden flaw. In his mind, he reviewed the details of their capture. How could they have been taken so?

After leaving the Hidden Realm, Maeglin and his band had proceeded on the long journey to their destination: the mines of Anghabar, just over a day's journey north of Gondolin. Theirs was a well-traveled, albeit skillfully hidden road through the folds of the Crissaegrim. Maeglin had discovered Anghabar years ago, once he had tapped out the mines in the hills north and west of the Hidden City, and had made the road that now led to it. In all the long years that it had been trod by he and his folk, not once had they encountered another soul of any kind, either friend or foe. Therefore they had been taken completely by surprise when an Orc-company had ambushed them on the road within sight of the mines. They had not even enough time to defend themselves well, although they had tried -- hence the wounded among their number. None had escaped the trap. The Orcs had not slain them, though. Instead, they had taken them prisoner, forcing them before their own company on the long road to the Dark Lord's fortress in the North.

That was the part that troubled Maeglin, as the Elf watched the night pass by. There could be only one reason why the Orcs had been waiting for them, and had not killed them outright: the visit of Hurin to the Hidden Way. He had been wrong about Hurin, he mused to himself. The Dark Lord must have gleaned from the Man the general location of Gondolin, and Morgoth had probably been scouting the hills ever since. By sheer luck the Orc-company had spotted his folk, and seeing that they were Elves, had laid the ambush for them. Thanks to that one chance they were now the Dark Lord's prisoners one and all. Were they to become thralls, laboring in the mines and smithies of the Dark Lord? Unlikely. Elves had not walked these lands for many years. The Dark Lord would guess, and rightly so, that they came from Gondolin. They would be set in torment, and tortured beyond the limits of physical endurance until they revealed exactly where it lay. He hoped that his will would be greater than theirs. It did not occur to Maeglin, and perhaps it should have, that the Dark Lord might have already learned about his little forays to the mines of Anghabar, and set the ambush well in advance of his coming.

Maeglin thought of the vision of beauty that was Idril -- a vision that was now firmly beyond his grasp. How he longed to hold her in his arms and taste the sweetness of her lips, to feel the softness of her supple skin under his hands, and to share the warmth of her body pressed close to his own. If it had not been for the Man he might have had his own way in time, despite her stubbornness. Now that would never be. He would never be able to claim her for his own.

The night rolled on and still Maeglin mused, watching the stars go by and the Moon rise and fall in its course. They would not be missed for many days. He had seen to that. Long ago he had established the habit of being gone from Gondolin for weeks at a time, presumably mining the ores of the Echoriath or exploring their slopes for new treasures. No one seemed to care anymore whenever he would gather his company of miners and depart with them into the hills. The king knew of his desire for the ores he needed for his special projects. He had long ago given his blessing, so long as Maeglin and his folk did not leave the Hidden Realm. No one, not even the king, questioned him any more whenever he announced one of his excursions and left the city for a time. That was why no one knew he had broken the king's law time and again. Hundreds of years of mining prior to Maeglin's arrival in the Hidden Realm meant that the mines of the Echoriath were almost tapped out. As a master-delver and miner himself, he had soon discerned that there was little else to find unless he went beyond the hills. His finding of the mines of Anghabar had seemed a fortunate thing at the time. He could leave and come back within a decent period of time and no one would be the wiser. Indeed, as far as Turgon and his folk had known, the king's sister-son was still somewhere within the Echoriath, mining and quarrying for the good of Gondolin. The good of Gondolin! Small good that did him now.

Maeglin was shaken from his reverie by a painful yank on his fetters. "On yer feet, whiteskin!" snarled the slavering Orc who stood over him. It was the captain of the company that held them prisoner. "Time to go!" The other Elves were also being roused, and the first fingers of dawn were spready up into the eastern sky.

"Go where?" quipped Maeglin.

The Orc-captain roared with laughter, and pointed to the triple peaks ahead. "The Master awaits you in Angband. He doesn't want to leave his guests out here on the Plain no more than he has to now, does he?"

"Thanks all the same, but we would rather not bother him," said Maeglin with a wry smile. "Let us leave your Master in peace for today, yes?"

"Oh-ho-ho! You're a clever one, aren't you?" said the Orc-captain, who then yanked hard on Maeglin's chains. The Elf fell head-first into the sand. Even as he was falling, the Orc-captain kicked him hard in the side. Maeglin doubled over in pain even as his chains were grabbed again, and he was roughly yanked back to his feet. The Orc-captain leered into his face. "Watch your mouth, you, or I'll cut out your tongue!

"Then how will I speak to your Master?" gasped Maeglin, his face grimacing in pain but the light of mirth dancing in his eyes.

"You'll see," said the Orc-captain, shoving Maeglin in line with the other Elves. "All ahead, now!" he cried. "On to the Gates of Angband!" He then snarled at Maeglin. "Now run you maggot, and let's see if you can move as fast as that mouth of yours!"

The rest of the morning was spent in a weary haze on the road lead up the slopes of Thangorodrim. Maeglin and his company staggered along at a half-run, half-trot while the Orcs loped on about them. Occasionally one of the exhausted Elves would fall on the road. He would then be whipped mercilessly until he resumed his place in the line. This was how those of the captives who were still on their feet had spent the last few days, and Maeglin was as weary and worn as the rest. He saw nothing but the road at his feet, heard nothing but the cracks of the whips and the curses of the Orcs, and knew nothing but straight ahead and onward lest the whip find him. In this manner he and his folk were led up the road on the slope, below the battlements on the hills, then through the Gates of Angband and down into the winding corridors below.

For many days thereafter Maeglin was subjected to every form of physical torture he had ever seen or heard about, plus many that were unknown to him. His flesh was torn to the limits of physical endurance and beyond, as he was tortured by the servants of the Dark Lord -- yet not once did he speak to them. He cried aloud when his torment surpassed his will to restrain himself -- that much he granted them -- but not once did he utter a single word in any tongue of Elves or Men to fall upon the ears of his interrogators. In that it least his will proved stronger than theirs, and that thought was his only comfort. (54)

Finally their came a day when his torture abruptly ceased. Maeglin was taken from his cell and away from his companions into the dark deeps of the far dungeons. He did not get far, for his stumbling feet failed him, as he was too weak to walk on his own. Instead, he was dragged between two burly Orcs as they went down many dark and winding passages, ever deeper into the labryinthine halls of Angband. Thus in this manner he descended deep into the mazes of the Dark Lord's fortress, until at last he passed through a grinning portal and came within the audience hall of Morgoth Bauglir, the Tyrant of Angband, Dark Lord of the North.

Maeglin was led into a vast, five-side chamber lit with a hellish red light from the river of fire that ran across its far side. It was held up by five mighty arches supported by snaking colums made as all manner of demon beasts and other fell creatures, converging on the dais in their center. It was ringed by columns at each of its five corners, and before the hindmost column of the dais was set the massive throne of the Dark Lord, ringed with spikes arrayed as a great wheel behind its back. About it were the lesser thrones of the Balrogs, his lieutenants. At its feet were impaled the bodies of the doomed and dying, captives and thralls to serve as maet for the beasts that feasted there. (55)

The Dark Lord now sat upon his throne, watching as Maeglin was brought before him. At once the Elf was overcome by a sense of evil and dread that was outside all his experience in Middle-earth. Before him sat a tall being of dark power and majesty, clothed in black robes, regarding him with an evil stare that hinted of malice scarcely veiled. He had but one eye, for a great furrow scarred his face where the other should have been, and his hands were blackened as with fire. Upon his burned brow, set within a circlet of iron, were two gems that shone with a holy brilliance all their own; nevertheless, their glory was dimmed in the gloom of evil that permeated the hall. The sharp eyes of the Elf could see where a third gem had once sat with the others, but now was gone, and only the two remained within the iron crown of Morgoth.

The Dark Lord fixed his cold eye upon Maeglin. "Who art thou, and what errand brings thee into my realm?" he said in a booming voice. It echoed back and forth within the confines of the great hall until its last tremors faded away. Maeglin remained silent, saying nothing as he stood before the throne.

"Insolent thrall!" cried one of his guards, who then smote the Elf on the mouth. "Speak as the Master bids you!" Maeglin stumbled from the blow, then recovered, but said not a word.

Suddenly the Dark Lord opened his eye wide, and a fell light gleamed within. Maeglin felt as if he had been struck hard by a heavy object, and he almost immediately collapsed to his knees.

"What was thy errand in the Crissaegrim?" the Dark Lord demanded in a threatening tone. "Why art thou here?"

Maeglin found it hard to resist the hypnotic gaze of the Dark Lord, whose eye now burned like a white-hot coal set within a red pit of despair. He could see nothing but that eye, and he struggled against a weight of dark thought mightier than his own. He did not know for how long he could resist the will of Morgoth bearing down on him in its might.

"Talk, or die!"

Maeglin gritted his teeth and fought the gaze of the Dark Lord with all of the strength left to him. The effort to resist was dizzying, and the sight of the hall blurred somewhat to his eyes, twisting and flickering as if viewed through the hot airs above an open furnace. His breathing was labored, and the nails of his clenched fists tore into his palms as he strove with the will of the Dark Lord.

He saw through a shifting haze the distorted images of the hall as the Dark Lord came down from this throne, lifting him up with ease in one of his great blackened hands. He then carried the manacled Elf to the river of fire that ran behind his throne. "If death is thy choice, then so be it!" he heard the booming voice say before he was cast into the river of fire. At once he was enveloped in a sea of flame, and he felt a world of pain within and without as his body burned away in the fire. It would pass soon enough, though, for now his spirit was free and could escape the torments of this world. Maeglin strove to seek the surface above for his long flight to the Halls of Waiting, but then a dark shadow pressed down upon him, and he was pinned inside the molten rock. The Dark Lord had trapped his soul within the lake of fire, where it remained bathed in unceasing agony, and he would never be able to escape those flames. Maeglin's entire existence was now pain, unbearable pain, excruciating pain, everlasting pain; and he could hear the screams of his own tortured soul as they sounded in his mind again and again and again, seeking escape without hope from the living hell into which he had been cast. (56)

"Enough," he heard the Dark Lord say ... and with that, the vision vanished.

Maeglin found himself alive and whole, lying on the floor in front of the throne, bathed in sweat. He was curled up in a fetal position, but his wrists and ankles were bloodied and his neck sore. He had flailed madly against his bonds in the horror of his perceived agony, and now he shook uncontrollably, the painful memory of the river of fire still coursing throughout his aching body. His throat was parched from having screamed himself hoarse, and he gasped for breath.

"That was but a taste of what awaits thee," said the Dark Lord, in a cool and malicious tone. "The next time I will not be so generous. Now I ask thee for the last time: who art thou?"

"Maeglin," the Dark-elf croaked in a half-whisper. "Maeglin, son of Eol, first prince of Gondolin."

At the mention of Gondolin hushed whispers ran up and down the hall. The Balrogs looked at one another, and even the Dark Lord started in his seat. This was the chance for which Morgoth had hoped and waited -- the break beyond his wildest dreams. Now the vessel of his hope lay before him. Great care was needed lest it be rendered unserviceable. Any such vessel so cracked could be remolded to suit his need ... or his whim. The Dark Lord was an expert at such things.

Maeglin was still lying on the stone floor at Morgoth's feet, breathing heavily. He did not notice the commotion in the hall and did not care. He had not expected what had just happened to him. For the first time in his life he now had some inkling of the Dark Lord's true might, and it terrified him. He had survived physical torments beyond all previous imagining these past few days -- but this? It was truly beyond all comprehension. One thing he knew for sure. Never again did he want to feel the river of fire burning him to his innermost soul. He would do anything and say anything they wanted, but never again the fire. Never again.

The Dark Lord was still seated on his throne, regarding the quivering form before him on the floor. He then stirred and spoke in a quiet voice -- not as harsh as before, yet still with threat implied. "I will spare thy life, son of Eol, if thou wilt do but one thing, and one thing only. I desire news of Gondolin, and how I may come there. Tell me this, and thou wilt go free."

Maeglin struggled slowly to his knees, avoiding the Dark Lord's direct gaze. So this is how it is to be, he thought to himself. He had recovered enough by this point to think clearly, and he recognized that the situation had changed. Maeglin was now valuable. There would be no more of the river of fire -- for now, anyway. He might even live, provided he was careful. Maeglin's cunning mind warmed to the challenge, and he chose his words carefully. "My lord," he rasped "the place that you seek, the Hidden Realm of Turgon son of Fingolfin, lies not in the distant South as thou mayest have believed these many years, but instead sits before thy doorstop. It is less than a week's march from thy gates to the walls of Gondolin, which lies at the center of the Vale of Tumladen. This is located within a circle of tall peaks nestled within the southern fences of the Crissaegrim. Find the Vale of Tumladen, and you will find Gondolin." He paused for a moment, waiting to see how the Dark Lord would react to his tale.

Morgoth nodded. "That is a beginning," he said. "Pray continue."

Enough of Maeglin's strengh had now returned for him to stand up, and his voice no longer rasped or quavered. "For many years Turgon and his folk have dwelt within the folds of those hills," he said, "safe from the woes without. They passed within while the Siege of Angband was but new-made, and came not out again in all the years that followed save at the battle of the Nirnaeth. Since the defeat of the Elves on that day and his successful escape from your armies, both he and his people fear to pass the circle of the hills lest thy doom find them. They have since resolved never again to meddle in the affairs of the lands outside as long as they live, in the hope that ye might not find them. Thus they remain, isolated and secure, and as yet do not know that the Black Hand has found them at last."

"That may be so," said the Dark Lord, leaning forward in his seat, "but they must pay for contesting my will, and my wrath against the House of Fingolfin remains unsated." He touched his scarred cheek, and Maeglin beheld once again the shrunken, useless eye that gazed out lifeless from beneath his furrowed brow. "But come! How did Turgon descend from the hills with so great a host during the Nirnaeth, and how did he escape my wrath on that day?"

"There is a deep ravine cutting through the southern fences of the surrounding hills that opens into the Vale of Tumladen," said Maeglin. "My people call it the Orfalch Echor, and it leads from the Vale to a deep cave whose entrance lies at the foot of the hills in Dimbar, some two day's journey from the Ford of Brithiach. It opens into a dry river leading to the waters of Sirion nigh to the ford. This is that which is called the Hidden Way in all the stories of Gondolin spoken in the lands outside. We first came to Gondolin by that road, and our armies trod its stones when we left for and later returned from the Nirnaeth. After our return Turgon ordered it sealed so that it could never again be used by either friend or foe, but I doubt not that Angband has the might to reopen it, should it be thy will."

All was silent after Maeglin finished speaking, save for the guttural sounds of the creatures lurking beneath the Dark Lord's throne and the bubbling of the river of fire flowing at the back of the hall. Then Morgoth sat back upon his throne, and a sound was heard coming from the dais. It was a quiet laugh -- the kind that causes the hair to rise on the nape of one's neck, that sound that sends a cold chill through every bone in one's body. "Thou stand on the brink between life and death, and yet would dance upon its rim," said Morgoth, and he laughed again. "Excellent. I see thou art skilled with both tongue and wit. Would that more of my servants were like thee. But come. Stale news will buy thee nothing. I know this already. I am not so easily blinded. What else would thou offer to ransom thy life, son of Eol? What is the price of thy treason?"

At that Maeglin cursed inwardly. He was not yet out of peril. "Forgive me, my lord, if at first I seemed to deceive you," he said. "I had to know what was already known before I could name my price. It is one that I dared not ask, for I know that my lord has might to take what he would from me whether I will it or no, and it is said that one cannot bargain with the Dark Lord and live."

"If the bargain be dishonest, then the dealer will surely die," said Morgoth, "and thus have all my pacts been so far with the Elves. They withhold from me my right to rule over them as Master of Arda, and thus I exact my vengence upon them. But not until today have I dealt face-to-face with one of the Fair Folk who is willing even to bargain. Thus, I am willing to listen, just as I have been all these many years. What would thou have that the Master of Arda can grant thee for thy service? Speak now, and be swift."

"Only this," said Maeglin, and with that he looked up into the Dark Lord's eye. "All I ask in exchange for my aid is to have the daughter of Turgon, Idril Celebrindal, for my own. I desire nothing more than this."

"And what shall I gain should I agree to this bargain?" said Morgoth, a cruel smile beginning to form on his face.

"Whatever the son of Eol can provide," said Maeglin. "The lay of the vale, the number and order of the hosts of Gondolin, the strength and construction of the defenses of the Hidden Vale, and more. All this I will make known to thee, if I can but claim the Lady of Gondolin for myself."

At that Morgoth threw back his head and roared with laughter -- a fell sound that shook the hall and caused Maeglin to stop his ears until it ceased. "Never in all my days within Arda have I known or foreseen one of the Elder Children to have a heart as black as my own!" he cried. "Very well, Dark-elf! If thou canst do what thou claim, then I will honor thy bargain. Thou shalt have the daughter of Turgon to do with as befitting thine own pleasures, and I will rejoice in the fall and death of the father. But that is not all I would grant thee, son of Eol." He lifted up his right hand before Maeglin in token of solemn oath. "Should my designs succeed and Gondolin pass into my hands, then thy head will bear the crown of the Hidden Realm. This I vow as payment and reward for the services thou art about to render me." (57)

"I am honored, my lord," said Maeglin, bowing his head. His face was its unreadable mask of old, but inside he was smiling. It had been a perilous throw, given what he knew awaited him if he failed, yet it had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. He would have both Gondolin and Idril despite anything the Man might be able to do. After all, was not Morgoth now his sworn ally? All that power was now at his disposal, and Maeglin knew only too well of what it was capable. The folk of Gondolin had never really accepted him. The Man had taken the maiden he loved. The king had denied him the throne. None of that mattered now. There would soon be a day of reckoning within the Hidden Realm, and Maeglin intended to settle all his scores, old and new, on that day -- no matter what he had to do or with whom he had to ally to do it.

Then Morgoth freed Maeglin son of Eol and his companions, and sent them back to Gondolin lest their absence be noted; but they did not do so unfettered. The vow of Morgoth and the Dark-elf's own desires were enough to hold Maeglin to his dark purpose, but not so the rest of his folk. Therefore, the Dark Lord placed a spell of bottomless dread on the other Elves, in order to better serve his dark design. They were to be his eyes and ears within the Hidden Realm, aiding Maeglin in his purpose and spying out the defenses of Gondolin. Once the time came, they would be ready, and they would aid the son of Eol without question once the hour of the Dark Lord's assault was at hand.

Now it came to pass that in the autumn of the five hundred and ninth year since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth, there came a sudden and profound change over Maeglin son of Eol, Prince of Gondolin. It was noted by all the people; for he suddenly become less petulant and moody than was his wont, and no longer sought to have his way in all things. He began to behave once again like the young Elf of old, who had first beheld the glory and wonder of the Hidden Realm upon his arrival, showing kindness and courtesy to his peers and sharing with them his talents and labors. "Maeglin is softened," they said, and thought little of it except to hold him in less disfavor than before, yet Idril feared this sudden change in her cousin. She noted that he no longer went to mine the hills for his ores, and to her this was a most unusual thing, for the son of Eol loved mining and quarrying of metals above all other things. As for Maeglin, he walked about with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, yet his heart was dark with evil. Ever did he whisper in Turgon's ear, and never did he forget the thought of Idril.

Chapter 13 - Red Sky At Night (58)

The storms of winter had come and gone. Once again, the Vale of Tumladen was bathed in a blanket of snow. A crisp, chill wind whistled through the mountain fences and danced through the trees on the plain, causing their leafless boughs to shudder and shake. There was no sound of birds on wing, for they were gone for the season. There was no sound of rushing water or babbling brook, for the waters of the plain were coated in sheets of crystal until the spring thaws. Even the voice of the Hidden River was muffled by the ice lining its banks, and such had not been seen since the days of the Fell Winter some fourteen years before.

It was now the end of the five hundred and nineth year since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth. The promise of another year brought little tranquility to the Elves of Gondolin, for the building of the new defenses continued unabated. Much had been accomplished since the fall of Doriath two years before. The new outer garth was all but complete, and the new network of pools and waters feeding the wide moat awaited only the spring thaws to fill them. The new towers and war machines set about the outer garth and at the foot of Amon Gwareth were in place, but much remained to be done before they would be ready for use. Even so, it appeared that everything would be finished before the coming of the new spring. None had forgotten the battle of the Bragollach, when the Dark Lord had assailed the Elven-kingdoms of Beleriand in the middle of winter. That is why work continued non-stop throughout the season, in order to finish the city's new defenses as soon as possible.

The winter days found Tuor about his many duties, yet he still took time for his customary walk upon the walls of Gondolin, as had become his wont over the years. On this particular day Idril walked beside him, the cool winter breeze lifting and tossing her fair hair like a river of gold. Tuor found this beautiful, and turned to kiss his wife, but she put her hand to his lips and turned away. Her face was sad, and Tuor knew not what dark thoughts troubled her mind. He said nothing, but stayed by her side as they walked in silence until they were come to their accustomed place on the battlements nigh to their home. There they sat down upon a stone bench set nigh to the inner wall.

"A frown should not grace the face of one so fair," said Tuor at last, unable to bear his wife's countenance. "What ails you today, Idril? What new shadow has fallen on your spirit to darken it so?"

"None that was not already there," said Idril. "It is the dreariness of this foul weather that has reawakened my old woes. How the chill wind bites so!" She shivered, and drew her cloak more tightly about herself.

"The North-wind blows colder this year than the last, and has done so ever since the fall of Thingol," said Tuor. "It is as if the Fell Winter was upon us again."

"This is more of the Dark Lord's doing," said Idril. "He has not forgotten us. Even though he has not yet found us, he wishes us to remember his might. Beleriand grows cold as it falls under the power of the Shadow, and I fear the threat of his unsated malice."

"Then I have news that may brighten the darkness somewhat," said Tuor. "Today the workers below broke through to the dry lake on the plain. Your secret tunnel is now halfway complete." (59)

Idril managed a weak smile. "This is good tidings indeed. Now at least we no longer have need to invent new ways to carry the stone through the city. Has Maeglin learned of this?"

"He has not as yet, as far as I know," said Tuor. "In fact, he spends most of his time with Salgant and the guilds or in his smithies, working crafts of art to enhance the beauty of the city."

"I wonder," said Idril. "I do not trust Maeglin's newfound sincerity. This is not like him, to do the bidding of others. A shadow lies still upon my heart whenever he passes me by, and I see within him a darkness that was not there before. His face may be fair, but his heart remains foul, and I fear him." She paused as if to sort her thoughts, and just then a particulalry cold gust of wind blew across the parapet. Idril bowed her head and buried her face in the fur of her mantle, fighting the breeze as it strove with the Elf-maiden in its path.

"Perhaps we should go now," said Tuor, setting his arm about her. "The wind grows too chill to enjoy the mountain airs."

"No," said Idril, lifting her head as the wind abated somewhat. This time she did not resist him, and welcomed the warmth of his firm embrace. "I will be fine once this darkness passes from my heart, but I fear the Shadow will not do the same." She shook her head sadly. "Gondolin now stands alone against the growing tide of the coming night, a night which even now reaches out its dark hand to claim us all. This is the calm before the storm, husband, and already I can feel the wind begin to blow."

"We have done all that we can to meet it," said Tuor. "What else would you do?"

"I would that we could save my father from ruin," said Idril in a small voice. She did not look at Tuor, and seemed to be speaking to herself. "I would that we could tell him of the secret way, and save him in spite of himself."

"Would you then gainsay your own counsel?" said Tuor. "How many times have you said to me not to tell the king of the secret way? 'It would invite disaster if my father knew of our plans,' you said time and again and I listened, deeming the daughter the better judge of her father than I. Would you lay open our labors for all to see, now that so much has been accomplished?"

"Nay, you misunderstand me," said Idril, and she sighed. "My love for my father confuses my words. If there were any way to turn him from this road of destruction, I would do anything to bring it about. His pride and stubborness blind him to impending peril -- not only for him but for us all, and he would rather die than give up his beloved Gondolin. O how I wish this city had never been built!"

With that Idril spoke no more. After a time, they got up and left the battlement, each returning to their own responsibilities within the Hidden Realm; but after that day Tuor kept the Company of the Wing in a state of constant readiness, for what he knew not. Idril for the most part kept to their home on the southern walls, leaving only as duty demanded and returning as quickly as she could. She remained by the side of her son Earendil as much as possible, and few were the reasons that would bring her forth again.

It had been a beautiful summer day, as fine and wonderful as any could want or desire. The skies were clear and bright all day, save for a belt of thick clouds heavy with snow that had settled over the northwestern hills the day before. A brisk breeze from the East pinned those clouds upon the peaks, not letting a one stray from the slope and keeping clear the airs above the vale. The coming night promised to be a beautiful one if the breeze kept up, for then the people would be able to see the stars high above shining unsullied in all their glory. From the dim glimmer of the first works of Elbereth to the brilliant radiance of her mighty Sickle, tonight the vault of heaven would be ablaze with starlight. Below in the vale, preparations for the next day's festivities continued unabated. It was twilight of Midsummer's Eve in the middle of the Elf-season of laire. Tomorrow would be the longest day of the year, that which was named loende in the tongue of the High-elves, and it would be the five hundred and tenth such since the host of Fingolfin first set foot upon the shores of Middle-earth.

On that night it was the custom of the Elves of Gondolin to begin a solemn ceremony at the stroke of midnight, at which all sound in the city would cease. The city would remain silent until the rising of the Sun, when the people would come together in Gar Anion, the Place of the Valar. Upon that hallowed ground they would greet the dawn with ancient songs, after which they would leave the city through the East-gate and descend to the vale below. In the wide space between the Hidden River and the road to the northeast hills, named the Festival Plain, there would be much feasting and merrymaking until the coming of sunset. The ceremony was as old as the Elves themselves, and for years uncounted they had greeted the coming of summer in this manner.

The red light of the setting sun glistened upon the leaves of the trees in the vale, and upon the banners and tapestries that were set about for the festival. In the gardens and groves within and without the city, Elf-lamps of many colors hung in all their jeweled splendor amidst the laden boughs. Many silver lamps had also been strung above the streets in honor of the stars of Elbereth, and the air was full of low music from many instruments. No voice was there to be heard in song, nor would be until the dawn; but low murmurs and whispers marked the comings and goings of the Elves as they went about their business, making sure that all was ready for the appointed time. Even now the Elves hurried to finish before the fading light of day was lost, each bent to a given task.

From their vantage point at the top of the King's Tower, high above the city of Gondolin, Tuor and his family surveyed the wonderous sight below. Next to them stood Turgon the Elven-king, and there was a warm glow on his face as he beheld the excitement in Earendil's eyes. It was the boy's first visit to the tall tower, and he found the sight of the city and vale as seen from such a height both marvelous and dizzying to behold. He held tightly to his father's hand as he looked over the rail of the balcony, being careful not to lean too far forward, as his eyes followed the way to which Tuor pointed.

"Over there is the Hall of Warriors," Tuor was saying, "and if you look hard you can see the plumes from the Fountains of the South just beyond. Now, look along the edge of the city walls in the same spot, and you will find the tower that holds our home."

"I see it!" said the boy excitedly. "And that big building to the left of the fountains -- is that the library?"

"Yes, it is," said Tuor with a smile. "You have sharp eyes, my son."

"It does not seem as big as it is from up here," said Earendil.

"Everything seems small from the heights," said Tuor, then he took his son's hand and set it on the rail. "Now Earendil, your mother and I are going to talk with the king for a time. You may stay here if you wish, but hang onto the rail, and do not let go until you are ready to leave the balcony. Understand?"

"Yes, Father."

Tuor left Earendil standing before the rail and moved back to where Idril and Turgon had removed themselves. They were standing before the stone bench nigh to the arch of the doorway, watching with smiles on their faces as the boy moved along the edge of the balcony, careful to keep his hands on the rail at all times. Neither Tuor nor Idril feared for their son's safety. He was a bright lad, and -- had they known it -- had more common sense about him than his peers among the Children of Men.

"You wuld think he had never climbed a tower before," said Turgon to Tuor.

"Towers, yes -- the King's Tower, no." said Tuor. "He knows what a special thing this is that you have done for him today. Although he may not say it face-to-face, he is grateful, and so are we. I wish there were some way we could properly thank you for showing him this kindness."

"The look on his face is reward enough," said Turgon. "I am glad to have played my part." He then walked to the edge of the balcony and stood beside Earendil, casting his gaze upon the sights below.

The westering sun had just set behind the edge of the hills, and their peaks were crowned with dull red skies accented with purple, fading ever darker as one looked to the east. The radiance of Gondolin in its festival attire was already making its mark on the coming night, and one could just make out the faint globes of rainbow light that surrounded each of the Elf-lamps in the city below. Outside the walls the shadows were growing long, and the slopes of the hills were wreathed in darkness. The long black shade of the Hill of Guard spread eastward like a river of darkness that would drown the Festival Plain in its wake, for no Elf-lamps shone there yet.

"It is good that my heir can see the glory of the Hidden Realm in this way," said Turgon, in a voice as if he were speaking to himself. "It is as if I were standing once again in the tall tower of Ingwe, descrying the brilliance of Tirion shining before the darkness of the Shadowy Seas beyond. Nay, better than the tower of Ingwe, and fairer than Tirion itself. I see before me the fairest city of the Elves, East or West. It is good that my heir can behold such a thing." Turgon stopped speaking and breathed in deeply, his hands uplifted at the sight before him. Tuor and Idril looked at one another but did not speak. The Elven-king turned to face them, waving his hand back towards the city below. "Behold, Gondolin the great on the eve of Tarnin Austa! It is a more beautiful sight than one could see from anyplace else within the city. I am glad that I can share it with my heir. Perhaps, when he is old enough to come into his own, then he will understand and rejoice in its glory, and grow to love it even as I. Yea, even as I." He turned away to gaze once again upon the city below, and Tuor and Idril exchanged worried glances at his words. (60)

It was at that moment that Earendil spoke. "Father," he said, "does not the Sun set in the West and sail forth again in the East on the morrow?"

"Yes, my son," said Tuor. "Why do you ask?"

"If so, then what is that light over there?" said Earendil, pointing towards the northern heights of the Echoriath.

Tuor gazed at the dull glow of the sunset sky for a moment, then shook his head. "I see nothing save the afterglow from the setting sun, but my sight is shorter than yours. My lady? My king? Can you see this thing?"

The two Elves gazed northward to the place in the hills to which Earendil was pointing. Turgon was the first to speak. "He points to the cairn of my father, but I see nothing above save the dying fires of sunset. Can you see of what he speaks, daughter?"

Idril continued to gaze at the northern hills as Tuor watched, while Turgon rubbed his eyes and looked again. A note of concern was in her voice when she spoke. "Yes, Tuor, I see it. It is a faint red glow just beyond the hills that does not come from the sun. It grows with each passing moment, and soon you will be able to see it well enough. I am surprised you cannot, father."

The Elven-king's eyes were upon the hills, but doubt remained on his face. "I see the glow well enough, but I do not agree with what you say. It is but a trick of the hills." He did not sound convincing, nor did he sound convinced himself.

"It is no trick of the hills, my lord," said Tuor. He now stood beside his son, shielding his eyes with his hand. "I can see the light now. It is as Idril says -- it increases with each moment. It is not the Sun, and there are few other things in Middle-earth that could do such a thing." He looked at Idril, and saw the fear in her eyes as she watched the light grow before them.

By this time, the glow above the northern heights had become so strong that it could be easily seen above the shoulders of the hills, where it hung like building mists above deep pools in early morn. The preparations for the next day's festivities had ceased altogether as the Elves noted, then wondered at the light in the hills. They flocked to the towers of the city, or climbed up onto the city walls and to the tops of the battlements as they gazed upon this new marvel. The light waxed stronger by the minute, and by now lit the whole of the northern horizon, taking on a deep crimson hue in its conquest of the evening skies. Then wonder gave way to dismay as the Elves beheld the cover of snow upon the peaks as if it were blood bathing the slopes of the Echoriath, and many shuddered at the sight.

"Father, I'm scared," said Earendil, seeking Tuor's side. (61)

Tuor put one arm about his son's shoulders and held him close even as Idril sought the other. Both were trembling, but the boy shook with the fear of ignorance, while the Elf-maiden shook with the fear of understanding. Tuor looked at Idril and nodded, then spoke to his son. "Everything is going to be all right," he said. "No harm will come to you, I promise."

Idril did not speak. Tuor could see the realization in her eyes -- the fulfillment of fears long held now come to pass. Turgon seemed not to notice them but continued staring at the hills, gripping the rail of the balcony so that his knuckles turned white, shaking his head in disbelief. Not even when the signal fires began to go off in rapid succession across the heights did his countenance change. "No," he whispered, "it cannot be. We are safe here. He cannot find us. He cannot have found us. We are safe here."

There was bedlam on the streets of Gondolin. Groups of warriors dashed down the lamp-lit ways to their mustering places, some still donning their arms and armor along the way. Civilians rushed to and fro in terror and confusion, seeking the quickest route to their homes or whatever shelter they could find. Mounted horsemen galloped through the streets at breakneck speed scattering everything and everyone in their path, bringing tidings from the hills to the palace of the king. Abandoned pets and animals dashed out of the way of the panicked Elves, seizing food from abandoned street-stalls and knocking them aside. The wailing of the maidens and children in the streets was in sharp contrast to the quiet of the king's council chamber, where Turgon had convened a council of war.

They were gathered there for the last time: the lords and lieutenants of the seven hosts of Gondolin, and many other nobles of less rank but equal valor. Of the lords of the hosts, four were absent: Galdor, Maeglin, Egalmoth, and Salgant. Galdor and Maeglin had been with their hosts, those of the White Tree and the Mole, manning the watch in the hills when the assault came. Maeglin's seat remained empty, and there had been as yet no word as to the fate of the Lord of the Mole. Ecthelion of the Fountain, who was the senior warrior present, covered Galdor's absence as commander of the combined hosts. Egalmoth, Lord of the Heavenly Arch, had been outside the city on the Festival Plain, and was making his way back as fast as he could. As for Salgant, none knew why he was not there. His presence was required, for his title as head guildsmen also made him the commander of the city's reserve force, the Host of the Harp, made up of all merchants and guildsmen with any skill at arms. It had mustered at full strength only once before in the entire history of Gondolin: at the time of the Nirnaeth, to help defend the city while the main host of Gondolin marched to war. Today it mustered at its appointed place as did all the proper hosts; however, its lord and commander had gone missing. Thus Salgant's seat remained empty, as did that of the Prince of Gondolin. (62)

Gathered around a large wooden table, the warriors spoke to one another in hushed whispers as they waited for the council to convene. The king and his commanders were seated, while the lesser lords and lieutenants stood nearby. Turgon sat at the head of the table, saying nothing, with Maeglin's empty seat on his right and Tuor son of Huor seated to his left. Beside Tuor sat Ecthelion of the Fountain and Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. On Turgon's right beyond the empty seat was Duilin of the Eagle and the empty seats of Egalmoth and Salgant. The first was filled soon enough, for now Egalmoth himself strode into the chamber, and with him was Penlegod the Elf-scribe -- much to the surprise of everyone. Egalmoth took his seat beside Duilin, and the Royal Scribe took Salgant's seat beside Egalmoth.

The king looked surprised. "What are you doing here?" said Turgon, as he looked at Penlegod. "This is not your place to be, loremaster." His voice took on a note of concern. "Has the muster of the Harp gone awry? Where is your lord, Salgant? He should be here, not you."

"In times of war all become warriors," said Penlegod. Tuor noted for the first time the sword buckled to the Elf-scribe's side. "Even a scholar may not refuse the call of battle when the need presses. The folk of the Harp are as ready as they ever will be for what lies ahead, my king, but not so their lord. He never was -- nor will be, I fear."

"What is this?" said Turgon. "Explain yourself."

"Yes, my lord," said Penlegod. "The Lord of the Harp, Salgant the Strong, fled from the muster of the guildsmen when the opportunity first presented itself, and has locked himself within his chambers. He refuses to come out for anyone or anything. His servants say that he is cowering under his bed, absolutely terrified by the news of the Dark Lord's assault. I did what I could to rouse him from this state, but it was all for naught. He would not receive me, and those whom I have left posted by his doors say they can hear no sound within save that of his knees knocking together."

"Salgant the Strong?" snorted Duilin. "Surely you jest. Salgant the Craven, you mean."

"I agree," said Turgon, "but now is not the time to deal with such cowardice. I take it then that you took it upon yourself to muster the Harp in his place, Penlegod?"

Penlegod bowed his head. "Yes, my lord. I am no warrior, nor am I trained in the arts of war, but there was none to lead the Harp, and I could not find one of the regular warriors to take up the task. Forgive me, my lord."

"You did well, friend," said Turgon. "You acted wisely. You seem to have done well enough in the press of need, and there will be no warriors to spare." He looked at his lords. "My scribe has acted wisely, and saved us the trouble of an unmustered host. Time is now of the essence. Since he has already assumed the responsbility, I shall grant him the title as well -- unless there is any objection?" None spoke. "Very well, Penlegod. Yours is now the lordship of the Harp."

"I am yours to command, my king," said the Elf-scribe reverently, bowing his head again. He sounded none too confident, though, and Tuor thought he saw his friend's face grow pale.

Turgon turned to Ecthelion. "What news do you have from the hills?"

"None that is good, and it gets worse by the minute," said the Elf-lord. "The Enemy has attacked in overwhelming strength with companies of Orcs and trolls across the length of the northern hills. No word has there been from Prince Maeglin and the Mole in that quarter since the escape of his scouts. Galdor has also just sent word of a second assault from the east, as fierce as that from the north. He and the White Tree are outnumbered at least ten-to-one, but so far they have the advantage of the high ground and rough terrain. Those will not do them good for long."

"And why is that?" said Turgon.

"Because Galdor's foes have dragons in their train," said Ecthelion. At that a low moan could be heard from some of the warriors around them. "His scouts have seen many worms of the breed of Glaurung behind them, and to the north behind the host Maeglin's folk are fighting. The lights in the sky are from their fires and the blazes they leave in their wake. They are blasting and overcoming the forts in the hills even as we speak, but that is not the worst of the foes we will face tonight."

"Go on," said Turgon in a low voice.

"In our last report from the north, before the scouts were driven from their posts, they reported seeing another large host behind that which now assails us," said Ecthelion. "It is a foe we know all too well, one whom we have not seen since the field of the Nirnaeth. It is the troll-guard of Gothmog, if the report is true." He paused, then added grimly, "It would seem that the Dark Lord has given the Lord of Balrogs command of the assault on Gondolin."

At the mention of Gothmog everyone at and around the table started save Tuor, who knew naught of Balrogs save for what he had learned from Penlegod's tales. Most of the Elven-warriors gathered there were veterans of the Nirnaeth, and the rest had fought in the early battles of Beleriand, in the days when the Elf-kingdoms were still being established. All of them knew of the Balrogs and their power in one form or another. As for the Elven-king, Turgon's face was now ashen, and he sank back into his seat. "Gothmog himself," he said, and all could hear his voice tremble as he spoke. "The Dark Lord knows my fears all too well, and has sent my kinslayer to claim me."

"My lord?" said Ecthelion.

Turgon suddenly pulled himself together, and turned to the Elf-lord. "Ten to one you say," he said, "with trolls and drakes and who knows what else he has prepared for us of which the scouts know not? He has strength enough to spare, now that we alone are left, and would bring it down full upon us, it seems." He shook his head. "We are trapped here. There is no hope of escape, and none of victory on our part. We can do little but die valiantly."

The warriors assembled in the chamber looked at each other in dismay at the king's words. Ecthelion was so disturbed that he was moved to speak. "Nay, my lord! Let it not be so! Why speak of defeat when we have not yet joined the fray? This is far from over, and I for one will not give up so easily. Do not despair so! There is yet time for us to strike."

"Indeed, my lord," said Glorfindel. "We must act swiftly before the Enemy reaches the vale. Once he does, he will pin us inside our walls. After that, we will have no hope of victory, but must endure the stalemate of a siege."

"One we cannot hope to break," muttered Tuor.

Turgon looked at him. "And what is your counsel, son of Huor?" he said. "How do you propose to save our people from the might of the Black Hand?"

"By flight," said Tuor. "I propose that we abandon the city at once and fly over the mountains to safety. It is said that discretion is the better part of valor, and we cannot hope to overcome the forces that have been sent against us. Remember the counsel of Ulmo: flee while there is still time. Better to escape the trap and live to fight another day than to remain and be slaughtered."

"But the Orfalch Echor is closed--" began Duilin, but he was cut off by the king.

"Nay," said Turgon suddenly, coming to himself. He looked sternly at the father of his heir. "I will not flee like a coward to die with an arrow in my back. Only a fool would abandon his best defense with the Enemy so close at hand. Gondolin remains our sole hope of safety in this hour of peril, an impregnable redoubt against our countless foes. It has been designed to withstand every peril that the Dark Lord has ever thrown against our people, and will do so now. They will break upon the Hill of Guard like waves on the rocks of the seashore, and likewise tumble back in confusion and despair."

"The more we debate the issue, my lord, the more your words become true," said Tuor, "yet while the Enemy seeks passage over the hills there is yet time for flight. We must flee the city--"

"Silence, son of Huor." said Turgon, waving angrily with his hand. "You will not debate my counsel. I choose my own field of battle and will fight the enemy from behind stout walls. Speak not of flight again, or I will have you set in bonds."

Tuor bowed his head. "Yes, my lord."

Turgon then stood, and addressed all of the warriors in the chamber. "Listen to me, fellow Elves! Doubtless there are some among you whose hearts are in accord with this Man and his counsel, and would flee the city before our foes. Have we ever done such before? Have we ever fled from the threat of the Black Hand? Nay! We have given him battle wherever he has assailed us, and I will not be the first to fly from the Dark Lord. I will not walk away and leave Gondolin to the Enemy as a freely given gift, not while my arm can still bear my sword." He pulled Glamdring from its sheath and held it before him. "Listen to me, my Elves, and listen well! It is said that in Gondolin is the hope of our people, and I will not deny that hope to them in these dark times. I will not hand over the fruits of our long labors to the Enemy without a fight. Look about you! None can compare with this place in beauty or works, or in arts and lore. We built this place from nothing into the shining jewel that it is today, and I will not let the creatures of the Dark Lord defile these stones unchallenged." He paused for a moment, judging the faces of those gathered there, then spoke again. "I vow that I shall never abandon Gondolin to Morgoth, and I stand by my vow. Wilt thou stand with me, or no?"

At that many of the Elves in the room clashed their weapons, and raised their voices in agreement with the king. "It is settled, then," said Turgon. "A sally will be made to rescue those who escape the assault from the hills, and then we will seal the gates and throw down the bridges. Let the fire-drakes of the Dark Lord sup upon the Rock of Singing Water if they dare! We will quench them, and break the assault of Angband!"

With that the king arose, and his council of war was dismissed. But as they were leaving for their appointed places, a wild-eyed messenger burst into the room, his face flushed and his breathing short. "My lord!" he exclaimed. "The Enemy has crossed the hills!"

It was a most unnatural thing to hear the cries of the Dark Lord's creatures within the vale, and Earendil trembled each time they sounded forth. His nurse Meleth sought to comfort him, but it was no use -- she had told him many a tale of Morgoth the Dark Lord and his demons of fire whenever the boy had been wayward, and now to him these were all coming true. The red light in the sky was now quite visible through the wide window across from his bed, and it danced across the walls and ceiling of his room like the faint reflections of some great blaze seen from afar. He looked up in time to hear the roar of yet another dragon, and just as quickly hid his face again.

"Do not worry so, child," said Meleth in her most reassuring manner, as she tried her best to mask her own fright. "They will not take you away from us, not if your father and the king have anything to say about it. They will save you and the rest of us from the beasts that you hear."

"But you said that the Dark Lord has lots of Orcs, and trolls, and dragons, and lots of other evil things beyond measure, " said Earendil, his cries reflecting his fear. "And what about the Balrogs, with their whips of flame? Not even Fingon could stop them. We are all going to die!"

"Is that any way for a warrior to speak?" came Idril's voice from the doorway. "Is the heir of Turgon a craven weaking? Your father would not be proud if he heard you now, and saw you acting like this."

Earendil lifted his head and looked up towards the doorway to see his mother standing there, but arrayed in a manner unlike that he had ever seen before. In place of her long gowns of shimmering white she wore a sleeveless, knee-length robe like that which warriors wear under their armor. She wore armor as well -- made after the fashion of the Company of the Wing but shaped to fit her slender form. She bore no shield or helm, but carried both dagger and sword after the fashion of the warriors of Gondolin. (63) She was also wearing boots made in the same fashion as those worn by a warrior, and that was quite unlike the daughter of Turgon. This was somthing new; for never before in the long history of the Elves had an Elf-maiden donned warrior's garb or wielded a warrior's blade in battle.

The sight of Idril's unorthodox attire was as much a shock to Meleth as it was Earendil. "My lady!" she exclaimed. "What is this? What would you? It is not a maiden's place to wage war. What ails you to even think of such a thing?"

"That which ails us all," replied Idril evenly as she came into the room, "the evil that swiftly descends upon us from the North. The lives of my people are now at stake, and a part long ago foreseen beckons to me in this hour of trial. Such a part requires more protection than mere maiden's robes can provide." She was holding a small mail-coat in her hands, and she presented it to Earendil. "Take this and put it on, my son."

"A coat of mail like Father's and my size, too!" the boy exclaimed as he took it from his mother.

"Yes," said Idril. "It was meant to be a present for you at the end of the festival, but now that will never be. Take it now, and wear it as your father would: proudly, and with no tears."

Her words had the desired effect upon her son. Earendil stood straight and tall as the two maidens helped him don the coat of mail. By the time they were finished, he was literally beaming with pride. "Now no filthy Orc can lay a blade on the son of Tuor!" he cried. "None of the Enemy's minions will dare strike the heir of Turgon and hope to make a mark!"

"Is that so?" came a familiar voice from the doorway.

"Father!" yelled Earendil, and spinning around raced into Tuor's outstretched arms. "I am so glad you are back!"

"And how is my little warrior?" said Tuor, setting the boy back down.

"I am fine," said Earendil in reply. "I was just making sure Mother and Meleth were all right."

"Indeed," said Tuor, and he smiled at Idril. She smiled back, shaking her head as she did so. "Well, I have a special job for you -- that is, if you are willing."

"What is it?"

"I want you to go to the library and help Penlegod. He need someone who is quick on his feet, and I can think of none better than you."

"But I want to come with you, Father," said Earendil. "I want to do battle with the Enemy."

Tuor shook his head. "Not so fast, my son. You have a valiant heart, but you are not yet large or strong enough to take on even the least of our foes."

"But I do not want to be stuck with the women and children," pouted Earendil. "I want to fight by your side."

"Your heart may be that of a man," said Tuor, "but your body is still that of a boy." He tousled his son's hair. "Your day will come soon enough, but not today. You can best serve me now by going to the library and helping Penlegod. Besides, some of your friends are already there, and they need someone to lead them. Can you think of anyone better than the king's heir to do so?"

"No, sir."

"Then go with Meleth to the library. Your mother and I have things to do."

Earendil bid his parents farewell. It was with many a backward glance that Meleth led him from the room and out of their home. Tuor and Idril could see the sorrow in his eyes, yet the boy had overcome his fear. He knew what he had to do, and he did it. His parents watched as he left, then they descended the tower and left as well.

"Is everything in order?" said Tuor, as they descended the stairs. They passed the exit leading to the city wall, and headed instead towards the one at ground floor, leading into the city.

"All is ready," replied Idril calmly. "Our things are packed and ready. I will return and get them when I am done, then I will await you at the library."

"Why not send them on ahead?" said Tuor.

"There is no time, nor is there anyone to spare," said Idril. "Duty calls in this hour, and taking them with me would only hinder me. I wish it were otherwise."

"So do I," said Tuor. They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and now went out the door. Tuor stopped them just short of the street. "I still do not like this idea of yours, Idril," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "You risk falling into the Dark Lord's clutches. I will not be around to aid you if you are surprised."

"Your training with the blade will save me," said Idril.

Tuor smiled grimly. "I wish there had been more time for better training," he said.

Idril touched her forehead to his. "What I have must suffice," she said. "Besides, the people will need a voice to whom they will listen, one that they know and trust," said Idril. "I am that voice. I must go with Voronwe, else few will heed his call to flight."

Tuor looked over at the warriors assembled nearby. There were two groups of about two dozen each. One was led by Voronwe, bearing the white livery and swan shields of the Company of the Wing. The other bore the golden livery of the King's Host. Idril looked at their captain, who nodded at her. "We will go with you too, my lady," said Ingold. "It has always been our duty to guard you, no matter what."

"As it has been, so shall it be," she said. "Thank you, Ingold."

The Elf-captain bowed. "My lady," he said with reverence.

"I am still against this," said Tuor.

Idril leaned forward and kissed her husband. "Do not worry, my love. Ingold, Voronwe, and their warriors will see that I come to no harm. I will be waiting for you at the library once I am done. Now hurry and go to your host, before they begin to miss you."

Tuor smiled. "I love you," he said, and kissed her. "Take care of yourself."

She kissed him back. "I love you, too," she said. "Now get going."

Tuor released her, then looked at Ingold. "Take care of her until I return," he said.

Ingold saluted him. "I will guard the Lady with my life," he said. "No harm will come to her while I can yet wield a blade."

"Let us hope it does not come to that," said Tuor.

He and Idril kissed one last time, then bade each other farewell. Idril stood before Voronwe and Ingold in front of their assembled warriors as he left. She watched him trot down the street, returning to the muster of his host, the Company of the Wing -- a lone figure in white mail with winged helm and axe of silver hastening away to do battle with their countless foes. She did not release her tears until he was long gone from sight.

Chapter 14 - A Grim Harvest

The battle of Gondolin went ill with the Elves from the start. (64)

One hour after sunset, all the high forts guarding the passes in the north and east of the Echoriath were breached and their defenders routed by the armies of Angband. Only two groups escaped the hills to flee back to the city. Galdor led what few companies of the White Tree that escaped the rout in beating a hasty retreat down the slopes of the eastern hills, lest they be caught by their countless foes and crushed before them. Likewise escaped an even smaller contingent of the Mole, fleeing down the northern slopes of the vale towards the city defenses with the forces of the Enemy hard upon their heels. On the orders of Turgon two sallies were made to rescue the fleeing Elven-warriors, Tuor leading the one to the north and Ecthelion to the east. After the survivors from the hills were rescued, the gates to the outer garth of the city were shut and sealed. All but a few of the bridges across the new moat, the narrowest and lightest, were broken and cast down, and these would quickly follow once the word was given. They were the last line of flight for the Elves manning the defense of the outer garth, for the hosts of the Enemy now swarmed across the plain and quickly surrounded the city. Gondolin was now besieged, a lone island standing in a sea of foes.

When Turgon inquired of the survivors of the Mole as to the whereabouts of his sister-son Maeglin, they had no good news to tell. The last they had seen of their lord was of he and his bodyguard surrounded and cut off from all hope of escape, trying in vain to fight their way clear while the troll-guard of Gothmog closed in on them. Turgon met this news with mournful silence, remembering the death of his brother Fingon many years before in the same manner. As for Tuor, he somehow found it in his heart to grieve the loss of Maeglin, despite his own feelings. He had tasted Maeglin's skill in battle, and knew that the trolls would have had no easy victory over the Prince of Gondolin. (65)

It was now some four hours still from middle night. The sky was red to the north and east, with great clouds of smoke billowing up from the fires on the plain. The heat and stench from the burning filled the air. With those fires had come the vermin of Angband. They had descended from the hills in full strength onto the Vale of Tumladen. Those few Elves still in the vale who had not yet reached the safety of the city walls were struck down as they fled with shafts in their back, or hewn in places by foes uncountable. The armies of the Dark Lord now encircled the city, flowing around the whole of the outer garth and cutting off all avenues of escape by any quarter.

It had been hoped that the new defenses built about Amon Gwareth would hold the Enemy at bay, but that was not meant to be. Formidable as they were -- the stout outer garth with its strong towers, the wide moat with its extended network of deep pools surrounding the city, the wide ranging army of war machines emplaced in ramparts at the foot of Amon Gwareth -- all of these were overcome with surprising speed by the armies of Angband. It seemed to those who watched with fear and growing dismay from their posts atop the city walls that the Enemy had somehow gotten wind of or perhaps even known what awaited any assault, and had been long in preparing for it.

The outer garth was quickly broached by a host of fire-drakes, who blasted their way through with their fires and opened great gaps in the walls, pulling them down with their clawed limbs or breaking the stones asunder by striking them with their tails. Driven back by foes to great to handle, the outer defenders retreated across the last of the narrow and slender bridges over the moat, then cast them down behind them -- cutting off all avenues of approach to Gondolin save by water. That should have ended the assault then and there, but that was not meant to be; for the Dark Lord had long pondered on this matter, and had contrived a way to breach the water-barriers surrounding the city.

There came now from among the hosts of their enemies a new breed of worm that the Elves had not seen before -- smaller than the fire-drakes but faster, and every bit as terrible in every other way. These were the cold-drakes, specially bred for the assault on Gondolin. Once they came to the wide waters, they simply climbed in and swam across to the other side. They could do this because they had no inner flame, else it would have been quenched and the drakes then perish in those deep waters, and their armor of scale protected them as they swam from any Elvish assault. Once across, they wreaked havoc among the Elves guarding the foot of Amon Gwareth. Behind the cold-drakes came many trolls and other such creatures with the things necessary and already prepared to bridge the wide moat -- and thus was the greatest hope of the city defenders foiled. (66)

With its outer defenses broken and its major water barriers breached, the host of Angband pressed themselves as close as they could to the foot of Amon Gwaerth. They set the bulk of their forces at the North-gate of Gondolin, for that was the weakest point in the city walls, and it was there that they would begin their dreadful assault. The next strongest force was set at the West-gate, as it was the closest to the easiest route back over the mountains to Angband, and would prove its use once the city had been taken. Forces were also set at the West and South, but these were not to assault the gates. Rather, they were there to complete the encirclement of the city, and to make sure that none of the Elves escaped.

The armies of Angband failed in their first attempt to take the city. The dragons could not ascend the steep and slippery slopes of Amon Gwareth, hampered both by the smooth rock and its ever-flowing sheets of water. Neither could they withstand the torrents of water called down upon them by the Elves high above. Many contests between the fire-drakes and their spell-raised liquid foes raged, and great plumes of hissing steam soon surrounded the North-gate and the walls on either side. Little did this do to shield the forces of Angband from the unerring eyes of Duilin's archers and the war machines of Egalmoth in that quarter. The archers of the Host of the Eagle could hit at a glance a mark seven times as far as the best bowmen among Men, and the warriors of the Heavenly Harch were masters in the use of all heavy machines of battle. Such a field of fire did they pour down upon the hapless Orcs, trolls, drakes and other such creatures that the host of Angband was forced to withdraw beyond their range for a space, and reorder themselves for a fresh assault.

Yet the Dark Lord had foreseen the fierce defense of the North-gate, and was well-prepared to deal with the valor of Elves at bay. Giant siege-engines had been carried over the hills and down upon the plain with much effort. Even as the first assault was raging they were being raised, and once the armies of Angband had regrouped the assault was renewed. Many stood as high as the hill itself. Some had huge rams, while some had twisted arms that lobbed all manner of missiles at the city. Others had massive trebuchets, and giant crossbolts that could take out a score of Elves with a single shot. There were also many smaller machines ranged about the walls, that while lacking the sheer power of the larger machines made up for themselves by the massive volleys of stone, liquid fire, molten metals, and other missiles they pitched upon the walls or into the city beyond. The defenders of the North-gate fought valiantly, doing great harm to their assailants, breaking many of these engines with darts and boulders and broken stone, but always were there more to take their place. In the meantime, the lesser creatures of the Dark Lord would labor to remove the fallen debris and broken machines, then piled it around and upon the slopes of the hills. This effort continued non-stop though many were slain in their tracks, and thus slowly a slope was made up which the great drakes could climb.

Such was the fury and strength of the second assault on the North-gate by the forces of Angband that at last its giant steel doors were broken and torn from their hinges, and a host of Orcs poured into the breach. They cruelly slew all before them with their bent blades, or spitted them upon their broad-bladed spears. Then Galdor, whose survivors were aiding in the defense of the North-gate, cried aloud to his warriors. "To me!" he cried, "all who would stand and fight! To me! Let the light of your swords drive away this evil night!" Then all those who were falling back before the Orcs rallied to his call, and at that moment Duilin and Egalmoth's warriors unleashed such a torrent of fire from the walls that one could have climbed from the plain to the top of the city walls upon their missiles without missing a step. The arrows of the archers of the Eagle poured down as the hard rains of autumn, while Egalmoth's bolts added a heavy hail to that dreadful storm. The first wave of Orcs was struck down where it stood, and leaping into the breach Galdor stood foremost before the warriors of the White Tree and their companions, as they recklessly charged their foes. They struck through the lines of the assault like a wedge that is driven through soft wood, then passed through the North-gate and came down the hill, doing battle with all who would stand against them. Many of the creatures of Angband fell dead in their wake, and they did much hurt to their foes; but it was a hopeless charge, for they were too few to win their way clear of the armies of Angband. The way back to the city was closed behind them even as they fought; then they were surrounded, and put to death by the great drakes. Neither Galdor nor any of those Elves who went with him escaped -- yet it is said that for each one of Galdor's warriors that died on the plain, at least a score of their foes fell with them.

By this time, however, the assault on the North-gate had been renewed a third time, and that contest was evil indeed. The high-captain of Angband sent fresh forces against the battle-weary Elves, and redirected some of his siege engines upon the battered walls and broken towers of the North-gate. There Duilin, Lord of the Eagle, was torn asunder by a bolt from one of the siege towers. What was left of his body was carried far from the walls by the force of the impact. Many of his warriors shared in his fate, and soon enough the war engines of Egalmoth were silenced. There were now cries of terror and despair from the defenders, for more of the lesser engines of the Enemy had joined in the assault. Great quantities of liquid fire and burning missiles were being flung at and over the walls, and already the northern third of the city was on fire. The dead of Angband were piled in heaps in the wake of their assault, but many bodies of Elves could also be found trampled under the feet of their foes. This time, the press of the Enemy's forces was too great to bear, so against their will the surviving Elves were forced to give way, retreating from the broken North-gate down the burning lanes of the city.

It was but an hour after the hosts of Angband had won the North-gate. They now held a large portion of the city and its walls -- from the Square of the Folkwell in the northwest to the northern entrance of the Great Market in the east, and were even now pressing the forces of the Elves back along the Alley of Roses southward towards the King's Square. They could not approach the square directly, for the Tower of Snow had collapsed under the volleys from the siege engines and fallen into the street, and its broken stones now blocked the main approach. Also, their way was slowed by many pockets of resistance behind their lines, but these had been sealed off and were being dealt with as swiftly as sheer numbers against elven-valor would permit. The Lord of Balrogs himself would enter the city once the dragons had gained their way up the slopes, and then the final push would begin.

Orthrod the Orc-lord, high-captain of the Orc-hosts, surveyed the situation from the Square of the Folkwell. This was the place he had chosen from which to plan his next move. It was close enough to the line of battle to hear the clash of steel and shouts of close contests bitterly fought, yet far enough away to beat a hasty retreat if need be. He turned to the heavily muscled Orc-warrior standing before him and spoke. "What is this, Orcobal? You say we need more to slay these tarks? What's the matter with you? Have you grown weak in your old age?"

The face of the Orc-warrior grew livid with rage as he spat in Orthrod's face. "Don't talk to me like that, you sniveling swine! I have slain more whiteskins than you and all your maggots put together, so shut up and listen to me! That little number they pulled at the gate did more hurt than we knew at the time, plus the numbers we've lost since. We can't take the city with what we have right now! They'll stop us before we can get to the tall tower, mark my word!"

The Orc-lord wiped the spittle off of his face. "No need to get excited," he said. "He'll get the worms up here soon enough, and then we'll see how they handle that."

"Well, I wish they'd hurry up," muttered Orcobal. "I'm losing boys left and right, and we may all be dead before they get here."

"Don't worry," said Orthrod. "I'm fixing to order everyone to halt and hold what they've got until he sends us some reinforcements."

But even as they were speaking, they heard a sweet song lifted on the airs -- a song that made them stop and look about in wonder. It was an Elvish battle-song, coming from beyond the conflict before them. The Orcs who strove there halted, as did their foes, and both stared at that which they now beheld -- the Elves in amazement, and the Orcs in dread. Marching up behind the ranks of the beleaguered Elves were two fresh Elf-hosts, clad in silver and white. Two captains rode at their head: one a tall and noble Elf-lord with a spiked helm, and the other a fearless and strong Man with a winged helm. Some of the silver-clad Elven-warriors played silver pipes, but all the rest were singing the battle-song. They halted just behind their fellows at the line of battle, and at that the music ceased.

"Fight, you fools!" cried Orthrod. "Those are fresh tarks! Strike them down before they slay us all!" But at that the Elf-lord shouted a command, and the last thing that Orthrod saw or felt before he died was the battle-axe of the Man cleaving his helm asunder.

Thus began the counterstroke of Ecthelion the Elf-lord, greatest of all the blows that the warriors of Gondolin dealt their foe on that day, and second in valor only to the charge of Galdor and the folk of the White Tree. Before the Orc-hosts could gather themselves the swords of the Fountain and Wing flashed in their midst -- and only a handfull escaped to tell the tale of the wrath of the High-elves in their dens in the North. Foremost in that assault was Ecthelion, leader of the combined Elf-hosts, and it is said that in that charge he slew more Orcs single-handed than any other Elf-warrior before or since in all the battles between his people and that foul race. Even to this day his name is a terror among them, and the stoutest of their folk will quail in terror at the mere mention of the blade of Ecthelion: Orcrist, the Orc-slayer, whose fearsome reputation was earned on that day. With the Host of the Fountain marched the Company of the Wing in that terrible assault, and by the Elf-lord's side fought Tuor son of Huor, his second among their combined hosts.

The brightness of Orcrist in the hand of Ecthelion was as a tongue of blue flame in the deep of night, and the axe of Tuor sang and flashed in the air as the rush of an eagle in flight diving swiftly upon its prey. The axe of Tuor smote Orthrod the Orc-lord asunder in a great blow, and the blade of Ecthelion liberated the head of Orcobal from its shoulders with but a single stroke. None could stand before the might and wrath of Ecthelion the Elf-lord and Tuor the Man; and behind them came rank upon rank of Elven-steel, the blue blades of both Fountain and Wing gleaming cold and pale in their hands. Together Elf-lord and Man led their warriors in cleaving a path of destruction through their foes, and soon the Orcs fled in terror before them. They fought with such might that before long they had won their way back to the broken North-gate. There the Orcs were forced to stand their ground, for the high-captain of Angband would not let them flee the Hill of Guard, and all who tried were slain.

Taking advantage of a brief lull in the fighting, Ecthelion and Tuor together beheld the carnage that had been wrought by the fight for the North-gate. The bodies of both Elf and Orc littered the ways about the fallen towers and splintered beams. There were so many scattered and draped across the broken stones that one might walk from the far end of the square before the gate all the way to the edge of the hill upon them without touching the ground. Small, isolated bands of both the Arch and Eagle still fought hither and yon in the streets and upon the walls, but no Elf had been alive within the North-gate until the coming of the two and their warriors. As for those who had commanded there, Duilin had been dead for many hours, and there was no sign or token of Egalmoth among the fallen. Even now the Orcs were turning to give battle, since retreat was denied them, and those upon the walls were taking the fallen among the Elves and casting them down, making them join their comrades in death upon the paving stones. Then Ecthelion was aroused to fury and cried to his warriors, "Slay them all! Smite them down where they stand! Let none escape your swords!"

Hearing this, the Elves of his hosts recklessly charged the remains of the Orc-host before them. By that charge a portion of the surviving defenders was saved: Elves of the Eagle and Arch, who afterward lived to tell of the battle for the North-gate. Tuor son of Huor and the Company of the Wing followed the White Tree into the breach, and shortly thereafter were fighting within the remains of the North-gate itself as they sought to drive the remaining Orcs back down the slopes.

But even as they strove there came a dreadful cry that rent the air. The Orcs who had fought or tried to flee moments before were now frozen in their tracks, looking wildly about as they sought some means of flight from the swords of the Elves before and the unspeakable horror behind. The ground shook beneath Elf and Orc as a great clawed foot latched onto the summit's edge. Another followed it, and with that the head of a massive fire-drake was thrust into the broken gate. Smoke wafted from its nostrils as it cast its evil eyes down upon the fighters below, and then it let loose its blast upon the rubble. A tremendous gout of flame enveloped the helpless combatants, and both Elf and Orc alike withered instantly into ash. The dragon then swung its head back and forth as it sprayed the ruin of the North-gate. Those who fortunate enough to escape the first blast quickly dove for what cover they could or fled madly for their lives.

"Tuor!" cried Ecthelion from the broken base of one of the gate-towers, not far from where the dragon stood. He could see no sign of the Man amid the charred bodies covering the ground before him, and heard no answer to his cry. He was about to call forth again when the dragon let forth another cry, then began to heave the rest of its massive form upon the summit of Amon Gwareth.

From among the fallen near the gate arose a figure in scorched armor and winged helm, shielded from the dragon's blast by a small pile of broken stone. His fair skin had been seared and his hair singed by the dragon-fire, but he was still alive and whole. He lifted his axe and gave a great shout, then ran with all speed under the head of the dragon before him. The great drake had lifted his head in its cry, and held it up as it strove to gain the summit, so that its neck was exposed to any with the courage to strike. The axe of Tuor sang through the air, and with one mighty stroke the gullet of the dragon was riven from ear to ear. The black blood burst forth in torrents, and its splatterings burned pock-marks into the elven-armor of the Man, but by that time he had already turned and was running for his life around the base of the broken tower to where Ecthelion was hid. Sheaf upon sheaf of arrows from the Orcs above sought to pin him down but he escaped, for what he did not avoid bounced harmlessly off of his elven-mail. He gained the shelter of the stones beside Ecthelion, and then Tuor looked back upon his handiwork.

The dragon was screaming in agony as the blood continued to gush from its riven throat. It began to shudder and flail about, and with that it lost its grip upon the rocks. With a terrible cry it fell back, and then tumbled down the slopes in a great crash, wreaking havoc among the army of Angband in its wake. The body of the fallen dragon crushed many an Orc and other foul creature as it fell from the summit of the hill, and several of the siege engines at that point collapsed before the corpse came to rest, their supports torn out from under them.

By this time those among the Elf-host who still lived had rallied about Tuor and Ecthelion. Most of the Orc-archers on the wall had by now been silenced, and the Man wasted no time in speaking his mind. "We must fall back," he said quickly. "We cannot defend this place. We must fall back where the stonework still holds, and the drakes cannot smite us down so easily."

"Then more are coming?" said one of the Elf-warriors.

"Yes," said Tuor, "there are more, and they are coming. I got a brief look down the side as I struck. There are more drakes on their way, and the slopes are now much broken from the assault. It is still a difficult climb, but one that they can venture now that the slopes are more to their liking."

Ecthelion nodded in agreement, then called aloud so that all could hear him. "Gather yourselves and fall back! We must fall back to a place of safety!" But even as he spoke the ground shook beneath their feet again. The short snouts of two cold-drakes were raised over the edge of the hill, with the dim glint of many Orc-spears between.

Tuor remembered little of the hour that followed their rapid retreat from the North-gate, save that it was long and weary. The Orcs had taken heart from the coming of the dragons, with fresh hordes following in their wake. They launched a new assault on the beleaguered hosts of Ecthelion and Tuor, which had suffered greatly from the blast of the fire-drake and could now no longer hold their own. The number of survivors they had managed to rescue from the north of the city was small compared to their own heavy losses, and their new enemes had drakes with them. Ecthelion had no chioce but to order his survivors to retreat before their foes. Even that course of action was made difficult by the fallen Tower of Snow, whose rubble blocked the main route back into the city. The survivors had no choice but to turn aside and make their way back to the Square of the Folkwell -- the place from where they had first started.

Once again the army of Angband held the northern third of the city, and was extending its grasp southward towards the Elves. Now and again small parties of Orcs would break through the battle lines but would not stop to fight, chosing instead to penetrate into the city as far as they might, wreaking whatever havoc and damage they could before they were stopped. Above them, the Enemy had extended its control of the walls on both sides, more so on the northeastern ramparts, and had widened the breach in the North-gate to better permit the passage of the dragons. These for the most part were cold-drakes, for they had less trouble gaining the summit than did the heavier fire-drakes. Even with their arrival, though, the army of Angband had no easy battle. The Elves were putting up stiff resistance on all fronts, and many of the cold-drakes were slain in the assault. Nevertheless those creatures helped secure the foothold that the forces of Angband had fought so hard to win. This gave the high-captain of Angband time to bring up the fire-drakes, and thus decide the conflict once and for all.

The weakened forces of Ecthelion and Tuor were not given time to rest in the Square of the Folkwell. The last of their dwindling hosts had just entered the square when a horde of Orcs attacked through the Arch of Ingwe, driving a small band of Elves before them. These were the last survivors of the Host of the Mole, those that had escaped the assault on the hills and the loss of their lord. Once again the warriors of Fountain and Wing gave battle, but they were weary, and the fighting was bitter and desperate under the splintered boughs and burning trees, and about the well in the center of the square. Still, the Elves might have prevailed and rescued the folk of the Mole had not a cold-drake arrived on the scene, followed by a fresh pack of Orcs. It was then that the survivors of the Mole gathered themselves and rushed the dragon, and behind their swords the hosts of Ecthelion and Tuor made good their escape. Not one of the Mole escaped death in the Square of the Folkwell, but neither did the cold-drake and his followers, to further harry the retreating Elves.

Ecthelion and Tuor led their surviving warriors down the Road of Arches, then behind the stout walls and defenses of the King's Square -- as yet unassailed by any foe. They were weary and worn, with many among them with wounds or faint from their labors. Their numbers had dwindled considerably, for only a tithe returned of those that had marched forth to the aid of the Elves fighting at the North-gate. No rest was there to be for the weary, though; for even as they entered the square from the northwest, there was a great commotion eastward across the square. Through the gate on that side ran Glorfindel and a small band of warriors from the Golden Flower, with a fire-drake and many Orcs hot on their heels. North, west, and east the Elves turned and gave battle, fighting for their lives within the confines of the King's Square -- but none were certain in whose favor the fortunes of war would side next.

It was not until later that Tuor learned what had happened to Glorfindel. The Host of the Golden Flower, which he led, had also been held in reserve until the time of greatest need. Once the Enemy's plan of attack had become clear, then Turgon had sent it northeast along the edge of the Great Market towards the city walls. In this position, Glorfindel would be able to both assist the defenders of the East-gate and also head off those forces of the Enemy coming down from the fallen North-gate. The plan might have worked, too, had not the drakes come up the hill when they did. Thus the Host of the Golden Flower found itself ambushed by a strong force of Orcs, with cold-drakes to aid them. They were driven back into the ruin of the Great Market, which by now was aflame from the siege engines pounding the East-gate into ruin. There they stood and gave battle as best they could, and many were the fiercely fought contests amid the shattered shops and ruined stalls that once stood there.

The Elves were barely holding their own when the East-gate fell. Its doors were blown from their hinges by a great fire-drake that then rampaged westward into the city, torching everything in its path and slamming hard into Glorfindel's right flank. With the dragon came fresh companies of Orcs. Glorfindel's warriors were thus caught between hammer and anvil, and under that fell assault the Host of the Golden Flower were cut to pieces. What tattered remnants remained turned and fled towards the stout defenses of the King's Square as fast as they could. They would not have made it, though, had not several companies of the Host of the Harp come to their aid. They had been sent eastward by Penlegod to do what they could in the defense of the East-gate, but they had not reached it by the time it fell. Nevertheless, with grim determination they set themselves between the Golden Flower and its foes, thus buying them the time they needed for their escape. Not a one of the folk of the Harp left that field of battle, but the advance of the fire-drake was slowed long enough for Glorfindel to bring his survivors together, and thus make the eastern gate of the King's Square with those few warriors who remained of his host.

It was one thing to fly before the flaming breath of the great worms with plenty of open space about. It was quite another to face one pinned within the confines of the King's Square. The Elves were already hard pressed dealing with the legions of Orcs that beset them, let alone a fire-drake in its full might. They denied the passage of the Road of Arches to Ecthelion's pursuers, and successfully sealed all other avenues of entry against further attackers. That left the the fire-drake and those Orcs that had managed to follow it within the defenses of the square.

The dragon's first fiery blast incinerated everyone and everything between the palace and the royal apartments, giving no thought as to whether Elf or Orc stood before it. A rain of elven-arrows fell upon it from the buildings round about, but they did little more than bounce harmlessly off of its thick coat of scale. Its second blast cleared the northern part of the square of all living things before the entrance to the Alley of Roses. The Elves would have been in desperate peril at that point had the Orcs learned of this brief breach in the square's defenses, but they did not, and thus missed their first and best opportunity to win that particular prize. Next, the dragon moved swiftly southwest across the square, heading for the wounded gathered at the Place of the Fountain, and its third blast sent all of them to Mandos post-haste. Not a single Elf was left alive in the dragon's wake, and the tall and splended forms of Glingall and Belthil, the images of the Two Trees that Turgon himself had wrought with his own hand, perished in the flames of the beast.

At that Ecthelion let out a great cry of wrath. Angered at the sight of the dragon defiling the Trees, he gathered himself, then charged the fell beast straightway. He avoided the gaping jaws and tongues of flame as he ran past the turning head, then ducked and rolled under the swift lash of the tail. He brought Orcrist to bear, and with another cry plunged it full into the beast just below the place where scale gave way to wrinkled skin. The beast screamed in agony when it felt the bite of the Elf-lord's blade, and rolling tried to crush his tormenter under him, but Ecthelion had anticipated its move. He leapt over the rolling bulk of the beast to its other side, now fully exposed to his blade, and carved a long and deep wound in the dragon's belly. It began to writhe and shudder, for it knew this wound was mortal, and its black blood poured forth in torrents, scorching the stones underneath. The Elf-lord had already turned and was fleeing for safety as fast as he could, but he was not faster than a dying dragon, and was caught by the flailing tail of the doomed beast. Ecthelion was smitten from his feet and slammed hard against the wall of the King's Tower, where he fell and lay still. As for the dragon, it continued to convulse and thrash about as it died, rolling north across the square, burning and crushing everything in its path, until it wound up pressed hard against the northern gate, where it stopped and moved no more.

But even as the dragon died there arose a shout from the south of the square. Through its gate marched Egalmoth the Elf-lord, unlooked-for and long taken for dead, with many warriors of the Arch and Eagle behind him. He had given way before his foes when the North-gate fell, retreating southwest under the protection of the city walls and thus escaping the fate of Duilin. In the time that followed he gathered to him all the isolated bands of warriors that he could. He had been unable to come to the aid of Ecthelion and Tuor before the dragons were brought to bear; therefore, he had made his way southward to the Hall of Warriors with all who would come with him. There he was joined by forces from the Harp sent to his aid by Penlegod, and rallied his warriors before heading north again, seeking Ecthelion and Tuor. Once again, he was thwarted by sheer press of foes from making for the King's Way, so instead he circled about and came into the King's Square from the south -- the only entrance, as it turned out, still open to the forces of the Elves. His arrival heartened Ecthelion, Tuor, Glorfindel, and the rest of the elven-warriors in the square, and with Egalmoth's aid they soon had cleared of all foes.

Chapter 15 - The Beginning of the End

It was now but a space before midnight, and the King's Square was littered with the dead and dying. The air was filled with a smoky haze, and the stench of death was everywhere. The pall from the fires in the northern half of the city bathed the marble stones in a dull red glow, and great clouds of smoke blanketed the sky. A brief lull had occurred in the fighting as the Enemy regrouped itself for a fresh assault on the square's defenses. The Elves took the opportunity to reorder their forces and clear the field of battle. Those fallen Elves who still lived were carried to the remains of the Place of the Fountain, where their wounds could be tended before they were borne from the fray through the heavily defended southern gate. Nothing was said about what had just happened there, nor was there any need. There was nothing left but ash, slag, and scortched stones, and the press of the moment dictated otherwise. As for the fallen among their foes, those still living were put to death on the spot. Their bodies and those of their slain comrades were used to fill the gaps torn in the barricades before the gates. There was not time to seek for loose stones or timber to do the job properly.

Tuor knelt beside Ecthelion, who had been laid near the rim of the basin around the pool of the fountain, and bathed his fevered brow with a damp cloth. The pallid-faced Elf was propped up against the stones of the rim breathing heavily, his twisted shield lying to one side, his broken shield arm hanging uselessly beside him. It had been crudely dressed, but the blood-soaked bandages could not hide the unnatural bend and swelling that told of broken flesh and crushed bone. Tight wrappings about his side held in place three ribs broken by the dragon's tail. Ecthelion's right hand still grasped Orcrist, but it seemed clear there would be no more fighting for the Elf-lord that day.

Ecthelion looked up as Tuor reached to wet the cloth once again in the waters of the basin. "Leave me," he said. "Let me be. Your place is leading the defense of the square. Return there."

"Egalmoth and Glorfindel are seeing to that," said Tuor. "The Orcs will find it no easier than they did before."

"And if they bring drakes?" said Ecthelion.

"They will not find it so easy, either," said Tuor. "We hold both the eastern and western approaches, and the body of the worm you slew blocks fast any attack from the north. We could not have asked for better."

The wounded Elf-lord shook his head. "Had I been more careful, I would be of better aid to my people now than this -- just another one of the fallen to be borne from the fray."

"Ssshhhh," said Tuor, wiping Ecthelion's brow. "Do not condemn yourself so. Many are the fortunes of battle. One cannot guard against all chances, no matter how valiant." He smiled. "Never have I seen one wield a sword as have you today, Ecthelion. They will be singing your praises long after this night passes. All is not yet lost! Have hope, my friend."

"Then you will have to hope for both of us," said Ecthelion, "for mine fails." He looked about. "How many are left to us?"

"At least a full battalion unharmed," said Tuor, "and that and half again wounded but able to fight. That does not include those of the King's Host, which he holds in reserve unless our plight becomes desperate. They have yet to see battle. See? The Enemy shall not win the square just yet."

"But neither can we win back the city, with numbers so few," whispered Ecthelion. He grimaced and groaned as pain shot through his wounded side. "Gondolin is lost," he said through clenched teeth.

Tuor was about to reply when he was interrupted by cries of alarm coming from the barricades. "The Orcs! The Orcs are upon us again." He stood swiftly, axe in hand.

"Go!" said Ecthelion, although not as pained as before.

Tuor looked down at him and nodded. He then ran to the western barricade, where Egalmoth was already ordering his forces. Glorfindel was doing the same with his defenders across the square. The wounded Elf-lord sat up stiffly, despite the pain in his arm and side, and pulled his sword into his lap. He might be wounded, but he might also wind up in the thick of the fight should things go ill for them.

From his place in the Square of the Folkwell, well back from the lines of battle, Gothmog Lord of Balrogs watched the renewed assault on the King's Square with mounting anger. Already the outnumbered Elves had beaten off the first attempt and were now stoutly resisting the second. He had lost a full one-third of his army so far in the assault upon Gondolin, not to mention many of the drakes. He guessed that the count would go a lot higher before the night was over. The outcome was inevitable, of course. Even so, the Dark Lord did not like costly battles, as it took him a long time for him to rebuild his strength after such contests of might. Still, what must be done would be to win the fight, therefore Gothmog ordered up his remaining reserves in the city to join in the assault. He then spoke to the black-clad figure standing to one side. "That is my last throw, unless I send in my bodyguard now. It will not be until after midnight before I can bring up enough companies for another such assault, should this one also fail." The Balrog gazed keenly at the conflict raging southward, then looked back at his companion. "This had better work, Dark-elf."

Maeglin's face did not betray one hint of fear or any other emotion at the implied threat. His voice remained calm, although his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. "They are down to their last throw as well, if I have judged it correctly. There are not enough of them left to withstand your superior numbers no matter how vailantly they may fight. They must either fall back and surrender the King's Square to us or call out the last of their reserves, and that will be the King's Host. Once that happens, Turgon himself will lead them, and then you will have what you want."

"And if they retreat instead?"

"They will not," said Maeglin. "The city is too dear to him. We must press them until his host comes forth. It is the only way you will ever get the chance to meet the brother of Fingon in battle."

Gothmog gazed levelly at the Elf. "What makes you think he will remain here in the face of danger, while his beloved city crumbles about him?" he snarled. "He fled from me once before when I slew his brother, and he has hid like a vole from me ever since. He is a coward, not a fighter."

"He is not a coward, and he did not flee by choice in the Nirnaeth," said Maeglin. "He fled from you that time because your army was too strong and he had a responsibility to his people, not to mention an open avenue of escape. Today, with his back to the wall and his realm crashing down about him, he will not flee a second time. Death stares him in the face, and he knows it. He has no choice but to turn and fight -- and if possible, take down his kinslayer with him."

But even as the Dark-elf finished speaking, they could hear Elvish shouts above the fray. Within seconds another voice joined them, louder and deeper than the rest, calling to his fellows with tones of authority and dignity. The surging Orcs began to slow, and the ones in front began to turn in fear and fall back. "Turgon is come!" came the cry from Elf and Orc alike. "The King of Gondolin comes forth to meet his foes!"

"Turgon is come, even as I said he would," said Maeglin in a quiet tone, looking straight at the Balrog.

At once the fell creature barked orders to his troll-guard. They made ready to join the fray, and the Balrog turned back to Maeglin. "You have kept your word, Dark-elf," he said with satisfaction. "Turgon is now delivered into my hand. You and your company are now free to go and do as you will."

Maeglin bowed, but his eyes never left the Balrog. "My lord is generous," he said.

"Just be sure you come back within my lines and return to my camp with all possible haste," said Gothmog. "My servants may be blinded by the lust for battle, and your people will surely stop at nothing to slay you once they discover what you have done."

"As you say, my lord," said Maeglin. He stood, watching as the Balrog moved away to join his troll-guard, then walked to the far corner of the square. There was his personal bodyguard, warriors of the Mole one and all, who had been standing there quietly all the while. They spoke not, but stood as if frozen, and seemed to take no notice of the battle raging not far away. Their eyes were darkened and glazed, and a fell light now gleamed within. Small wonder that they had an evil look about them, for these were the very same Elves that had been with Maeglin on his fateful trip to the mines of Anghabar, and had thus fallen under the power of the Dark Lord. Maeglin looked at them, then spoke a command. Expressionless, they fell into rank and file behind their lord. Together, they hastened from the Square of the Folkwell through its west-gate. Turning, they headed south, and soon melted into the fray -- steathily making their way towards the Way of Running Waters, and to the prize that Maeglin had long sought.

The battle for the King's Square was the most stubborn and valiant in all the songs ever sang by the Elves throughout all the ages of Midde-earth. Once before the Orcs had tried to take the square and failed, and the bodies of those who now tried were piling in ever-growing heaps upon the bloody stones. Around and above them, the Elven-warriors of Gondolin struck them down with their blades, and showered them unmercifully with many swift shafts. The bright blue gleam of their blades matched the fire in their elven-eyes as they slew all who sought to strive with them. Their arrows sang and sped as the driving wind before a mighty gale, and struck down many of those who did not fall before the barricades. The rising tide of their foes was thus slowed, but was not stayed. Outnumbered five to one, then six, then seven, and at the last ten to one, assailed north and east and west by unceasing waves of overwhelming assault, still the Elven-warriors of Gondolin fought on; yet the tide of battle was turning in favor of the Enemy. Inch by inch, then foot by foot, the Elves were slowly forced to give way before the hordes of Angband, who were even now nigh to breaching the barricades in the north and west.

Then a shout arose from the wounded in the Place of the Fountain, and its cry was lifted up by every warrior of Gondolin still breathing in the square. "Turgon is come! The son of Fingolfin goes forth to war!" And as those who could cast their eyes toward the palace door, there issued forth the King's Host down the great staircase to aide the beleaguered defenders at the gates -- the last reserve of Gondolin's might. Turgon himself, King of Gondolin, stood upon the topmost terrace of the stairs as his warriors rushed by, and he held his sword aloft as he cried in a mighty voice, "Great is the victory of the Noldor!" At the sound of those words the Orcs quailed and began to fall back; for the memory of the last stand of Fingolfin before the might of Morgoth was not forgotten by the servants of Angband, and they feared the memory of the wrath of the father of Turgon. The tide of battle had turned once more -- but the joy of the Elves was to be short-lived.

For even as Turgon stood on the stairs of the King's Palace rallying his warriors, there came a dreadful cry from the flames to the north that shook the air. It pained the ears of all who heard it, and caused all strong hearts to quail in fear. That sound drove the Orcs into a frenzy of panic, slashing and stabbing any about them without heed for friend or foe, and thus the Elves were hard-pressed to hold their ground. A dark form arose behind the lines of the Enemy, alighting into the smoky airs on vast sable pinions whose outstretched wings seemed to swallow the sky behind. It had a mane of dark flame about its hideous head, and a great heat radiated from its massive body, igniting and burning all shafts that were cast at it before they could find their mark. It was clad in sable armor and bore a burnished black helm, which shone blood-red in the light of the flames from the city below. In one hand it held a thong of fire, but the other wielded a mighty black mace studded with cruel spikes. "Ai! Ai! A Balrog!" cried some of the Elves. "The troll-guard of Gothmog is upon us, and their demon lord as well!" For beneath its shadow was a legion of tall trolls clad in armor, and with a great shout they suddenly drove into the ranks of the Elves. They burst through the northern defenses of the King's Square, dealing sudden and terrible death to all who fell beneath their axes. They carved a blood-paved road towards the tall form of the Elven-king, but were stopped at the foot of the stairs by warriors of his own host. They died by the score to hold that line, but many trolls fell with them, and thus was the advance of Gothmog's bodyguard checked. The King's Host held, and the rest of the Elves rallied to them, for their fear was stayed by the mighty voice that now rang forth from the top of the stairs in challenge to the menace both above and below.

"Gothmog!" cried Turgon to the dark form hovering above the square, and he held aloft his sword Glamdring, tip pointed towards his foe. "Here am I, flame of Udun! I am the one thy Master seeks! Wouldst thou grant me the pleasure of combat with thee, or dost thou trust to the flagging feet of thy troll-guard? Behold! They fall before the warriors of my house! Now come! I would cross swords with the craven coward who lacked the strength to slay my brother alone!"

The misshapen head of the fell creature to whom Turgon spoke turned to face the Elven-king below him. Turgon stood at the ready, sword in hand and shield raised, daring the Balrog to give battle. It threw back its head and laughed a fell laugh, then with a sudden swiftness turned and swooped down, rushing with all speed towards the one who would dare to give battle to the Dark Lord's mightiest vassal.

The sudden onslaught of Gothmog and his bodyguard did great hurt to the Elves manning the defenses, and desperate conflicts raged across all of the square. Glorfindel, his warriors, and many of the King's Host were penned before the royal quarters, fighting the troll-guard of Gothmog with the fierceness of trapped wolves. Directly across the square and north of the tower, Egalmoth and the rest barely held their own before the gate to the Road of Arches. Tuor and what remained of the Company of the Wing stood their ground about the Place of the Fountain, forming a wall of steel about that place and the approach to the southern gate. Behind the swords of his warriors, the wounded were quickly being evacuated. Tuor was taking no chances. He knew that the King's Square was lost, even if he and the others somehow managed to survive this assault, and there might be no time later for such action.

Thus it was that Tuor was not far from the king when the Lord of Balrogs descended upon the palace to assault Turgon. He too had quailed at the cry of the Balrog, for he had never heard such a cry before, and only knew of such creatures from the elven-lore taught to him by Penlegod in better days. Now one was before him in all its hellish might, no less than the same that had struck down Fingon the High King on the field of the Nirnaeth. This time, however, it sought to assail Turgon, his lord and kinsman. There was no other warrior still standing that was free to come to the aid of the Elven-king, so fierce did the battle rage in the courts of the square. Despite his own fear and the foes with whom he strove, Tuor knew that he could not let Turgon stand alone. None of the lesser creatures of Morgoth could withstand the axe of Tuor in that hour, as he clove his way through his enemies and slashed a clear path to the great staircase of the palace.

He arrived not a moment too soon. Turgon and Gothmog strove together up and down the long steps and across the wide terraces of the great staircase, asking no quarter and giving none. The dark and terrible form of the Balrog towered over the fair and radiant form of the Elven-king as they fought together, now feinting, now charging, weapons clashing, each pressing for the advantage in their conflict. Turgon was quicker and smaller than his opponent and danced about his enemy, seeking some opening or unexpected turn to assault, and his foe already showed several places where Glamdring had bit. Yet Gothmog was strong and tireless, and more than once Turgon had almost been felled by a glancing blow from his heavy mace, smashing the stones about him into rubble. Because of this, it was now becoming treacherous upon the ways of the great staircase, where many of the broken stones lay loose. Even as the Balrog bore down with all his might for yet another thrust, Turgon's footing failed him on the loose stones, and he fell before the assault of Gothmog. With both shield and sword he managed to parry the swift descent of the Balrog's mace -- leaving nothing to stop the whip of flame in the creature's other hand.

Tuor was almost too late. By now he had fought his way to the foot of the stair, but there was no time left. He was not yet close enough to strike, and already the Balrog was drawing back the whip of flame. He gave out a great cry, catching the creature's attention, then raised back his axe with one hand and gave a mighty throw. The blade of Dramborleg whistled as it spun through the air towards the Balrog. In after days, those few who survived that day would tell that they saw a spinning circle of silver fire fly up from the bottom of the great staircase towards the dark form that pressed over the fallen Elven-king. Gothmog shrieked in agony as the axe of Tuor clove his hand free of its arm, and the whip of fire fell quenched to the stones. Yet even as the creature lifted the stump of its shorn arm into the air, a chance shot from one of the siege engines outside the city walls found its way to the heart of the square. A great bolt struck the walls of the palace above the great staircase, and all three of them - Elf, Man, and Balrog - were lost in a haze of smoke and crash of rubble.

When Tuor finally manged to lift himself from under a pile of fallen rubble, he found that the battle for the square had moved away from them. The Elves were slowly driving their foes northward, back beyond the walls of the great square. It was taking the valor of every warrior still able to fight to manage that counter-stroke, so there were none free to come to his aid. He clawed his way free of the broken stones and examined himself. By the grace of the Valar he was still whole, save for an aching head and a number of bruises and cuts. He staggered to his feet, then slowly made his way back to where Turgon had fallen. The Elven-king had been less fortunate. He was whole and still breathed, but moved not, and his eyes were closed. He had been struck in the head by a piece of stone, and his helm was nowhere to be seen. Only a bruised place and a gash running along the right side of his brow marked where once the crown of the Hidden Realm has rested. Tuor was about to try and rouse him when he heard a great groan from behind, followed by the sound of many stones falling aside. He had forgotten about the Balrog.

Gothmog lurched up from the rubble, still holding his mace, and a fell red light was now kindled in his eyes. One of his great wings had been torn and shredded beyond use by the falling stones. The pieces hung upon their pinions like the last remnants of a tattered flag torn apart by a fierce breeze. The creature was angry and in great pain, ready to lash out at anyone and anything in its path. Tuor instinctively reached to his back for his axe, but it was not there -- nor was it anywhere to be seen amid the rubble. He now stood alone before a foe too great for any mortal Man to contest, and he had no weapon with which to defend himself save his knife. He drew it anyway, and with that small sliver of Elven-steel in his hand assumed a fighter's crouch, and made ready to do battle with the Balrog. (67)

With a dreadful shriek Gothmog swung his mace at Tuor with all his might. Tuor tucked and rolled, and a great hole was rent in the stones behind him. He barely had time to dodge again before the mace fell a second time. He darted out from under its spiked head even as it fell a third time. This blow on the stones was so close that the force of the impact lifted the Man from his feet. His knife flew out of his hand as he stumbled across the unmoving form of Turgon. But even as Tuor fell to his knees beside the fallen Elven-king, there came a hoarse cry of challenge from nearby. With gritted teeth and sword in hand, pallid-faced and unfit for battle, yet moving as fast as his wounds would permit, Ecthelion was already charging towards his foe. His shield-arm still hung uselessly by his side, but Orcrist had turned to blue flame in his sword hand. Through sheer strength of will he checked the mace of Gothmog from falling a fourth and fatal time, then planted himself between the Balrog and the two fallen warriors. "Craven coward!" he grimaced. "Come, foul offspring of Morgoth! I await you." And with that he darted to one side, blade flashing in his hand as he drove for the creature's flank. The stroke was checked instantly by the mace, but Gothmog's eyes blazed anew. The Balrog turned, and without a second glance back followed Ecthelion down the broken staircase, storming down the broken stones as he sought to slay his newest foe.

There was no doubt as to what would be the outcome of their battle. Even wounded as he was and unable to fly, the Lord of Balrogs was still more than a match for the injured Elf-lord. Their weapons clashed, spiked-mace against elven-steel, as the Balrog drove Ecthelion steadily back towards the Place of the Fountain. Soon Ecthelion ran out of room and had to stand his ground. Their weapons clashed for a few more moments, and then with a sudden blow Orcrist was struck from the Elf-lord's hand. The sword clattered to the paving stones before the rim of the basin. Ecthelion looked up at the massive form of the Balrog, which now stood between him and the fountain. There was no way he could stop its spiked mace this time, as Gothmog towered over him, preparing to deliver the final blow.

"Over here, you big ugly brute!" cried Tuor from the foot of the great staircase. "Would you care to try again, now that I have a blade in hand?"

The Lord of Balrogs looked in the directon of the cry. It saw the son of Huor standing on a broken pile of rubble not far from him, shield raised and blade in hand. It was not, however, his axe Dramborleg that he wielded, for it was still lost in the rubble behind him. In its place he held a sword -- not just any sword, but Glamdring the Foehammer, sword of Turgon and mightiest blade that was or ever shall be wrought by the Elves. Its edges shone as a white flame in that darkened square, as Tuor held it aloft and prepared to charge his foe. (68)

But it was not Tuor's fate to slay Gothmog, nor was it yet time for Glamdring to strike down such a foe as a Balrog. Even as Tuor made his challenge Ecthelion gathered himself, then with a mighty shout he lowered his head and leapt at his foe. The long, sharp spike of his helm smote the Balrog in the heart. Even as Gothmog felt his own death-blow, the Elf-lord wrapped his uninjured arm around the creature and bore him backwards into the basin of the fountain. The creature fell full upon the tall fountain, breaking its stones and quenching its spray. The waters churned and boiled and its plume collapsed as the pair fell into the basin. The rim of the basin shattered, for the waters within were moved with such force that they could not be contained, and spewed forth steaming hot in large waves across the square. The death-cry of the high-captain of Angband as he perished in the waters of the fountain threw his followers into dismay, but it heartened the hearts of the Elves, and it was not long before once again they had cleared the King's Square of all foes.

Once the tide of battle had turned and its direction made clear, then those warriors who could still move and no longer had foes to fight came to the aid of their fallen comrades. The waters of the broken fountain spumed across the southern third of the square, bathing the bodies of the fallen and washing the blood from the broken stones. There was no hope for Ecthelion the valiant, whose lifeless body lay upon that of his foe within the depths of the shattered basin, his neck broken in his fall. As for Turgon, they found Tuor helping him to his feet in the ruin of the great staircase -- crownless and shaken, but still living. The head-blow from the falling stone had done him more harm than all the efforts of Gothmog, and even now he leaned on the Man for support. Tuor guided the Elven-king down the last of the broken stairs even as Egalmoth approached them.

"My lord," said Egalmoth, "the troll-guard of Gothmog has been driven back, and the Orcs have fled with them, both leaving many dead behind. We have gained a brief respite to use as we may, but I fear it will not last long. The Enemy is shaken, but not broken, and we now lack the strength to hold back another such assault."

"I agree, my lord," said Tuor. "The next assault will be the final one."

"Final?" muttered Turgon, holding his throbbing brow.

"Final, my lord," said Egalmoth. He dabbed a piece of cloth in a nearby puddle, then offered the damp cloth to Turgon. The Elf-king used it to clean his wounded brow even as the Elf-lord continued. "Even with your host fighitng with our own, our losses were too great. We can no longer hold the square. We must fall back."

By this time Glorfindel and those who still lived of the captains of the hosts had approached the king. "He speaks the truth, my lord, though it pains me to admit it," he said, adding his voice to that of Egalmoth's. "We can no longer hold the square with what warriors are left to us. We must fall back."

"Fall back?" said Turgon. His voice was louder this time, and there was a strange look in his eyes. "Fall back where?!" He shook off Tuor's grasp and drew himself up, casting the damp cloth aside. "The Dark Lord's forces surround the city, and press upon us from all sides even now. They will continue to hem us in until we can go no farther, and then they will slay us one and all. Fall back? Fall down, you mean!" He gave a bitter laugh. "We will all fall down, every one of us!"

"My lord," said Tuor calmly," do not despair so. We are not dead yet, and while there is life there is hope, or so it is said. I for one will not give up so easily, and I still have hope to escape the city."

"But how?!" said Turgon. He suddenly turned and looked at the Man. "The Enemy encompasses the whole of the Hill of Guard. Galdor tried and failed to win through their ranks. You cannot possibly hope to do the same, son of Huor, valiant you may be, much less fight through the foes before us. What hope? What hope do you have that I cannot see?"

"The hope that your daughter Idril gives us," said Tuor, "the hope that she is bestowing upon all who would hear her even as we fight. My lord, please listen to me. Many years ago she commissioned the building of a tunnel under the city walls that leads far across the plain, well beyond the farthest line of our foes. This was done in secret, and she feared to tell even you, my lord, for she remembered the Doom of Mandos, and feared treachery within these walls. It has remained secret until now to all, save her and myself and those that aided us. Even now she is helping all that would hear her to flee the city, and we should do likewise."

"But where is it hidden?" asked Egalmoth in sudden astonishment. "How could you have contrived the building of such a thing without it being known?"

A smile of understanding suddenly spread across Glorfindel's face as he looked at Tuor. "The library," he said. Tuor nodded. "You had the help of the Royal Scribe and the work crews on the new library." The Elf-lord grinned. "It was an incredible ruse, but the foresight of the Lady now proves itself."

The other Elven-warriors looked at each other in amazement as the impact of what they had heard sank in. As for Turgon, the Elven-king said nothing, casting his eyes to the ground. When he spoke, he spoke softly, and the rest listened to hear his words. "My own daughter did not trust me, and with good reason." he said. "My wisdom of old has turned to folly and ruin, as all can see about us. I was wrong, and she was right. All this time, she was right." He suddenly looked up at Tuor. "I should have listened when you first came to this place, son of Huor," he said, his voice louder and with more conviction. "I should have heeded the counsel of Ulmo. Now it is too late, and Gondolin withers in the flame, even as he said." He shook his head sadly as he looked about. "It is burning, the city of my pride. I am naught but a king of ash and dust."

"My lord," said Tuor, as he descended on one knee and thrust the hilt of Glamdring towards the king, "you still rule here, and I am yours to command."

Turgon took his sword back from the Man and held it before him, its edges glowing red in the fires that burned about the square. By this time, all those who were not manning the defenses or were needed elsewhere had gathered before the foot of the stairs, awaiting the command of their king. He then said to them, "The sword of Turgon is now drawn for the last time. It will remain unsheathed while I have strength yet to wield it. This alone of all my works will outlive me, and in days yet unsung it will rise again to do battle with the powers of Darkness; though mine be not the hand to wield it." Then he began to walk towards his tower in the center of the square through the ranks of the warriors, and as he did so, he cried bitterly, "Great is the fall of Gondolin!" (69)

"No, my lord!" cried Tuor from behind him, speaking wildly and with love for the king. "Gondolin still stands in our hearts and minds, and Ulmo will not suffer its name to perish!"

Turgon turned and looked back at Tuor. In his mind's eye he saw the image of old, when Tuor had first stood before him bearing the embassy of Ulmo. He shook his head. "Evil have I brought upon the Hidden Realm because I heeded not the wisdom of Ulmo, as I was bid. Gondolin may live on in thy hearts, but the city itself will soon be no more. There is no more hope for Gondolin." At those words the Elf-warriors cried aloud, and many clashed their weapons, but soon Turgon's voice rose and quieted them. "Do not fight this doom, my people! This thing I have brought upon myself, and none can spare me from my fate. There is still time for flight, if that be thy wish, for only in that may thou find such safety as thou can. Those who would go must now take Tuor as their lord; but as for me, I will not leave Gondolin."

"But you are our king. It is your place to lead your people," said Tuor.

"Yet here is my rule," said Turgon calmly, "and here I will stay. Those who would stay, and cover Tuor's retreat, come to me. As for the rest, fare thee now before it is too late."

At that moment one of the warriors of the Golden Flower came forward holding the crown of the Hidden Realm, having found it in the rubble of the great staircase. It had been dented inward and its golden scrollwork marred by the stone that had struck Turgon, sacrificing its beauty to save the head of its bearer. The warrior gave it to Glorfindel, who in turn held it before the King without saying a word. Turgon looked once upon it, then held up his hand and shook his head in refusal. "Tuor is now thy guide and lord!" he cried to the warriors who were even then assembling about the son of Huor. "I will not leave my city, and I will burn with it."

Bareheaded, the Elven-king entered his tower. His warriors, those who still lived of the King's Host, quickly went into action. As the King ascended the stairs inside the tower, many of them took the places of those in the defenses who would leave with Tuor, while others began fortifying the base of the tower. At last Turgon stood forth on the high balcony overlooking the city burning below. It is said that he did so at the stroke of midnight, and from there he gave a great shout like a horn blown in the mountains. All that were within earshot of the great square, friend or foe, heard his cry: "Great is the victory of the Noldor!" Thus the Elf-warriors in the square were heartened, but the Orcs laughed in derision.

But even as the troll-guard of Gothmog had reached the King's Square and began their dreadful assault upon it, Idril and the companies of Voronwe and Ingold had reached Gar Anion, the Place of the Valar, in search of more Elves willing to evacuate the city. To Idril's eyes, Gar Anion little resembled the fair site of festival and ceremony of old where she and Tuor had been wed. Its scarred slopes and broken stones were now covered with wounded. Many were those that had fled their burning homes in the northern part of the city. Some were newly arrived -- injured warriors rushed from the King's Square in the brief time before Gothmog's attack. A few Elves moved about, trying to tend them, but far too few. There were not enough to aid and too many to tend gathered there. In that sense Gar Anion was still a place of gathering -- only this time it gathered the doomed within its walls.

"As I said before, my lady, we should not have come here," said Voronwe from Idril's side, uneasily glancing about the open spaces of Gar Anion. "This place is too exposed, and we are too close to the lines of battle northward. You heard the cry of the Balrog, did you not?"

"And I also heard the cry of my father, answering his challenge," said Idril. Her countenance was calm, but her eyes betrayed her fear. "I know the danger, but my responsibility is to my people. Do not forget, my husband and your lord charged me to save as many as I could."

"Unless our foes pressed too close," said Vornwe. "Do not forget that he also charged us with your safety," he said, motioning to himself and Ingold. The other Elf-captain said nothing, but his look was uneasy. Voronwe continued. "This is a duty that we do not take lightly. This place will not be safe for long if I read the battle right. Before that happens we need to fly with utmost haste, lest we be caught in the fight." At that moment a large missile cast from the siege engines sailed overhead, so close that all of them instinctively winced or ducked. It landed north of them in the King's Square, and there was the sound of a great crash and stones flying. Voronwe did not miss the look of anguish that quickly flashed over Idril's face and just as quickly disappeared. "My lady, we must go no further," he said, as firmly as he could. "Let us return to the library now, with all who can go with us."

Idril looked at Ingold, who only nodded in agreement. She steeled herself. "And if I refuse to come with you?" she said.

"Then I shall have you set in bonds and taken to a place of safety, even if I have to drag you there myself," said Voronwe evenly.

Idril nodded. "I am sure that you would at that," she said slowly. "Very well, let us make haste." She motioned to the wounded. "Only those who can move or can be moved with little effort."

"Yes, my lady," said Voronwe.

By that time several Elf-warriors were approaching them. Most of their number had been set there to defend that place and aid those gathered there, but some had just come from the King's Square bearing more wounded. One of the latter spoke for them. "My lady!" he exclaimed. "This is no place for you! The Enemy is nigh at hand!"

"We know," said Idril. "We came to help you evacuate."

"But you do not understand!" he said. "Even now the Lord of Balrogs fights with your father on the stairs of the palace! It is a fight to the death! I saw this with my own eyes before I had to leave the square with the wounded. You must go, for your own sake and his!"

"My lady?" said Voronwe.

The Lady of Gondolin had stopped moving at the Elf-warrior's words. She looked very pale, and seemed tense as a bowstring, as if trying to listen for any sound from the duel being so fiercely fought northward.

"My lady?" said Voronwe again, and took her arm, but she neither replied nor moved.

At that moment the death-cry of Gothmog rent the air. It echoed from stone to stone until it rose above the flames and smoke, then tumbled away northward until it could be heard no more.

"By the light of the Trees, what what that?" said Ingold.

"I do not know, and I do not plan to stay and find out," said Voronwe. He pulled at Idril again, and finally got her to move. "My lady, time has run out. We need to leave, now."

"Yes ... yes, you are right," said Idril, as if coming out of a daze. "Pass the word."

But even as they started to move, the air was filled with the battle-cry of the Orcs. Several companies of those foul creatures burst through the defenses of the eastern gate and stormed into the Place of the Valar, blades swinging and Elves dying before them. Their captain, a particularly fierce-looking brute, spotted Idril. His eyes lit up as he yelled to his fellows, pointing at her with his sword. "There she is, even as the tark said! Slay them all, but spare the daughter of Turgon!"

Immediately Idril was surrounded by a ring of Elvish steel. Ingold's warriors formed around her, blades outward and their backs to their Lady. Idril quickly drew her own sword, while Voronwe led his warriors of the Wing in charging the Orcs. Those foul creatures rose to the challenge, those not finding armed foes slaying the helpless before them as they bounded across the square. The defenders of Gar Anion who still lived now joined the fight, rushing in on all sides, doing what they could to stop that mass of deadly Orcs before it reached the prize it sought. Ingold's ring fell back towards the west-gate of Gar Anion seeking cover or escape, but the Orcs cut them off before they could reach it. There were at least three Orcs for every Elf still able to fight, and the contest for Idril was a bitter struggle indeed. (70)

Idril never forgot those next few minutes -- her first true taste of the wanton slaughter that is hand-to-hand combat with sharpened steel. She had seen with her own eyes the devastation wought by war on that day, but now until now had she never been a direct participant in such an affair. Her husband's lessons in the way of the sword did her well, and she accounted herself as well as any elven-warrior who fought to protect her. At the end, though, the fight became so desperate that the Orc-captain managed to slip through the ring of Ingold's warriors and come at her. He already been wounded many times, but still he sought for his prize. Instead, he found the blade of Idril's sword buried deep in his breast even as he reached for her. As he stood there, impaled on her blade, the sword of Ingold flashed before his eyes. The Orc-captain's head flew to one side, while his body twisted off of Idril's sword and fell onto the bloody stones. The fight was over, for the Orcs were no match for the valor of the Elves and their swift and deadly blades. Soon enough those who had assailed Gar Anion but a short time before now joined its dead upon the ground.

Idril found herself crouching before the tall and noble form of Ingold, her blade still held before her. She watched from a far distance, as it seemed, as the black blood of the Orc-captain ran down the edge of her sword and dripped off of her gloved hand on the hilt. Death had never come so close to her before, and the vision of all that carnage was too much to bear. She had seen it all, from the cruel butcheries of the Orcs to the swift and deadly strokes of the Elves; furthermore, she herself had drawn blood. Ingold might have finished the job, but the wound she had given the Orc was mortal. It was the first time she had ever slain anything. She did not move, not even when Ingold spoke to her. "My lady!" he exclaimed, as he quickly sheathed his sword, then reached forward and grasped her arm. She stumbled as a sudden swoon came upon her. He caught her and held her up, for her legs had become loose under her. She was dizzy from the sight of that bloody spectacle, and the world was beginning to spin around her. It took her a few moments before she could pull herself together.

"Now do you see what I was trying to tell you?" said Voronwe, who now approached. "It was no accident that the Orc-captain knew you. I would guess that the creatures of Angband have orders to take both you and your father alive for whatever foul purpose the Dark Lord has for you."

"They did not," said Idril, and shook her head as another wave of nausea swept over her. She looked at Voronwe when it had passed. "Nevertheless, you were right. It is time to go." She detatched herself from Ingold, nodding in thanks, then forced herself to wipe her sword on the Orc-captain's body before sheathing it. Ingold and Voronwe watched but said nothing. Idril then looked about, motioning at the warriors who were even then gathering about them. "I see but twoscore of the Wing, plus a half-score of the Harp and another of the King's Host. Is this all that is left?"

"Yes, my lady," said Ingold. "The rest lie dead with their foes on the ground."

"We will join them if we do not leave at once," said Voronwe. He nodded at Ingold, who gave a hand signal. His surviving warriors immediately formed a protective cordon around Idril, even as Voronwe continued. "You are leaving for the library now."

"But what about you, and the wounded?" said Idril

"We will follow as best we may," said Voronwe. "We will stay with them and protect them, and take them to the library as quickly as we can. You, however, are leaving now, lest another such raiding party surprises us." With that Ingold gave a curt command, and then the Elf-captain escorted Idril away from Gar Anion.

Tuor was searching the rubble of the stairs, looking for his weapons. He had already found his axe, but for some reason could not find his knife. He hurried, for there was little time left. Already the host of Angband was recovering from the death of Gothmog and was close to renewing its assault on the battered defenses of the King's Square. The Elves manning the lookouts could now and again see shapeless forms moving about in the smoke and mist beyond, and hear the harsh cries of the Orc-captains bellowing orders to their troops. A steady thumping noice accompanied by an ever-increasing shaking of the ground told of one or more dragons being brought up to ensure that this time the assault would succeed. Tuor and his following had but a few minutes to choose their next move before the host of Angband would be upon them.

"Get the wounded together, and set your warriors about on all sides!" Tuor called to Glorfindel and Egalmoth. "We shall leave as soon as the last of the King's Host is in place." He glanced about one last time, then grabbed a knife from a fallen Elf-warrior in place of his own.

"Look!" called one of the sentinels from above. "There is movement along the southeastern corner of the square!"

"Already the Enemy is onto us," said Glorfindel. "Even now the send a force to flank us, and seal off our last avenue of escape."

"Then we must leave now, whether the King's Host be ready or no," said Tuor. "Take your warriors and those of the Fountain, and go deal with our newfound foes before they are ready. They will not be expecting a forward assault from a retreating foe."

"Divide and conquer?" said the Elf-lord, smiling.

"Attack and live," said Tuor, and he grinned in reply before motioning to his warriors. "Make ready! We leave at once!"

With that the Elf-lord gave a command. He and his warriors departed the square in haste, preparing to surprise those who sought to ambush their retreat. By now the last of the wounded were ready to be moved, and Tuor set his warriors about them. Elgamoth and his warriors followed behind as rearguard, in case the enemy proved too strong for Glorfindel's assault. All of the defenses of the square were now manned by the King's Host, with a strong cordon behind hastily improvised barricades around the King's Tower and a strong reserve force held in ready by the palace. To an Elf they had chosen to die with their king.

As they came to the arch of the southern gate of the King's Square, Tuor paused for a moment and looked back. High upon the topmost pinnacle of the King's Tower, Turgon gazed down upon the final defense of the square. Tuor would never forget that sight -- the Elven-king standing on the high balcony, his sword set before him, his silver-tipped locks dancing in the heated breezes wafting up the tower as he calmly awaited the doom long prepared for him. His heart yearned within him to stay and fight by the king's side, but his head spoke otherwise, and it was what ruled him in that hour. He could not stay. He turned, and then the new lord of the people of Gondolin left the King's Square for the last time, hastening with his charges southward towards their only hope of escape.

Chapter 16 - The Eyes of Death

A harried Penlegod scrambled for cover as the library rocked with yet another strike from the siege engines beyond the battlements. There was the sound of falling timbers and crumbling stone from the eastern hall, followed soon enough by cries of pain and pleas for aid. Without waiting for instructions, a party of Elves dashed through the dust-filled doorway, hoping to rescue any who might have survived the collapse of the roof.

The Elf-scribe was giving orders to a company of the Harp when Ingold and his warriors came into the main hall of the library, Idril set in their midst. "My lady!" exclaimed Penlegod as he saw her arrive, then with a wave sent his warriors on his way. "It is good to see you alive!" he said, walking quickly to her. "Where are Voronwe and the others?"

"He will be here shortly," said Idril. "He is not far behind, and is bringing with him the last of those able to come with us."

"But why did you leave him?" said Penlegod.

"Perhaps Ingold can best tell that tale," said Idril. She looked at the Elf-captain and nodded, then Ingold spoke.

"We were assailed at unawares by a raiding party of Orcs thrice greater than all the warriors we had to us," he said. "The Lady came within a hair's breath of being seized by the Enemy."

"No," said Penlegod, who looked aghast at this news.

"We survived, and slew them all," continued Ingold, who then nodded at Idril. "The Lady herself slew their captain. Even so, our losses were heavy. We no longer had the warriors left to ensure her safety. Voronwe set us ahead as soon as the fight was over to protect her from any more such assaults, while he comes behind with the rest."

"A wise decision," Penlegod said, nodding. "I could not have come to your aid even if I had wanted. I had already sent out the whole of the Harp some time ago."

"They have been of great help," said Ingold. "They will not be forgotten, if any of us survives this day."

"How goes it here?" said Idril.

"The raiding parties do not appear to have penetrated this far into the city," said Penlegod. "The defenses still hold firm, including the walls and towers, but the battle lines draw ever closer around us."

"No need to assail the southern walls, once he breached the northern ones," said Ingold. "Now the Dark Lord has us penned in."

Idril suddenly looked about. "Where is the Heir of Gondolin? Have you already sent him down the secret way?"

"He would not go," said Penlegod.

"No?" said Idril with surprise. "Did you not make him go?"

"I am sorry, my lady," said Penlegod. "I had neither the time nor people to spare to have him sent through the tunnel by force. He would not go and leave his father and mother behind, even though all the other young ones in my care left long ago." He motioned about him at the dust-filled halls, with the wounded lying about, and many of the shelves and their contents toppled into the floor. "This is no place for children, my lady."

"Then where is he?"

"He waits for you with Meleth in the basement."

Idril nodded. "I understand," she said. "Take me to him."

They found Earendil and his nurse Meleth in one of the rooms of the darkened basement, close to the secret way. They were watching as a stream of Elves bearing many wounded passed into a room at the end of the far hall, from which none returned. The boy's eyes brightened at once when he saw his mother approach, but then he cried in alarm at the sight of her blood-spattered armor. She shook her head and motioned to him -- and with a shout he was upon her, crying and gripping her tightly. "You are not dead!" he sobbed. "I was so worried!"

"I still live, and so does your father," said Idril in as soothing a voice as she could manage, holding him close to her. "Why did you not leave with the others? Things are going from bad to worse, and I would not have my son slain by the Orcs."

To that Earendil did not reply. Instead, he buried his face in her side, hugging her tightly. Idril looked to Meleth, who then spoke. "He has feared for you ever since the North-gate fell. He would not go through the tunnel when the others left. My apologies, my lady, but I did not want to leave him here alone and I could not bring myself to force him."

"It is well," said Idril. "You are forgiven. This night is beyond all comprehension for one so young. How horrible it must seem to one of so tender years, who has never been through such a thing before, and whose parents are in the thick of it. It has been horrible for me as well, but the worst is over. My part in these events is ended, and I will not leave my son now. You may go if you wish, Meleth. I will take care of Earendil."

"I should stay--" said Meleth, looking at Earendil.

"If you want to leave, then leave." said Idril. She smiled at the nurse. "Your help will be needed beyond the secret way." Meleth bowed, then quickly joined the line of Elves moving down the hall. It was the last Idril would see of her living that day.

Voronwe and his elven-warriors picked their way southward, escorting a mid-sized group of Elves towards the library and the entrance to the secret way. The street was littered with rubble from falling buildings and towers, and strewn with the bodies of the slain, both Elf and beast. The carnage was greater by far in the north of the city, where the soldiers of the Dark Lord roamed at will; but even here the raiding parties and missiles from the siege engines had done great damage, breaking both rock and bone. They gingerly made their way around piles of fallen stone, taking care so as not to jostle too severely those whose wounds were grevious.

They were set about the survivors of Gar Anion: those who were still fit to walk, the litters of the wounded, and those few from the broken houses they passed by who had not died by sword or falling stone, and were willing to risk flight to safety. Far more remained in the ruin of their homes, crouched under their beds or hiding in their cellars, refusing to come out despite Voronwe's pleas, praying for a swift end to the madness around them. For many of these, the end they sought came soon enough.

Of his terrible journey through the ruin of his beloved city Voronwe said little after, yet there was one scene he could never forget. Their company was still on the Road of Pomps when a flaming missile struck the buildings not far ahead on the left side of the street. He had ducked along with the rest, and waited until the shower of splintered stones stopped before rising again. As he lead the others onward, he could hear anguished cries coming from a side street beside the now-wrecked and burning buildings. Motioning the rest to continue, Voronwe picked three warriors to accompany him and went in search of the source of the cries.

Not far down the street they came upon a pitiful sight. Part of one of the buildings that had been struck by the missile had collapsed into the street. Protruding out from under a great pile of rubble were the head and right arm of an Elf-maiden, crushed by one of the falling walls. Beside her lifeless form were two crying children. The younger, a small boy with tousled hair, sat wailing in the dusty street, rubbing his tear-streaked face with grimy fists. The other, a young girl and somewhat older than the boy, tugged frantically at the limp arm in the rubble. "Mummy! Mummy!" she screamed, oblivous in her anguish to the truth.

Voronwe and his warriors moved up beside the children, and the girl turned frantically towards the sound of their footfalls. "Please help me with Mummy!" she cried, still tugging at the lifeless arm. The boy said nothing, but his cries slowed to sobs as he looked up at the tall, mail-clad warriors of the Wing. The Elf-warrior knelt by the girl and took the hand of the fallen Elf-maid, checking the pulse, even though he knew it to be pointless. There was no need, but he did it for the sake of the children. They needed to be brought out of their shock as quickly yet gently as possible. Time was short, and who among them could guess what evil might next befall before they could flee to their only hope of escape?

"She will move no more," Voronwe said calmly, placing his arm about the girl's shaking shoulders. "Mandos has claimed your mother. He will do so to all of us if we do not leave soon. Who is your father?"

The girl tried to fight the tears in her eyes even as she spoke. "Diriel," she choked. "Diriel, of the Host of the Eagle."

Voronwe and the others exchanged sad glances, ones of knowing held back. "Where were you going?" he asked the girl.

"To the library," she choked. "Mummy said that the Lady of Gondolin had sent word for all of us to meet at the library if the gates fell, so we could escape. We were on our way there when-- when--" but then she stopped, embraced Voronwe's legs, and began to sob.

Voronwe held her for a moment, a precious moment, yet one he needed to spare for her sake. "Your mother is dead, and your father is not here. You will have to take care of your brother for now. Can you do that?" He lifted her head as he spoke those last words, and looked deep into her eyes.

Something inside her must have grasped some piece of what he meant. The little girl stopped crying, then let go of Voronwe and drew herself up. "Yessir, I can," she said. She then walked over to her brother and picked him up. The boy's cries immediately grew louder and he went into a tantrum, flailing about and pummelling his sister with his clenched fists, not wanting to leave his fallen mother's side. The girl ignored him, biting her lip as she stood before Voronwe and his warriors, manhandling her thrashing brother.

"One of us can take him, if you want," said Voronwe.

"I can manage," she grimaced, then spoke sternly to her brother. "Mummy is dead. Stop that, or we will die with her. Let's go."

The boy suddenly stopped hitting her, then slumped in her arms, sobbing and moaning. Together they left behind the fallen Elf-maid in the rubble, and followed Voronwe and his warriors as they caught up with the other refugees.

That was the last time Voronwe ever saw those two Elf-children. He lost track of them in the subsequent madness of the flight from the city. He did not see them again until he chanced upon their bodies in the Eagles' Cleft, slain by the Orcs in that terrible ambush. He never got the chance to tell them that their father had fallen with many others of the Host of the Eagle in defense of the city's northern walls. He could not save them, and the memory of their sad faces would haunt him ever after.

The sound of approaching steps caused Penelgod to look around. Idril had come up from the basement and was heading back to Ingold and his warriors, Earendil running after her. "My lady?" he said, quickly rejoining her. "Where are you going?"

"To get our things," she said. "We should have brought them here before but we did not. Now I must get them while I am still able."

"Is that wise?" said Penlegod, "and should Earendil go with you?"

"He should not," said Idril, but Earendil clung to her. She shook her head. "I do not think he will stay with you willingly, Penlegod."

"My lady," said Penlegod, "the streets are not safe."

"Our home is not that far from here," said Idril, "and we still hold this part of the city. I must use this opportunity while I still can." She looked at Earendil, still clasping her, then back up at Penlegod. "I think it will be safe enough, if we hurry."

"But my lady--" the Elf-scribe began.

Idril cut him off. "I have made up my mind on this matter. We must hurry before the Orcs break through your lines."

Penlegod looked at Idril, then at Ingold. Idril's face was set, and did not waver. On the other hand, the Elf-captain looked uneasy. His face was troubled, yet he dared not speak against the Lady of Gondolin. Their eyes met, and words unspoken passed between them. "I do not approve of this," said the Elf-scribe, "but I cannot stop you. Just be as quick as you can."

"Our things are already packed and ready," said Idril. "It will not take long to go get them and return." She smiled at the Elf-scribe. "My haste to save my fellow Elves blinded me to the needs of my own. Now I must take care of them while I can." She nodded at Ingold. He gave a command, and what warriors he had left to him again formed around the Lady of Gondolin.

"What do I say to Tuor, should he come back in your absence?" said Penlegod, even as they moved towards the door.

"Tell him I am at our home, and will return shortly," said Idril, before she and her escort passed from view.

Penlegod stood before the now-empty doors of the library, shaking his head. "This is not good," he muttered. He then looked northward beyond the broken walls. "Hurry, Tuor," he whispered. "Hurry."

It was not long after they had turned off the Road of Pomps and started down the Way of Running Waters that Voronwe's scouts reported a large Elf-host retreating southward towards them. It too was escorting a large number of wounded in its midst. Voronwe ordered his own group to halt until the larger host caught up with them. He feared another ambush that might overcome his small force, and sought the relative safety of numbers against their many foes. So he waited until the Elf-host arrived, and with delight Voronwe saw Tuor, Egalmoth, and Glorfindel at its head. Their reunion was glad but brief, for the urgency of the hour pressed upon them, and soon they were on the move again.

After Egalmoth and Glorfindel had moved away to take care of other matters, Tuor drew Voronwe aside. "Where is Idril?" he said, with concern in his voice.

"Do not be afraid, my lord," said Voronwe. "We were waylaid at Gar Anion by several bands of marauding Orcs. We might not have won that fight had not Penlegod's warriors in that place come to our aid. As soon as it was over, I put a stop to Idril's mission of mercy and sent her with Ingold to the library. I feared we might not survive the next such battle."

"You did well," said Tuor. "Did you know that the East-gate has fallen?"

"No," said Voronwe. "That might explain the numbers and speed of those who attacked us."

"Glorfindel was at the fall of the gate," said Tuor, "and barely survived. Most of his warriors did not. We have fought a running fight with the East-gate forces from the time we left the King's Square until just a few minutes ago."

"Where are they now?" said Voronwe.

"Licking their wounds," said Tuor. "They will be back soon enough."

"Where is the king?" said Voronwe.

"He would not come with us," said Tuor.

"I see," said Voronwe. He looked down, saying nothing. He did not speak again until their combined host was once again on the move. "One thing about our ambush bothers me, Tuor."

"What is that?"

"When the Orcs came upon us, their captain pointed at the Lady and shouted, 'There she is, even as the tark said.'"

"Tark is the Orcish word for Elf-warrior," said Tuor grimly.

"Yes," said Voronwe, "but who is this tark? And why would he speak of Idril?"

"Forced from the lips of one of the fallen." said Tuor, but he did not speak with conviction. "All of our folk know the Lady by sight. The Dark Lord's forces would want any news of Turgon and his house."

"I would think the king reckoned more in the eyes of the Dark Lord than his daughter," said Voronwe.

"So would I," said Tuor, and ceased speaking. They spoke no more on the matter as the Elves continued their slow retreat towards the library, and their last remaining hope of escape. Yet Tuor's heart remained troubled, and there was a shadow lying over the rim of his thought that tormented him just beyond the edge of sight.

Ingold shifted uneasily on his feet, his body tense, his senses keen and alert. He and his warriors were stationed near the entrance to Tuor's house, watching for any foe that might attack them. They had only just arrived, and none had assailed them as yet, but still he remained uneasy. His battle-trained senses told him that danger lurked nearby, and foes unknown were somewhere close at hand. (71)

He had been one of the few Elf-warriors outside the Company of the Wing who had known about Tuor and Idril's plans and the building of the secret way. Like them, he had helped conceal its construction from one and all, even from the King himself. For it was the duty of his company to serve as the bodyguard for the Lady of Gondolin, and they had been allowed to retain that posting even after her marriage to Tuor. He had been honored when she had first taken him into his confidence and revealed the gist of her plans, and had helped win the loyalty of his warriors in the same regard. At first he had been incredulous of her plans and looked askance on them, but had kept his doubts to himself, and instead served as best he could the Lady to whom he was devoted. News of the fall and ruin of Doriath had done much to change his mind, and by the time of the fall of the city he had become one of her most ardent supporters. Now with the prophecy of Ulmo come true and Gondolin in flames about him, Ingold understood all too well the wisdom and foresight of his Lady. Oh, but if only King Turgon had been so wise!

The sound of many approaching mail-shot feet caught his ears. He and his warriors tensed, bringing their swords to bear, ready to deal sudden death to their unseen foes. From around a broken wall came another fair-sized company of Elf-warriors clad in black armor, with a tall and grim Elf-lord at their head. Ingold at once recognized their leader and the heralds they bore on their hauberks. He lowered his sword and bid the others do likewise. "My lord Maeglin, this is a wonderful surprise!" he said, stepping forward to greet him. "We had word you had fallen in the hills."

"I am not dead yet," said the Dark-elf, still holding his sword Anguriel before him. "Our road has been bitter and hard, yet we have won our way back into the city. Where is your lord, and how fares the battle?"

"The king commands the defense of the city, though the tide of battle still flows against us," said Ingold. "Even now we make ready to flee this place, and will do so once the word is given."

"Flee?" said Maeglin. "How, and to where?"

"That I may not say," said Ingold. "It is the Lady's command."

"Where is the Lady of Gondolin?" said Maeglin.

"In the house of Tuor, behind me," said Ingold.

"And you stand guard over her even now?" said Maeglin, with a strange look in his eyes. By now the company of the Mole had mingled among the ranks of Ingold's warriors. None seemed to notice that they still held their weapons at the ready.

"Why, yes," said Ingold. "Why do you ask?"

"Because your service are no longer required," said Maeglin, and with that he struck Ingold down. His warriors immediately followed suit, dealing death to the unsuspecting Elf-warriors in their midst. The folk of the Mole were outnumbered but they had surprise on their side, and had already struck down many of Ingold's folk before the rest could bring their weapons to bear. After that it was a straightforward fight but a quick one, for Ingold's remaining warrors were far too few, and it was not long before the last of the Lady's bodyguard fell dead on the stones.

Maeglin heard the sound of a door being closed. He looked at Tuor's house. The front door was shut. He wiped his blade on the body of the Elf he had just killed, then looked about. Someone was missing. "Where is their captain?" he said to one of his warriors.

The blank-eyed Elf answered dully. "He came to himself and fled." It was a toneless voice, with no trace of soul or emotion. "We would have pursued, but the fight prevented us. By the time it ended, he was gone."

"It is all right," said Maeglin. "He will not get far with the wound I gave him. He will be dead soon enough." He heard a groan from one of Ingold's fallen warriors and stabbed at it. There was a half-cry, half-gurgle, and then no more. He then looked again at Tuor's house, and at the doorway and stairs above leading to the city walls. (72) A smile of satisfaction long denied began to creep across his face.

"What are your orders, my lord?" said the toneless Elf-warrior.

"Array yourselves here and guard all approaches to this place until I return," said the Dark-elf, as he walked towards the door. "Let none pass this way -- not even if the King of Gondolin himself should come before you."

"It shall be done, my lord."

Penlegod looked up as Tuor and his host poured through the main doors of the ruined library, the Man barking orders in rapid succession as his warriors bent to their tasks. The wounded were quickly brought in and set down in whatever space was available, filling the rubble-strewn halls of the shattered building. Those could still move unaided were quickly escorted through the portal leading to the basement and the secret way. Tuor had already split those remaining warriors who could still fight into three groups under the command of himself, Egalmoth, and Glorfindel. His group, the smallest of the three, remained inside to aid in the evacuation. Those under Glorfindel, mostly of the Wing, Golden Flower, and Fountain, were sent to surround and defend the library, sweeping the streets and alleys and providing aid to what was left of Penlegod's harried forces. Those under Egalmoth, comprising the rest, the bulk of their warriors, were sent back up the Way of Running Waters to do battle with the Orc-host Tuor knew was assembling in the wake of their retreat.

"What news from the palace?" asked Penlegod, as he rushed to Tuor's side. "Are there any more coming?"

"None," said Tuor grimly. "This is the last of our folk that would flee. Those who did not come with us are dead, dying, or will die soon enough."

"What about your warriors?"

"Set about the library, with a strong force watching the street," said Tuor. "The press of our foes from the north and east grows with each passing moment. It will burst into a raging torrent soon enough. How goes it here?"

"As well as might be expected, given the circumstances," said Penlegod. The Elf-scribe gestured about him. The once-proud library was now a ruin, its high roof and broad walls broken and rent asunder in many places. Its balconies and floors were littered with rubble. Few of the shelves and benches were still standing, and the lore of the Elves lay scattered on the floor amid the broken stones and pools of blood. The stench of the greviously wounded was everywhere, permeating the place, arising from those gathered within those once-proud walls. Bodies lay in all directions, both of the dead and the dying, and many of the books and scrolls once stored there now served as pillows and cushions for the fallen. Penlegod shook his head. "My library is ruined," he said. "Such a waste of time and effort."

"I'm sorry," said Tuor.

"It's all right," said Penlegod, drawing himself up. "Little good it does to mourn such a thing now. Come -- what of Ecthelion, and of the King?"

Tuor shook his head. "Ecthelion is no more. He fell in single combat with Gothmog the Balrog, the leader of our foes; but at least that foul creature and many other of the Dark Lord's minions fell with him."

"Alas!" exclaimed Penlegod. "This is grevious news! Ecthelion was accounted by many as our finest warrior, and his valor would have been needed on our road. Still, in death he has avenged the fall of Fingon, and many will be the songs that will be sung about him. But what of the king? You have not spoken of him."

"He would not come with us," said Tuor. "He remained behind with his host as rearguard, covering our escape from the King's Square. He would not leave, even though I begged him to do so. He would not flee the city of his pride, even though it falls in ruins about him."

"And so he pays the ultimate price for his folly," said Penlegod. "It is impossible to save those who will not be saved."

Tuor suddenly looked about. He had just realized that someone was missing. "Where is the Lady of Gondolin?" he said, a note of anxiety in his voice. "Has she not yet come within?"

"Ummm, came and went, truth be told," said Penlegod uneasily. "She is at your home, getting your things. She said she would be back shortly." (73)

Tuor exploded. "What?!" he cried

"I tried to stop her," Penlegod said, his voice also upset, "but she wouldn't listen. Her mind was set on the matter, and who am I to speak against the Lady of Gondolin?"

"And Earendil?" Tuor's voice was more anxious than before.

"He would not leave without either of you," Penlegod said meekly. "He went with her."

"By the Trees!" Tuor swore. His fury was hardly contained, and he could not speak. He strode about, going nowhere, fighting the rage within him. After a few moments he calmed down. "It is not your fault, Penlegod," he said to the Elf-scribe. "She can be as stubborn as her father when the mood strikes her, and you had your hands full thanks to Salgant's cowardice. When did you say they left?"

"It was but a short time ago," said Penlegod. "I am surprised that they are not back already."

"Then I had better go after them, lest something else happen." He gave a call, and several warriors of the Wing ran up to him at once.

By this time all those who could be moved had been take from the upper halls of the library and sent on their way. Many still remained in their places upon the floor, those whose injuries were far too grevious for any chance of survival upon the road ahead, along with the doomed for whom death was certain and soon. Tending them was a small group of Elf-maidens scattered about the hall -- former helpers of the library, who had taken it upon themselves to do what they could to ease the suffering of those gathered within. One of these was tending a maimed warrior nigh to the front door when she heard a loud groan from beyond the portal, and a large shadow fell across her from beyond. She screamed, interrupting Tuor and Penlegod and attracting the attention of every person in the hall. Tuor spun about with his axe raised and Penlegod whipped out his sword from its sheath, but it was not a foe that had startled the Elf-maiden by the door. Staggering into the library were two Elf-warriors bearing a heavy burden, and Glorfindel was with them. Cradled between them was the form of Ingold, bathed from the breast down in his own blood. He was mortally wounded, yet he still lived, and his feeble hands clutched at the garments of those who bore him. He was set gently on the floor, and Tuor rushed to his side. "What is this?" he cried. "How came this to be?"

"We found him face down behind a pile of rubble in the street not far from your home," said Glorfindel. "He must have crawled there, judging from the trail he left behind. We tried to follow it, but we were suddenly assailed and driven back." The Elf-lord shook his head, a look of amazement on his face. "It was Elves who assailed us, Tuor! Elves of the Mole, no less -- Prince Maeglin's folk! They must be under some spell or enchantment, for their eyes burn with the fires of Angband. I do not know how this came to be, but they fought us with a demonic ferocity, and even now hold my warriors at bay."

The Elf-lord's words were interrupted by a groan from Ingold, and the dying Elf's body convulsed before them. Tuor knelt down and gripped him by the shoulders, lifing his shuddering form. "Who did this to you?" he cried. "Who would have my wife and son?" A shaking hand drenched in blood pawed at Tuor's armor. Though Ingold made no sound but a horrible gurgle Tuor knew what he had said, and his eyes could read the word that formed on the Elf-captain's lips before he shuddered and lay still. It was but one word, but it spoke volumes.

"Maeglin."

Tuor slowly lowered the body of Ingold back onto the cold stone floor. Yet another missile from the siege engines slammed into the library, shaking the building and sending a cloud of dust into the air. Tuor heard it not, nor felt the stone-splinters that rained upon him. Glorfindel, Penlegod, and the others watched as the Man rose to his feet -- and it seemed that a sudden change had come over him, a dreadful darkness of anguish mixed with anger unabated. Outwardly he appeared calm and composed save for the grimness of his face, yet the fire of his wrath filled his eyes. Glorfindel and Tuor's warriors followed him as he walked outside and called out in a clear, cold voice. Another threescore or so warriors came quickly in answer to his summons, warriors from every host of Gondolin save those of the King's Host, White Tree and the Mole, and stood before their lord awaiting his command. They could see the look on Tuor's face as well as could Glorfindel and Penlegod, and knew it would be useless trying to hinder him.

"We must win the way to my home," said Tuor in a calm and level voice. "The lives of the Lady and Heir of Gondolin are at stake." He ran his thumb down the blade of Dramborleg, drawing blood as he did so from the sharp edge of the axe. "I will not rest until I have slain those who stand between me and my own. Who among you will come and fight beside me?"

Earendil crouched in the corner of the room farthest from the door, shaking like a leaf in the wind. His breathing was fast and shallow, his skin pale and clammy. He stared wide-eyed at the barred door, and trembled at the muffled sounds coming up from below. It seemed to him that those sounds were louder than all the rout of the Dark Lord outside, which drifted up and through the wide window in the room at the top of the tower. He was scared, more scared than he had ever been, and in a way he had never known. He was on his own, for his mother had fallen to the enemy moving about on the other side of that door. He would have dared the window if he could, but he was in the topmost room of the tower, and it meant a long fall to certain death on the stones below. He was all alone and in deadly peril, with nowhere else to run and no place to hide. (74)

The muffled sounds stopped, and Earendil pricked up his ears. He could now hear someone coming up the stairs. Mail-shod feet, walking firm but slow. They grew louder as whoever it was continued to ascend. Another sound -- what was it? Heavy breathing? Or light? It was hard to tell -- everything was jumbled together. The sounds grew louder as they came up the stairs and onto the landing, then stopped outside his door. Another sound, like that of someone laying down a burden, then nothing but heavy breathing. Suddenly the timbers of the door creaked, and there was a grunt from beyond, but the door held firm.

"Earendil?" came a cold voice from the other side of the door. "This is your uncle Maeglin. Open the door, please."

Earendil did not budge. He stayed curled up in the far corner, remembering the look of fear on his mother's face when the sounds of fighting had erupted outside their home. She had risked a look out, then slammed the door shut and barred it behind her. "Go to the top of the tower, bar the door, and do not open it for anyone unless your father or I come for you. Understand?! No one!" He saw her standing behind the door, her sword drawn, ready to surprise and strike whoever or whatever tried to force the way in. He did not have to be told a second time. He had turned and ran up the stairs as fast as he could.

That seemed like ages ago. He had done as his mother had told him, and then someone had forced the front door. Her stroke must have bit, for there was a loud cry, and then the sounds of clashing swords. This had seemed to last forever, until he heard two cries, followed by the sound of two blades hitting the floor. After that came the sounds of a struggle, intermingled with the occasional ring of knife blades locking together. He had strained to hear noises of bodies rolling on the floor and crashing about, interspersed with curses and cries of pain -- then the sound of a blow, his mother's shriek, another blow, and then silence.

A series of four raps sounded on the door. "Earendil, open this door, now. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Either you let me in, right now, or I will come in as I may. You decide." The boy said nothing, but remained crouched in the corner -- his brow moist with sweat, his clammy hands clenched tight.

"Very well, have it your way."

There was a sudden sound, the dull noise of metal piercing wood, and then a blade came through the door, made of black metal edged with blue fire. Horrified, the boy watched as it rose through the timbers of the door like a knife passing through butter. The bar did not stop it, for it too parted as if it were naught, then slipped from its mounts and fell clattering to the floor. The black blade was withdrawn, and then all was deathly still save for the din of the Orcs outside and the sharp sounds of Earendil's own breaths.

Suddenly the door to the room was thrust open and his mother Idril shoved inside. She staggered across the room and slammed into the wall next to the window. She almost lost her footing when she hit but managed to catch herself, sliding down on one knee. Idril looked to her son, breathing heavily. She had only been half-conscious when Maeglin had shoved her into the room, but the pain of hitting the wall had brought her wide awake. Her armor was damaged and in disarray, and she had been stripped of her sword belt and knife. Her golden hair was disheveled and tangled, and her hands had been cruelly bound behind her back. She was bleeding from a split lip, and there was an ugly purplish bruise on her left cheek just below the eye. That was almost swollen shut; but the other held him with a look of desperate despair.

Maeglin stood in the doorway, staring after Idril for the moment, his form bearing many marks from their struggle. Idril had fought him as fiercely as a tigress defending its cubs. Although in the end the Dark-elf's strength had prevailed, and he had gained the mastery over her, she had made him pay dearly for his victory. His armor was likewise scored and bloodied in places, and his fair face of old was now furrowed and scratched where her long nails had torn it. Similar marks, or what might have been nicks from a knife, could be seen on the bare part of his right arm. His left was caked with dried blood, and a crude, blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around the upper part -- showing where Idril's sword had made its one and only bite. Only his blade skills with both hands had saved him from Idril's desperate attack. Even now he held his sword arm stiffly by his side, and bore his black sword Anguriel with the other instead. He strode into the room and walked towards Earendil, blocking his way to the door. Anguriel flickered evily in his hand as he raised his sword and prepared to strike. "Now you shall watch your little half-breed son die, my dear," he said, a malicious smile spreading across his features.

"Run!" screamed Idril, as she lowered her head and launched herself at Maeglin.

Idril's charge surprised the Dark-elf in mid-stroke. He lost his footing as he twisted around, knocked off-balance and carried forward by the force of her unexpected assault. Earendil did not have to be told a second time to flee -- he leapt up at once, then dodging around the pair ran for the open door. Maeglin swung as wide as he could and tried to hew him down but his stroke went askew, and did little but glance off the boy's coat of mail. Then he was gone, and Idril and Maeglin fell together in a heap on the floor. Maeglin hissed in pain as he landed full on his wounded arm, and Anguriel half-spinning fell from his grasp and slid away. With a grunt Maeglin rolled free of the stunned Elf-maid, then drew back his mail-shod foot and kicked her away from him. The heavy boot caught Idril hard in the stomach, with such force that she was flung back across the room. She wound up not far from the door, curled up in a fetal position, coughing and gasping for breath.

"That ... was a mistake ... cousin ...!" said Maeglin through clenched teeth. "I had meant to spare you ... but for that ... you shall die in your son's stead!" He came to his knees, favoring his wounded arm, for it had begun to bleed again and throb in pain due to the fall. Spotting the hilt of Anguriel, he reached over and grasped it -- but even as he did so, a long shadow fell over the prostrate form of Idril, and a mighty form filled the doorway.

Idril looked up through a haze of pain. Her husband was standing in the doorway above her, blood dripping still from the blade of his axe. Tuor's face was a mask of pure rage, and a berserker light burned fierce and dire within his eyes like the noonday sun bearing down in unbridled might above the Gasping Plain. She had never seen him like this before, and the sight of him frightened her.

Maeglin's eyes were also upon Tuor, but his hand rested still upon the hilt of his sword. He had but a split second to choose one of two paths: either yield to the rage of Tuor, or stand his ground and give battle. There was but one he could make, so in a flash he lifted Anguriel from the floor and brought it to bear before him.

In another place, on another day, the two would have been evenly matched; but Maeglin was wounded, and Tuor was fighting for his own. The blade of Dramborleg sang as it flew through the air, and Anguriel shattered into a thousand pieces. The arm of the Dark-elf was hewn asunder and flew across the room, still grasping the broken hilt of his sword. Maeglin fell to his knees, gripping the stump of his arm with his remaining hand and screaming in agony. Tuor paid him no heed, but lifted him up with one hand -- and in that instant, Maeglin looked into the eyes of Tuor and saw his death written there. The Man dragged the one who would slay his wife and son to the ledge of the high window, and then dropping his axe, he picked up the Dark-elf with both hands and with a mighty roar pitched him over the ledge.

For a long time, it seemed, Maeglin fell; and the death cry of the Dark-elf caught the ears of the creatures on the plain below. They looked up to see a lone figure with a shorn arm spurting blood fall from the walls above. It smote the rocky craigs of the slopes not far below the base of the wall, and with that the cry ceased. It bounced up and struck again farther down the slope -- a broken mass of bloodied flesh and bone. It bounced once more, then slid into the carnage at the foot of the slope -- a twisted pile of gore no different than any of the others that littered the floor of the plain.

High upon the topmost pinnacle of the King's Tower stood a lone figure, silhouetted against the night sky by the light of the great fires in the city below. Their hot drafts caused his silver-tipped locks to fan out in the breeze, and whipped the hair about the head that had once borne the crown of the Hidden Realm.

Turgon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, stood before the rail of the balcony as he surveyed the carnage below. Many of his warriors lay scattered and slain about the square where they had fallen, hacked to death by the servants of the Dark Lord or roasted alive by dragonfire. Those few who were still moving on the stones of the square were quickly being dispatched by Orcs. One company was still holding out within the tower itself, shielding their lord with their lives. Another was slowly giving way before a great press of foes within the ruins of the palace. The Place of the Fountain was no more, and great steams and vapors arose from the fouled waters of the pool where Ecthelion and the Balrog had perished. The images of the Two Trees were now but piles of molten slag, melted by the flames of the first fire-drake to pass within the square. Even now those Orcs who were not fighting were looting the royal quarters, dragging forth those few who had not fled with Tuor, and slaying all who would stand and resist them.

A cloud of dark steam approaching from the Road of Arches caught Turgon's eye. Below it, escorted by trolls, a great dragon of the brood of Glaurung was coming from the flaming ruins of the north part of the city. Its long tail lashed the buildings behind it, smashing them down into piles of rubble and dust. Fire danced from its nostrils, and he fancied seeing a cruel smile play across its hideous face as it looked up towards him.

"So it comes," he said quietly. "So the end comes at last."

Tuor watched the body of Maeglin as it fell, then turned and came to the aid of his wife. Idril had managed to sit up, and her breathing had settled down somewhat. "Are you wounded?" he asked, as he cut her free of her bonds. "Will you be all right?"

Idril nodded, and with Tuor's aid came to her feet. A stab of pain shot through her bruised side. She stumbled and breathed in sharply, but Tuor caught her. "I can manage," she said, looking up at him.

Tuor held her steady, then slowly lifted her up again. Inwardly he sorrowed at her swollen eye and bruised cheek, yet somehow he managed a warm smile. "I am sure that you will," he said.

"At last my husband returns to me," she said, leaning on him for support. "I do not know the man who slew Maeglin just now. I pray I never see him again."

"So do I," said Tuor. He pulled out a cloth and wiped the blood from her lip, then put his arm about her and slowly guided her to the stairs. She stood in the doorway, holding onto it for support, while he went back and got his axe. He then guided her down the stairs. Her steps became more firm the farther they went down, and at their foot her breathing was no longer ragged. Waiting for them there were Voronwe, Glorfindel, and Earendil. Glorfindel held Idril's sword and sheath, while Vorowne held her swordbelt and dagger. Earendil now carried the pack that Idril had sought only a short time before. His eyes brightened when he saw them descend, and he could not restrain himself from running to them. "Mother! Father!" he cried, embracing them both.

"We live," said Idril, smiling at Earendil.

Tuor tousled his son's hair. "Not now, son," he said, firmly but warmly. "We must hurry."

"Yes, sir."

As they made their way out the front door and toward the street, cheers and shouts of joy arose from Tuor's warriors. They had won the fight against Maeglin's spell-bound warriors without losing any of their own, and rejoiced to see the Lady of Gondolin alive and well. Their joy was quenched almost at once, though, for there came suddenly a great sound of rending stone mixed with a dreadful, bestial cry. All eyes turned northeast towards the King's Square, and beheld with horror what they now saw. "No ..." Idril said in a very small voice, her eyes open wide, while a nearby warrior shouted, "The King's Tower! The King's Tower is falling!"

Like a lone tree surrounded by a forest of flaming boughs the King's Tower now stood in the center of the burning city, but it was no longer alone. As Tuor and the Elves watched, transfixed as it were by that dread spectacle, a great grey-green shape had begun to clamber up the tower. It coiled around its smooth marble sides for support, digging its great claws into the stone beneath, and blasting upward with its flame. Already they could see the top of the tower begen to shake and sway as the dragon ascended slowly towards the summit, wrapping its tail about the crumbling base. Above, in the topmost pinnacle of the tower, stood a lone figure with uncrowned head, waiting with sword in hand.

"Father!!!" screamed Idril, and tried to wrench herself free from Tuor's grasp. He held tightly to his wife, refusing to let her go. She clutched at her husband, and then buried her head in his breast, unable to bear the sight unfolding before her eyes.

The weight of the ascending dragon was too much for the weakened tower. With the loud crack of rock torn asunder by lightning, with the mighty rumble of boulders falling down a mountainside, the King's Tower fell and crashed to the ground in a stab of fire and great cloud of smoke. The last Tuor ever saw of Turgon was of him standing upon the high parapet, his foot locked in the rail, holding his sword before him and riding the tower down like the captain of a doomed ship that sinks in the storms of the Sea. There was a great crash and scattering of splintered stones far and wide, and then the smoke and flame covered all. (75)

Chapter 17 - The Flight From The City

With all possible haste Tuor and his family made their way back to the royal library. The Elf-warriors formed a protective cordon around the trio, shielding them from any more would-be assailants. A heavy pall of black smoke laced with rising red embers hung thick and heavy over the burning city below. The sounds of fighting were growing closer now and coming from all directions. All routes to the rest of the city were now cut off. The Enemy had closed its ranks, and was now hard at work finishing off the last part of Gondolin that had not yet fallen. To the north, unseen as yet by Tuor's group, Egalmoth's forces were fighting their way back towards the library. Even the city's defenders who still lived in this last part of the city had joined in the effort, knowing they would never leave alive, buying as much time as they were able while all who might could escape, and doing all that they could to give Tuor and Idril's effort the greatest chance of success. The Enemy had noted this last desperate stand of the Elves, though, and taken action against it. A redoubled rain of bolts and missiles poured unabated from the siege engines outside the walls. The ranks of the Enemy's attacking forces swelled, while those of the defending Elves dwindled. It had now boiled down to a question of time. Tuor was racing against time, but time was rapidly running out.

Gondolin was in its death throes. Where once tall towers and shining marble had stood, now broken stems of stone stabbed into the acrid sky. Where once fair houses and great halls had been built, now piles of smoking rubble lay hither and you. Where once fair gardens and beautiful groves had grown, now mounts of lifeless dust and smouldering ash remained. Where once the Elves had walked to and fro on their daily affairs, now slavering hounds fed on mangled corpses in the street. Where once laughter and music had filled the air, now the screams of the dying and the mocking laughter of Morgoth's folk rent the night. Even the doves of Gondolin were no more, for they were all dead or flown away.

The Elves hustled Tuor and his family inside the shell of the ruined library just as a series of bolts struck the street not far behind them, sending broken paving stones and flaming shrapnel in all directions. Several Elves who had not the time to take cover were killed outright, while many more were injured. The path back to Tuor's house was no more, buried beneath a mound of fallen rubble. Not far away they could hear the sounds of a violent swordfight in process, elven-steel clashing with orc-scimitar, and the bloodcurdling scream of a dragon rising above the din. Tuor nodded to Voronwe, who then escorted Idril and Earendil inside. Tuor and his warriors then ranged themselves in and around the rubble nigh to the door. They were waiting for Egalmoth.

A runner dashed towards the library, soaked in sweat and panting heavily. He stopped when they showed themselves. "The Orcs are but minutes away," he said, "and they bring fire drakes with them!"

"Is Egalmoth coming?" said Glorfindel.

The shaken runner nodded. "He is on his way with all who would come with him."

Even as he spoke they heard a shout. Down the street, zig-zagging through the broken stones and falling rubble came the Elf-lord, leading a mixed company of warriors, running as fast as they could manage. An Orc raiding party burst out of a side street to challenge them. The Elf-lord and his warriors hewed them down without even stopping.

"Where are the rest?" called Glorfindel to Egalmoth, as soon as he came within sight.

"They stayed behind to cover our escape," Egalmoth yelled back, even as he and his fellows made the final sprint for the door. He paused with them a moment, waving to the rest of his warriors to keep going. "Never let it be said that those of the Harp were as craven as Salgant!" (76)

"All of them?" said Tuor.

The Elf-lord nodded. "No more are coming, Tuor. The Enemy's nets have closed about us." He glanced back up the street. "We must make haste if their sacrifice is not to be in vain."

"Then follow me," said Tuor, "before the Orcs find us and slay us all."

Tuor and the Elves quickly picked their way through the rubble-strewn shell of the library until they came to the stairs leading to the basement. They rushed down these as fast as they could, then ran down the basement corridors until they came to the opening of the secret way. A half-dozen Elves of the Wing awaited them, standing aside at the approach of their lord. Between and behind them was a large rectangular opening in the black rock of the west wall of the basement, just large enough for two to walk abreast without stooping. They waited until Tuor and the others had passed within, then followed them inside. One of the warriors reached up and pulled a hidden lever. A massive stone block slid from its place into the opening, sealing it completely.

"That may not hold them for long," said Egalmoth.

"Long enough," said Tuor, then motioned with his head. "Come! By the time they clear it we will have escaped them. Once we have passed and sealed the deadfalls, not even the mightiest fire-drake of the Dark Lord will be able to blast his way though after us."

"May the Valar be praised for your foresight in building this way," said Glorfindel.

"Not mine," said Tuor, "hers."

The company hustled its way through a square passage cleanly cut through the black rock some seven feet to a side. Here and there pale Elven-lamps illuminated the way. Some had been shaken by the violent impacts from above and lay on the floor, while others were missing, or buried under stones disloged from the ceiling. They moved as quickly as they could down the passage, descending in a gentle slope towards the southwest. Abruptly it leveled out and then turned northwest. Not far ahead they could see another group of warriors. Voronwe, Idril, and Earendil were with them, standing next to a series of stairs leading down into darkness. There was the briefest of reunions, and then they began moving down the stairs as quickly as they could. Tuor led the way, nodding to a warrior who had remained standing at the top of the stairs, his hand resting on a stone lever set in the wall. As soon as everyone had cleared the level corridor and was down the stairs, he pulled the lever. Immediately they heard a mighty crash, and the stairwell filled with so much smoky dust that it caused them all to cough. They stopped at the foot of the stairs to catch their breath, and Egalmoth looked at Tuor. "This is of what you spoke?" he spluttered through the dust-filled air.

"Yes," coughed Tuor. He waited for the air to clear a bit before speaking again. "They cannot follow us now. The deadfalls have been tripped behind us, bringing the ceiling down with them. Now we must press ahead, because for us there is no turning back."

Great was the sorrow of the Elves as they followed Tuor into the dim light of the tunnel ahead. Behind him came Voronwe leading Idril and Earendil, closely guarded by warriors of the Wing, then Glorfindel and his warriors, and at the last Egalmoth with the rest. The city was in flames above them, and their only hope of escape now rested in this frail tunnel running under the feet of their foes. Few of them believed that they would actually reach the end before they were slain. Some even expected to find the servants of the Dark Lord standing ready to welcome them with the piercings of cold steel at journey's end. And if they somehow made it through the tunnel without harm, and by some faint hope escaped the Vale of Tumladen -- what then? All the lands of the North were now fiefdoms of Angband, and none of his foes could hope to escape the wrath of the Dark Lord for long. So thought most of those in the tunnel as they followed Tuor into the gloom.

The new tunnel was level and ran due northwest in a straight line. As before it was lit with Elven-lamps, though far too few to completely show the way. Further dimming the light was a dusty haze, which filled the tunnel and sometimes made it hard to see. There were many places where the trampings of the dragons above had shaken stones loose from the ceiling, wounding or killing those upon whom they fell -- those who had fled that way earlier. Thus Tuor's party traveled through that dusky, dusty tunnel for what seemed like endless hours -- stumbling over fallen stones in the dim light or tripping over bodies half-crushed under broken stones in their path. Tuor noted the body of Meleth protruding from one of the piles of rubble and glanced sharply at Idril. She quickly hid Earendil's eyes as they passed, and they moved on. The way grew easier the farther they went, and there came a time where there were neither stones nor bodies littering the tunnel floor. At this their hearts rose, and they picked up their pace. After some time, the floor began to rise again between rough-hewn walls, and at this their hearts rose. It was not long after that they emerged in the bed of the dry lake just over three leagues northwest of the city. All were tired, dirty, and exhausted, but they were alive. Penlegod was waiting for them, and they could see many others who had fled through the tunnel before them and survived the passage. They took the opportunity to rest and gather their strength, and Tuor took stock of their predicament.

The situation of those who had managed to escape the sack of the city was precarious at best. There were about two thousand Elves huddled within the bed of the dry lake, keeping out of sight below its rim and being as quiet as possible lest they be discovered by any foes lurking nearby on the plain. Of these, fully two-thirds were maidens, children, and the lesser folk of Gondolin -- saved from death or thralldom by the valiant efforts of Idril and her guards. The rest, comprising some five full companies of mixed warriors and part of a sixth, was all that remained of the once mighty army of Gondolin -- the same that had once marched to the field of the Nirnaeth ten thousand strong with only a part of its full strength. The largest part of these were warriors of the Wing, but some had survived from every host save those of the King's Host, the White Tree, and the Mole. Tuor, Glorfindel, and Egalmoth were the only surviving host lords; but Penlegod also lived, as did Gildor Inglorin of Nargothrond and a few other Elf-captains. (77) Lookouts had already been set on the rim around all sides of the lakebed, watching to see if any of the Enemy left the city and came that way. Together with Glorfindel and Egalmoth, Tuor ascended the steep southward bank of the dry lake and stopped at its rim, crouching at the edge and peering cautiously back towards the city.

A thick pall of billowing black smoke rose from the summit of the now-distant hill. It seemed to Tuor's eyes that Amon Gwareth was crowned with fire -- a black knoll topped by a mountain of flame marking the place that had once been their home. The once-shining city of gleaming white was now a blazing ruin, surrounded on all sides by the hosts of Angband. Now and again he could make out the long, slithering forms of the great drakes and their lesser cousins passing though the wrecked gates or defiling the broken stones. As he looked, the tall spire of one the few city towers still standing was revealed through a break in the mists. With a heavy heart, he recognized the one that had been his home. It swayed, then toppled and fell into the shadows. The smoke rolled and closed again, hiding it from sight. He could just make out a tumultuous din of revelling lifted on the airs towards them, mixed among the sounds of burning flame and crashing stone. He shook his head in sadness. "We must flee this place as soon as we are able," he said to the others in a low voice. "We may be discovered at any time. Dawn will be upon us before long, and with it this place will no longer be safe."

"Where do you propose we go?" said Egalmoth, also speaking low. "The Enemy holds the hills. There is no way from the Vale to the South save the Orfalch Echor, and we have not the strength to reopen the Hidden Way even if we could."

"There is a way we can flee, a dangerous road that even the folk of Angband will fear," said Tuor. "It is our only hope. We must flee through the Eagles' Cleft yonder, and thus make our way over the Echoriath and to the lands beyond. The creatures of Morgoth fear the Eagles of Manwe, and since the pass lies under their eyries, we should be safe."

"The Cristhorn?" said Egalmoth, and his voice was raised a notch. "Are you mad? The dawn will catch us long before we could gain the hills, and what then? And even if we should by some chance win the journey across the plain, it is a hard and bitter road -- one for which these people are ill-prepared and find hard to bear -- and it leads to the Vale of Sirion, which the Enemy holds!"

"There is no other way," snapped Tuor, striving to keep his voice low. "The Eagles will protect us. As for our people, they will bear the journey because they must, or perish."

Egalmoth snorted, and looked doubtful. "I am not so sure," he said. "I am not sure of anything anymore. It was said that Gondolin would not fall save to treachery from within, yet the treachery came and the city fell."

"Curse Maeglin, yes," said Glorfindel.

"It was said that the cairn of Fingolfin would never be defiled by his foes, yet the hosts of Angband marched over his broken bones to come to the Hidden Realm," said Egalmoth. "You say that the Eagles' Cleft is the only safe pass out of the vale, and that they will protect us? Then tell me, Tuor -- what happened to the Eagles? Where are they? Why did they not come to the defense of the city? We have had neither sight nor sound of them since the last warning of Ulmo to Turgon."

"Perhaps they were forbidden," said Glorfindel.

"Perhaps they are no longer there," said Egalmoth.

"They are still there," said Glorfindel. "I saw them with my own eyes two days ago, before the storm came over the mountains." He looked up at the dark clouds still hovering low over the mountains above them.

"Even so," said Egalmoth, "where are they now? Why did they not come to our aid -- or could they? If they could not come to us when the city was attacked, then who can rightly say that the high pass is safe?" He nodded at the clouds. "Perhaps the Dark Lord has finally found a way to deal with Thorondor and his folk. If that be true, than how shall we escape destruction?"

Tuor did not reply. Instead, he turned his face from the sight of the flaming city and looked behind them, casting his eyes over the scores of Elves huddled there. He noted their shock and fear. Those children still with one or both parents clung to them and wept, while others sought consolation as best they could. As for the adults, their fear was beyond them, but in its place was a shocked sadness, a stare of such pain and sorrow that Tuor could not find words to describe it. At last he turned back to them. "There is no other road for us out of the vale save the Cristhorn," he said firmly. "It may yet be dangerous, but less so I deem than our foes upon the plain. What say you, Glorfindel?"

The Elf-lord was stil looking at the snow-laden peaks high above them, with their dark crown of ominous storm. "No wonder the Eagles did not come to our aid," he said, almost as if to himself. "How could they, with such a thing assailing their own homes? (78) It would have been rough passage enough without the storm, but the wind and snow will make matters worse, and few of this folk walked with me across the Grinding Ice." (79) He shook his head, then looked to Tuor. "Be that as it may, I will follow where you lead. The king appointed you as our lord before his fall, so I will set aside my own doubts and do what you bid. I will take the Eagles' Cleft."

"Your point is taken, but I still have my doubts," said Egalmoth.

At that moment their conversation was interrupted by the sound of someone climbing the slope behind them. They looked back to see Idril coming towards them. Tuor quickly went to her side and helped her the rest of the way. She settled into place by his side. He could tell she was upset, and was keeping her composure only by a supreme effort of will. "You should not be here," he said softly, in a tone that spoke of loving reproof. "You should stay below where it is safe."

"There are now no safe places in Tumladen for all our folk," said Idril. She looked towards Egalmoth. "My friend, I believe you were discussing our flight from the vale?"

"Yes, my lady," said Egalmoth, head bowing in deference.

"Then follow your lord's wisdom and do not question what he commands," said Idril. "Your fears are not unfounded, Egalmoth, but this path was carefully chosen long ago after much deliberation. Things may be darker now than we foresaw when our plans were first devised, but it still seems to me the best choice."

Tuor nodded in accord with Idril. "You no doubt remember that the hosts of Angband came over the Echoriath in the north and east, but not in the west or south?"

"Aye, true enough," said Egalmoth.

"The southward approach is easy enough to explain," said Tuor. "There are no passes there save the Orfalch Echor, and that is now sealed to all travel."

"And it is certain that the Dark Lord will have seen to that way in the unlikely event that we might have reopened it," said Idril.

"That leaves the western hills," said Tuor, "and those have been guarded by the Eagles since before the Noldor came back to Middle-earth. The Eagles' Cleft is the only known pass. The armies of the Dark Lord did not come that way in their assault, so I believe it may still be open to us."

"As do I," said Idril.

Egalmoth finally conceeded. "I see the logic in your words, though my heart remains heavy," he said. "Very well. Let us take the Eagles' Cleft."

It was at that moment that they noticed a shift in the breeze, which up until now had been slow and to the southeast. Now the wind changed and began to blow strongly, swinging around towards the northwest. Glorfindel looked up, his golden locks beginning to dance around his helm, then turned towards Tuor. "The Lord of Airs has blessed your choice of paths," he said. "Manwe shifts the wind in our favor, and would shield us with the smoke and steam rising from the ruin of the city." They looked about and could see for themselves of what the Elf-lord spoke. The wind was catching the thick clouds and pulling them down over the plain, laying a thick blanket of black and grey that was quickly moving towards them, heading in the direction of the pass.

"We must make haste before this chance is lost," said Tuor quickly, then motioned to the Elves below. "Have the people gather their things and make ready to leave at once. We must make the foothills before the sun rises and burns our cover away."

A new day slowly unfurled in the skies above Middle-earth. It was a day quite unlike the bright and joyous occasion that Midsummer's Day should be. A large red sun ascended into a sickly sky just above the shoulders of the hills. The dull red fingers of that sad dawn crept cautiously over the slopes, as if fearing what they might find within the circle of the hills. The stiff northwest breezes of the night before had lessened with the growing light, and now an uneasy calm rested upon the vale. It seemed that the morning airs were holding back, being careful so as not to disturb the thick grey fog that hung motionless at the bottom of the vale, covering it from slope to slope and hiding from sight the wounds of the ruined plain. There had never been such a thing within the Echoriath in all the days that the Elves had dwelt there, but no doubt the thick blanket of mist had something to do with the death of so many waters the night before. As the sun mounted higher and the light grew stronger, the mist was slowly burned away to reveal the bed of a dry lake just over three leagues northwest of the city, long empty of water but strewn hither and yon with assorted flotsam. The debris and trampled dust within its bowl gave every sign of there being a large gathering within not long before. Now those folk were gone, and only the empty lake remained.

There was little to be heard within the Vale of Tumladen that day. Not a cock crowed, not a bird sang, not an insect buzzed or chirped to break the gloom. The only sounds to be heard were the deep-throated rumblings of the drakes that lay slumbering on the plain night to the hill of Amon Gwareth, and the unintelligible yammering of the Orcs as they fought among themselves for their share of the spoils of Gondolin. If one were blessed with the hearing of the Elves and listened very hard, one might hear the soft weeping and muffled sobs of the captives herded together in the ruin of the Great Market, awaiting the start of their long and toilsome march to thralldom in the pits of Angband. Save for these, all was still within the bounds of the vale.

Gondolin was no more. Its king was dead, slain in the fall of the great tower at the heart of the city the night before. Its people were gone -- for the most part slain, a pitiful few scattered or fled to the hills, and the rest awaiting lives of slavery under the cruel whips of the Black Hand. Its noble buildings and graceful towers were now tumbled into rubble. Only their broken shells remained standing to greet the morn, thrusting into the grey sky like a trampled field of shorn stalks. Even the city walls, whose shining marble once lit the vale with their sheen, now stood dull and barren atop the summit of the hill -- their gates broken, their ramparts toppled in many places. The stones of Gondolin were white no more, but were now stained with blood from the fallen and black soot from the fires burning all about.

The Orcs were burning the dead. With kindling pulled from the wreck of their assault, with fuel hewn from the trees of the vale, they had built great pyres all over the summit of the Hill of Guard and upon the plain nigh to its slopes. Nonstop they cast the bodies of the slain both friend and foe onto the flames. A horrible charnel stench arose from the flaming pyres, causing even the Orcs to gag and choke at the reek. The flies were already buzzing about the bloody corpses stacked nearby awaiting the flames, and the wolves and other such creatures of the Dark Lord had all the meat they could ever desire for their terrible feast that day.

There was one morsel in particular that escaped the slavering jaws of the Dark Lord's beasts. It had been taken from the place where it had been found and set upon a pike beside the broken East-gate, from which the captives could not fail to notice it as they began their dreaded journey to the North. It was the severed head of an Elf, battered and broken almost beyond recognition, with raven-black hair matted by dried blood hanging from its scalp. Upon its brow had been placed Turgon's crown -- once a thing of exquisite beauty and workmanship, but now stripped of its gilt and jewels so that only the twisted frame remained.

The Dark Lord had kept his vow to the son of Eol. Maeglin's head now bore the crown of the Hidden Realm. (80)

Chapter 18 - Sorrow and Darkness

The new day found the refugees under the cover of a large glade of hazels in the foothills at the base of the Eagles' Cleft, well hidden from any foes that might be lurking about on the plain below. It was nestled inside a small dale tucked just behind one of the larger foothills at the bottom of the mountain slopes, lying within easy striking distance of the high pass. The Elves for the most part slept or rested under the trees as well as they might save for the warriors, who took turns guarding the glade or standing watch from the hill and other strategic points nearby. All were weary and spent from what had taken place the night before. Even those warriors who did not watch or guard availed themselves of the opportunity to gather their strength, for evening would provide no solace. The coming night's journey would be much harder than the last, but they could not remain hidden in the hazels indefinitely. Every hour they remained within the vale prolonged the time for the Dark Lord's creatures to find them. If they did, then death would be certain for the Elves.

They had made the cover of the glade just as the last faint wisps of the morning mist faded from the vale. They had marched all the remainder of the past night and during the grey hours of the morn with all the speed they could muster, despite the burden of the wounded. Tuor had pressed them to reach the safety of the foothills before the veil of smoke and shadow was lost. It was seven leagues save a mile from the West-gate of Gondolin to the northwestern foothills, and the dry lake lay almost halfway between. The Eagles' Cleft lay just over three leagues from the lake and another two up the slopes. Their haste to cross such a large distance hampered as they were was in vain, for the dawn of day found them still over a league from the cover of the hills. Even so, they escaped the eyes of their foes. The mist remained about them until they reached the hazel thicket, and then the morning sun burned it away. The whole of the Vale of Tumladen now lay naked under the light of day, but at least the refugees were well hid from prying eyes until nightfall.

A large red sun now hung high above a saddle in the eastern hills ascending swiftly to its midday peak, its rays streaming unchecked upon the vale. Neither a green nor growing thing was to be seen anywhere around the city, nor any other place upon the plain where the Dark Lord's servants had trod. The tall grasses that had once carpeted the Festival Plain were now crushed under the marks of many shod feet, and its summer flowers had been trampled and broken by both boot and claw. The great trees of Gondolin that had once stood in many places around the city were gone, hewn down to serve the Dark Lord's needs. Only shorn or blackened stumps remained to mark where once had stood tall groves of pines and beeches, the great garden of mallorn trees that had once ringed the city, and the broad forest that had once grown along the banks of the Hidden River south of the Festival Plain. They were all gone now, and the funeral pyres burning within the vale were quickly consuming what leavings remained. Their smoke billowed high and black straight up into the empty sky, and all but hid the summit of Amon Gwareth from view.

Tuor crouched along with Egalmoth and Glorfindel and a small group of warriors on the heights of the foothill overlooking the dale, peering over the shoulder of the hill back down the path they had trod the night before. It was at times like this that he wished he had elven-sight, he mused, so he could see for himself what was happening in the ruin of the city across the plain. Tuor doubted not that the least Elf-warrior under his charge could see the scrub bushes on the slopes of the eastern hills if he so desired. Only the Eagles of Manwe and the great drakes of the Dark Lord could outreach the Elves in sight. He was aroused from his musing by the words of the warrior beside him -- a sharp-eyed Elf who had been set as a sentinel in that place. He had been of the Eagle, and was one of the very few of that host that had escaped the city.

"My lord?" said the sentinel.

"Yes?" said Tuor, coming to himself. "You have something to report?"

"Indeed, my lord," said the sentinel. "I can see companies of Men riding wolves leaving the outer works around the city. They are dark-skinned and swarthy, and bear a strong resemblance to the Eastrons."

"Are they heading this way?" said Tuor.

"Nay, my lord," said the sentinel. "They are bearing southwest, riding across the plain down the road that leads to the Orfalch Echor."

"Probably seeking any who might have fled and took shelter there," said Glorfindel.

Tuor nodded. "My guess is that they are the Wolf-riders of Lothlann, if I remember correctly. The description fits. Some came to visit my master Lorgan during the days of my captivity in Hithlum. They are a foul bunch, the lot of them, worse than the Eastrons if you can imagine. At least the Eastrons tried to adopt some of the manners of the House of Hador after they stole our lands. These brutes are still savages in the extreme." He paused to sort his thoughts, then spoke again. "It seems Maeglin was very thorough in his report to the Dark Lord of the ways and defenses of the vale."

"That bloody traitor would have had us all killed just to claim the throne and Idril for his own," said Egalmoth angrily. "Curse him! A curse upon the house of Eol!"

"I doubt there are any left to bear it," said Glorfindel.

"Besides," said Tuor, "he never learned of the secret way, and his ignorance proved our salvation. Self-confidence cuts both ways -- it can provide the strength to follow through with one's convictions, yet at the same time it can blind one to better ways to do the deed. Let us not make the same mistake as he."

Glorfindel looked thoughtful. "When do you think they will search the Eagles' Cleft?" he said after a moment.

Everyone looked at him. Tuor was the first to speak. "My guess is that they will save it for last. I can hear your thought well enough: Maeglin no doubt told them about the high pass. Still, they would have the Eagles to contend with, and that would be no small contest. I would think they would not dare risk such a venture unless they had some mighty creature with them -- like a dragon, or perhaps even a Balrog."

Egalmoth smiled grimly. It was the first time they had seen him smile since the assault on the city. "I do not see the Dark Lord squeezing one of his drakes onto the narrow paths of the Cristhorn," he said, "unless it be one of the little ones with no flame, and even it would find the way hard going. As for a Balrog, there are precious few of them left to the Dark Lord, what with the War and all. The only one we saw was Gothmog, and he did not come forth until he thought he had his prize within his grasp. Maybe he was the only one."

"The only one of which we know," said Glorfindel. "Might there be one outside the hills? A Balrog retook the Pass of Sirion after the fall of Sauron, and held it until the Union of Maedhros drove him out. That was before the Nirnaeth, but it could be that a Balrog commands there again. After all, it is the main road to Beleriand from the North, and always has the Dark Lord given its keeping to his most trusted servants." (81)

"That is a comforting thought," said Egalmoth dryly.

"Who knows what awaits us beyond the snow?" said Tuor. "Let us hope you are wrong, Glorfindel. Right now we need all the hope we can muster."

"And right now, lord, you need some rest," said Glorfindel. "You look as if you could use some."

"I am not tired," said Tuor, but he yawned.

"A warrior does not win battles with sleep in his eyes," said Glorfindel, and he smiled. "It will do your folk little good to have a lord who is asleep on his feet should danger come upon us suddenly. Your needs are different than ours, Tuor, so take what chances for rest present themselves. Sleep now while you can. We will wake you if need be."

Tuor shook his head, but he too was smiling. "You sound like my foster-father Annael," he said, "but you are right. A lord takes the good advice from his counselors, or so it is said, so I will take your advice and get some sleep. I leave you and Egalmoth in charge until I return."

The two Elf-lords watched as Tuor arose and made his way down the hill, then moved into the hazels until he was lost from sight. "Mortals are a strange breed, Glorfindel," said Egalmoth, looking back over the plain again. "I still have my doubts that this Man can lead us to safety."

"Could you do any better?" said Glorfindel, shifting his position on the stones.

"I might, if I had the chance," said Egalmoth.

"The King appointed Tuor to be our lord," said Glorfindel, "not because he is a mortal, but because he bears the mark of the One. Whatever your doubts or fears may be about the son of Huor, I know with a certainty that he is the best choice to lead our people in this time of trial. He has the grace of the Valar, who favors him with their countenance. Call it foresight, or what you will, but I deem this Man will be the salvation of our people -- what few remain."

"I am still not convinced," said Egalmoth.

"You are a hard-headed Elf," said Glorfindel, shaking his head. "Have you ever stopped to think that only a Man, a mortal with no ties to the Blessed Realm, might be the one who could save us from the Curse of the Noldor? Have you?"

"You think too much," said Egalmoth, and he would say nothing else to Glorfindel, aside from that required by duty, for the rest of that day.

Tuor made his way to the middle of the dell. He found Idril and Earendil resting under the shade of a large beech tree that grew close to a shallow brook. About them at a respectful distance were four warriors of the Wing, hands on their weapons, as they stood constant guard over the Lady and Heir of Gondolin. Tuor was not about to let Idril come within harm's way again if he could help it. He waved his hand, and then the guard moved until they were just out of sight, leaving him with his family. (82)

Idril sat with her back to a tree, weeping quietly. She did not cry heedlessly, but her sobs were soft, and tears rolled unchecked from her eyes as her pent-up grief was loosed. Earendil was dozing, nestled in his mother's lap within the crook of her right arm, his face uneasy in its slumbers. Tuor sat down beside them. Idril seemed not to see him, her eyes remaining fixed on some distant sight as she continued her quiet weeping. He looked down at the sleeping Earendil, but found no comfort there. The boy made no sound, save for the soft rise and fall of his slumberous breathing, but now and again his eyes would twitch, and he would tremble from whatever ill vision troubled him. He considered waking Earendil, but decided against it. Best to leave him alone for now. He saw Idril's head turn. It seemed she had finally noticed him.

"I have been relieved until sundown," he said, looking as cheerful as he could. "I was told to give my mortal bones a rest until such time as they are needed."

"My lord needs his strength for the trials ahead," said Idril. She tried to laugh, but it came out choked and mixed with a sob.

"Idril--" began Tuor.

"Forgive me," she said, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. "My foolishness almost cost us both our lives."

Tuor thought back to his contest with Gothmog, when he had been forced to face the Balrog with only his knife. "Decisions are hard to make in times of peril," he said as lovingly as he could. "Who am I to say I would have done otherwise?" (83)

He though he saw a smile flit across Idril's face, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. "Sad is blindness of the wise," she said.

Tuor reached over and caressed her brow, brushing away the tangled hairs that had fallen there. "Sad too is the stubborness of those we love," he said softly, "both father and daughter. Still, it was a valiant fault, and served both well."

Idril choked back a sob. She once again turned her face away from him. Tuor did not press, and so they sat together in silence while the stream flowed beside them. At last she spoke. "The king need not have died," she said in a small voice.

"It was his choice," said Tuor. "He felt he had to pay for his mistakes, and he did not want to leave us to fend for ourselves. His choice bought us the time we needed to escape. Had it not been for your father, I would not have returned in time to save you." He looked away, as if seeking that distant place that Idril's eyes sought. "It was his doom to die in Gondolin, Idril, the place that was the most dear to his heart. I do not pretend to understand it, nor why it had to be. We must look beyond that now. As long as you and our son live, the House of Turgon lives, and will someday rise again to bite the Black Hand that did this to us."

"If we survive," said Idril.

"We will survive," said Tuor firmly. He kissed her brow, and she smiled back at him. He then moved to one side and drew his cloak about him. "Now I must rest, and gather strength for the night ahead," he said. At once a great weariness came over him, and he was asleep within minutes; but Idril's tears had also slowed, and soon she too was at rest.

The only sounds to be heard from under the hazel tree were the breathing of Tuor and his slumbering family -- the deep breathing of Tuor, the quiet waking whispers of Idril, and the soft sighing of Earendil -- blended in perfect harmony with the song of the stream flowing through the glade. Whether it was by some last magic in the voice of the stream, or a half-remembered echo of the vision of Ulmo, a dream came unbidden to Tuor as he slept. It was of a great battle set before three tall mountains fenced by black hills, with powers and forces unleashed on a scale Tuor could barely comprehend. Above the battle flew larged winged drakes, wreaking destruction and woe upon those who fought. But even as they smote down the fighters below a cry of challenge rang from the skies. High above, the Eagles of Manwe bore down upon their foes, escorted by a shining silver star whose growing radiance soon drove the vision from sight. (84)

It was just after sundown when Tuor gave orders to leave the cover of the glade and begin the long climb up the pass. It promised to be a dangerous journey, not only because of the dangers of the pass but also due to the perils of their plight. They could not hope to move neither by stealth nor with any great speed, encumbered as they were with maidens, children, and the stricken. Even so Tuor pressed the Elves to hasten their steps. They did better than they might have otherwise, for they feared pursuit by the Dark Lord's forces encamped upon the plain. Thus they traded certain death within the vale for the unknown perils without. Turning their backs on what was left of Gondolin, they began the long and dangerous ascent towards the Eagles' Cleft.

The cold mountain airs bore down around the refugees and whipped about them unmercifully as they climbed towards the steep mountain pass. The wind cut through their thin garments as if they wore naught, and chilled them to the bone. Many of them had fled the city with only the clothes on their backs -- light garments for the festival of Tarnin Austa -- and little more save for blankets and other such things that had been stored in the library for such a flight. (85) They chattered their teeth and muttered among themselves, complaining bitterly about the cold. It could not be helped, as they they all knew, for they were fortunate even to be alive, but they grumbled nonetheless. It was only natural, given their circumstances, and gave them something other than the fall of Gondolin to think about. Warm clothing was not the only thing they had left behind. Many also carried what few oddiments they could grab before they fled their homes. There had been those who had tried to bring more, but Tuor would let them bring only what could be easily borne. The rest he made them leave behind in the dry lake.

Tuor's host was ill prepared to deal with the chill airs and wind-whipped snow that the storm over the high pass now inflicted upon them. This had not been anticipated, so no provision had been made for it. The loose sandals and festival slippers worn by many of the Elves were not made for such a journey. The Elves had hastily bound their feet in strips of cloth torn from their garments and other gear before beginning their journey, but the storm contrived to undo many of these. There was not enough lacing to bind them properly, and after a time some of the Elves were forced to walk unshod. Their bruised and bloodied feet left behind a trail of trampled slow spotted with red, marking their path back down the hillside.

The wind grew in intensity the higher they mounted the mountains. Now the storm drove snow into their faces, whipping around the rocks in whorls and wind-eddies as it sought to deny them entrance to the high pass. They could hardly see twenty paces in front of them. They were slowed by the wind-whipped snow, and by the time they reached the high pass the refugees had been drawn out into a long and straggling line. Everyone kept within sight of the next, for fear of losing them in the storm. It was just as well, for the pass was narrow, with barely enough room for two to walk abreast. A sheer rock wall rose high on their right while a yawning chasm loomed to their left. The long line of refugees struggled through the driving snow, forcing their way forward as they sought to win the passage of the high pass.

In front was Voronwe and a band of spearmen. By his side was one Hendor, a keen-eyed Elf of the Wing who had the best night-sight of any of them. He led the way through the blizzard that now beset them. Next followed the elf-maidens and children, aiding the walking wounded. Rearmost of these were Idril and Earendil, the last two surviving members of the royal family of Gondolin. With his family walked Tuor son of Huor, lord of their host, and behind him came the warriors of the Wing -- the largest of all groups of warriors that had survived the fall of Gondolin. Next came Glorfindel and Gildor, along with the surviving warriors of the Fountain and Golden Flower. Between Tuor and Glorfindel's warriors was set Penlegod and the survivors of the Harp, along with the few Elves in their midst who were not warriors, aiding and tending those whose wounds were too grevious for walking -- the blinded, those with hewn or broken limbs, maidens with wounded children, and so forth. At the rear of their host was set their largest group of battle-worthy warriors, and with them strode Egalmoth the Elf-lord as their captain. They were set this way in case the Enemy sought to pursue them; for then their foes would have to contend with the strongest force remaining to them. In this manner they could hold the narrow pass, while the others escaped behind their swords.

The moon was already high in the night sky when they finally reached the top of the Eagles' Cleft, but the storm and the sheer heights conspired against their seeing it. They did not miss it, for they were more concerned with keeping their footing upon the narrow path. No comfort was there to be had in such a place. It had closed the farther they went in, until now it was a little more than a stride wide. The wind and snow strove to press them immobile against the rock wall behind, or pick them up from the path and fling them down into the depths of the abyss below. It was all they could do to keep their feet, and keep moving against such a force.

The rock wall was cut by many ledges and fissures that offered occasional shelter from the storm. These were place such that one skilled in the art of rock climbing might in clear weather have ascended all the way to the eyries of the Eagles high above. For a greater challenge, such a person might have sought a way down through the jagged rocks lining the sides of the gorge below like row upon row of broken teeth ranged within a cruel maul. There was a slender stream crushed between the rock walls at the bottom of the abyss that emptied into the lands beyond, but they could not see it for the blizzard raging about them.

The refugees had fought their way through the driving snow for almost a mile through the pass when Tuor dropped back through the line to speak with Glorfindel. "I have just received word from Voronwe," he shouted above the howling wind. "Hendor says they are nigh to the end of the cleft."

"That is good," shouted Glorfindel in reply. "I do not trust this storm, Tuor. I will be glad once we have put it behind us. Its winds sing praises of the Dark Lord's might."

"So you were right," said Tuor grimly. "I too can sense a malice within, and a will that strives constantly to hinder our passage. This is indeed the Dark Lord's storm." He waved back down the line. "How are we doing?"

"Not as good as we might," said Glorfindel. "Egalmoth sends word that only now has the last of his rearguard passed within the cleft. Fortunately, there is no sign of pursuit."

"That is odd," said Tuor. "I would have thought the hunt would have been on by now."

Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by a loud tumbling sound rising above the voice of the storm -- the sound of many rocks falling from on high. "Take cover!" Tuor yelled. His cry was echoed up and down the line, but even as the alarm was sounded the rocks came crashing down from the heights. Tuor saw a warrior smitten before his eyes by a great boulder that carried him off the ledge and into the chasm below, but was himself knocked off his feet and back against the rock wall by Glorfindel. A massive block of stone smote the path and splintered before him, tearing out in its passing part of the path upon which he had been standing. There were screams of agony before and behind as the rocks fell among the line of Elves, and Tuor fancied hearing faint leering laughter coming from above. He clutched Glorfindel's arm, but the Elf-lord was already nodding in agreement. "Orcs," he said grimly. "Orcs in the high pass. That is why they did not pursue us. Now we must fight our way through or perish."

Of the dreadful ambush that took place within the Cristhorn, the high pass of the Eagles' Cleft, there is not much to say. Those Elves who survived that dreadful crossing do not desire to speak of it. They lost over half their number that night, and one most dear to their hearts. There are many who will begin the tale, but few will finish; for they will recall the faces of those that died on the path, and then their tongue will be stilled. They could do little but watch as their fellow Elves were struck down all about them. Had not the Lords of the West smiled on them, and fortune turned in their favor, all of them would have died in that terrible place. Thus this account tells only in brief all that happend in the high pass that night, and chiefly of those things concerning Tuor. Of the sorrows of the rest of his folk, little more is here said.

Tuor's first thought was for the safety of Idril and Earendil. Leaving Glorfindel behind to rally his warriors, the Man inched his way back up the path under the slim shelter of the rock wall, until he was back among his own folk. There he found some solace for his fears. In that place was a cleft in the face of the rock -- a narrow chimney below a slender ledge not far above. Both Idril and Earendil had been wedged inside that cleft. Before them stood a band of the warriors of the Wing, using their shields to ward of the smaller rocks that tumbled down in that place. A number of them already lay dead on the path, crushed or broken by the rocks above; but as soon as one was slain, his body was pulled aside and another took his place. The Lady and Heir of Gondolin were as safe as could be, so Tuor moved on up the line.

The winds began to abate somewhat as the storm lessened. Now arrows winged their way down from above: the barbed shafts of the Orcs of which the Elves knew all too well. Tuor could now hear the sounds of fighting to the front of the line, and through a break in the snow saw bitter combat ahead where Voronwe's group had led the way. That was not all, for now a messenger came to him through the ranks of the wounded. "Orcs are falling on us from the rocks above," he said, "and my lord Glorfindel is hard pressed." He would have said more, but just then a shaft from above smote him down before Tuor's eyes.

The storm had by now lessened to the point where the snow fell thin. The light of the moon began to make its way through the thick cover of clouds, casting its dim gleam upon the rocks of the high pass. Its pale sheen glinted now and again on the gear of both Elf and Orc. It was too weak to drive away the darkness that shrouded the pass, but was enough for an elven-archer to find his mark. Soon the Elves began to fire back at their assailants high above, causing the rain of death to lessen somewhat.

Tuor called to those of his warriors who were not busy defending Idril and Earendil, then raced forward to the aid of Voronwe. Glorfindel's group remained where it was, protecting the wounded, slaying those Orcs that had fallen on them and shooting down many more that tried to do the same. Tuor's group came not a moment too soon to Voronwe's aid, for the fight there was not going in favor of the Elves. In that place the path had widened to a fair-sized shelf lined with piles of fallen stone, and the Orcs had been hidden in many places among them. They had waited until Voronwe and his warriors had passed, then attacked amid the confusion of the ambush, striking both up and down the line. They assailed Voronwe's warriors from behind and slew many in the forefront of those that followed after. Tuor and his warriors stormed into that affray, and soon the Orcs were forced to give way before them. His quick action saved the lives of many, but there were many maidens and children and walking wounded whose butchered bodies now lay upon the path, having escaped death in the city only to find it in the high pass.

It was just beginning to look as if they might drive the Orcs into the abyss when they heard it coming up the pass: a terrible cry of rage borne towards them by the dying wind that froze them in their tracks. Tuor knew that cry, as did the Elves, and his heart quailed within him at the thought of what now approached. A massive, familiar-looking shadow was now growing before his eyes, seeking to swallow the dim light of the moon that had found its way into the pass from the thinning clouds above. Its enormous wings flexed and furled behind it, and a mane of black fire crowned its misshapen head. With its left hand it held a massive scimitar, larger than any Tuor had ever seen. With its right it wielded its trademark whip of flame. Though it was smaller than the other, it easily stood twice as tall as Tuor, perhaps more. There was no mistaking their newfound foe -- it was a Balrog of the Dark Lord.

With a dreadful shriek the creature bounded into the midst of the fray. The giant scimitar flashed in the night, and three elven-warriors fell dead beneath its bite. The whip of fire cracked with the sound of thunder, and together grappling Orc and Elf were struck to the ground, never to move again. A swarm of spears and arrows descended upon the fell beast, but its black flame incinerated them before they could bite. The creature whirled around to seek the ones who would attack it so. Standing before it upon a broken pile of stone was Tuor and a handful of warriors of the Wing, bows draw and fresh spears in hand, making ready for another assault. The Man and the Balrog locked eyes, and it seemed to Tuor in that moment that the wings of a dark shadow of thought beat about his mind. Then it was gone, and a wicked smile played across the face of his foe. At once it unfurled its wings and rose into the fitful airs of the pass, scattering Elf and Orc alike in the fury of its ascent. Seemingly heedless of the dying storm, it passed swiftly over the heads of Tuor and his warriors, too quick for cast by bow or dart, then barreled towards the maidens and children fleeing back down the path.

With a horrified shock Tuor realized the Balrog's intent. It had somehow sensed his most pressing fear, and now sought to slay those he held most dear. Idril and Earendil were what the creature sought. They would have to pay the price for Tuor's defiance. "No!!!" cried Tuor, spinning about and storming back down the path, not waiting to see if anyone followed him, the blade of Dramborleg swiftly silencing those few Orcs that tried to block his path. He had but one thought in his mind, and that thought drove him ever on, but he was too late. Even as he sprinted down the path to where Idril and Earendil had been secured, leaping over the bodies of the fallen through the swath of death that had been cut through his folk, he could see that the Balrog had arrived before him. His wife and son now cowered before the creature, their eyes wide with terror, and all of their guard dead on the stones about them. There was no way Tuor could cast his axe this time, for Idril and Earendil were just beyond the Balrog, and might be caught by the throw. (86) He yelled as loud as he could to draw the creatures attention. It paid him no heed as it raised its whip and prepared to strike.

Suddenly there was a figure in golden mail standing before the Balrog, sword raised, and then there was the flash of pale elven-steel in the moonlight. The Balrog screamed in pain as its shorn arm fell to the ground, the whip of flame falling extinguished from its twitching fingers. At once the creature spread its wings and soared up the face of the rock wall, but its foe was not to be put off so easily. Glorfindel leapt upon the rocks and climbed swiftly after his foe, moving with elvish dexterity up the face of the rock wall despite the remnants of wind and snow blowing about him. Tuor came to the aid of his terrified wife and son even as he heard the Elf-lords voice float down to him from the rocks. "Stay and guard our folk! I will deal with this one!"

High above the heads of Tuor and the Elves, a deadly duel raged upon the mountainside. Above the tops of the clouds a Balrog of Morgoth battled with an Elf-lord of the Noldor. Those upon the path who were able despite the assault to cast their gaze heavenward witnessed firsthand the valor of Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, as he leapt from ledge to ledge and rock to rock in pursuit of his wounded foe. None were able to come to their aid in that deadly duel. It was too high for the Orcs to climb, and the Elves were too hard beset. Even so, those Elves that witnessed it and survived revere the memory of that incredible fight -- and they say, when they see good struggling against great odds against evil might, "Like Glorfindel of old against the Balrog."

The end was sudden and swift. The Balrog came to a high precipice with a wide shelf high above the path, and there chose to give battle. They strove together, black scimitar against elven-steel, until Glorfindel wounded his foe in the wing. With a sudden move his foe pressed him against the rocks, pinning his sword-arm to his side, then seeking to break his skull with his shorn arm. The Elf-lord countered by seizing his knife from his belt with his free hand and thrusting it deep into the Balrog's flesh. The creature screamed and fell back, and with that Glorfindel brought his sword to bear and buried it deep within the heart of his foe. It tottered on the brink of the precipice ofr a moment, and then it fell -- but it did not do so alone. With its last dying strength it reached up and seized the long golden locks of Glorfindel, pulling the Elf-lord down with him to their mutual ruin. Together they tumbled down the rock wall past the fighters on the path, plunging into the abyss, and were broken on the rocks in the chasm below.

Even so, the valor of Glorfindel might have been in vain had it not been for the Eagles. Their cry was heard in the cleft even as the the Elf-lord and the Balrog fell to their deaths, and they came upon the Orcs in great numbers. They tore them apart with their claws and beaks, or seizing them in their great talons lifted them high above the cleft and then cast them down after their fallen lord below. So it was that the passage of the Eagles' Cleft was won -- but there were many Elves who did not live to see it.

Once the battle was over, Thorondor Lord of Eagles descended into the abyss. Soaring up again, he bore the broken body of Glorfindel back to the Elves. He set it down, then alighted on a pinnacle of rock nigh to Tuor. "Hail and well met, son of Huor," he said. "It is good to see you alive, as well as these that ye lead from the vale."

"Hail and well met, Lord of Eagles," said Tuor. "We might not have been, had not you and your folk arrived. Your coming was fortuitous indeed. Our plight was desperate until you and your brothers cast the Orcs from the rocks."

"They chose the lesser of two foes before them," said Thorondor. "These were sent up from the Pass of Sirion to assail my people. We could not come at them due to the storm. It was the Dark Lord's doing, to keep us pinned down until they could scale the heights and come at our eyries. For its fury my brothers could not take to the skies, nor could I and those who were away with us return to aid them. It was a welcome thing when the Lord of Airs breathed upon the hills, and sent those dark clouds scurrying back to master. After that we could see all, and take swift action against our enemies."

"Glorfindel suspected as much," said Tuor. He looked back at the body of the fallen Elf-lord. Several Elves surrounded it, quickly preparing it for burial. "If it had not been for his valor we would not be speaking here today. A Balrog is a fell foe to face in such a narrow place." He stopped speaking, then looked back down the path. He could now see Idril kneeling by the rock wall, attempting to comfort a wailing Earendil.

"I see you speak with the voice of experience, son of Huor," said Thorondor. "Would that there were time for reflection. There is only enough to bury your dead. The Enemy will have heard the Balrog's death cry, and will soon be after you. My folk will hold them at bay while they can, but you and your folk must depart as soon as you are able."

"We still have to worry about the Pass of Sirion," said Tuor.

Thorondor shook his head. "Nay, son of Huor. I will lead you on paths through the mountains known only to my people. You need not leave the mountains in Sirion's Vale. It will not be an easy road, but it will be a safe one."

Tuor nodded his head. "My thanks."

Thorondor nodded in reply. "You are welcome. We will guard and guide you through the mountains, and then we must go. We too are leaving the vale. The hills of the Crissaegrim are home to us no more. We do no care to share its airs with the blight of the Shadow."

Then the host of refugees gathered itself, and buried its dead within a common grave under a pile of stones; but the body of Glorfindel was set apart from the rest, and buried in its own mound. Green was the turf and golden the flowers that bloomed there in springtime amid the barren hills, until the world was changed, but never did the Elves return to that place.

Chapter 19 - The Road to the South

It was bitter cold that night. The refugees huddled together for warmth along the ways of the steep mountain pass. Idril hugged Earendil tightly to herself. The boy's teeth were chattering, and it was all she could do to keep hers from doing the same.

"When will we leave the hills?" her son pleaded.

"Tomorrow," she said in her best soothing tones. Her breath formed a faint cloud in front of her as she spoke. "The Eagles say we will be on the plains of Dimbar by tomorrow afternoon."

"I'm cold."

"So am I, child, so am I." She took a moment to adjust her cloak about them.

"Why can't we light a fire?" Earendil said as he shivered.

"Because the Orcs might spot us. Then our flight will have been for naught."

"Oh." Earendil remained quiet for a while, looking rather thoughtful, then shivered in his mother's arms. "I am glad that Maeglin is dead."

His sudden change of subject and the calm way in which he spoke caught Idril off-guard. "What do you mean?" she said.

"I did not like the way he used to look at you. Now I know why, and I am glad that he is dead." Earendil shivered, yet his face was strangely grim. "He was never nice to me."

To that, Idril did not reply.

The Eagles guided them down a steep ravine the following morning. The footing was treacherous, but somehow they managed the difficult descent without incident. The air became warmer the farther they went down, and at this they were grateful. Indeed, they felt the welcome warmth of summer soon enough as the lands below grew closer. It was not until after noon of the following day that they reached the bottom of the ravine. After that, they wound their way down a broken slope and onto the northernmost reaches of Dimbar.

It was Tuor's plan to head southeast, making for the Dry River, and from there to the Ford of Brithiach, thus retraversing the same road by which he and Voronwë had come to Gondolin. This way they would avoid the Orc-patrols on the South-road. After crossing the ford, they would then turn southwest and make for the Forest of Brethil. From there, under Voronwë's guidance, they would follow Sirion southward to the Sea.

"Much has doubtless changed in Brethil with the growth of the Shadow," Egalmoth had noted in counsel the day before. "Haleth's folk may no longer dwell there."

"They are our only hope for aid on the road ahead," answered Tuor in reply. "No help is to be had from the ruin of Doriath." To that, none among them would argue.

The land had changed little since Tuor and Voronwë first passed that way. The air was warm, but a chill wind whistled now and again from the mountains onto the desolate hills. There was nothing to be seen but rock and stone, whether it be the sheer walls of the Echoriath behind or the featureless hills that sloped down before them. The exiles picked their way carefully down the slope, keeping behind the cover of the hills whenever possible. Their cover began to give every indication of giving out, though, so Tuor called a halt in a hollow bowl formed by two hills, not far from the mountain slopes. Morning was fast approaching.

"We will camp here for the day and rest," said Tuor to the others. "We will make for the Dry River come nightfall." He looked to Hendor, who was peering up into the sky. "Are the Eagles still with us?"

"Still," nodded Hendor. "Two of Thorondor's folk circle high above."

"That is good," said Tuor.

"I wish they could stay with us past the ford," said Penlegod.

"So do I," said Tuor, "but they also have a new home to find. Thorondor said that they plan to move to the Hithaeglir once we are safely on our way."

"The Hithaeglir?" Penlegod seemed surprised. "Our folk crossed the Mountains of Mist on our way to Beleriand at the time of the Summons, many lifetimes of Men ago. Those lie far beyond Beleriand, many leagues beyond the blue peaks of the Ered Luin. The Dark Lord's power has grown great indeed to make the Great Eagles move so far away from this land."

"It has grown great," answered Tuor.

The day passed in a series of fitful slumbers for Tuor. Now and again he would awaken to see the Elves about him. A few moved about, warriors on patrol or others tending to various duties within the camp, and some tended the injuries of the more grievously wounded, but most of the folk sat perfectly still. They might have been taken for a host of statues, had it not been for their bruised and grimy forms, windswept hair, and raiment worn and torn by heavy toil on hard roads. Idril sat motionless beside her husband, Earendil asleep in her lap. Tuor smiled as he looked at them. That sight would often soothe whatever anxious thoughts would disturb his slumber, and then Tuor would drift off again into another bout of fitful rest.

Nightfall found the exiles on the move again. By the following morning, they had made the open trip from the foot of the hills to the Dry River. It was not until all of their folk were safe within that Egalmoth pulled Tuor aside. "Come with me," he said. "The scouts have found something north of us that may interest you." Tuor waved at Voronwë to take over, then followed the Elf-lord and his scouts northward.

They had traveled not quite two miles when the party halted. The place they had come to was somewhat east of the riverbed, in the place where it began to bend to the north and towards the foot of the mountains. The Elf-scouts were led by Gildor Inglorin, Tuor's old sparring partner, and the only one of his folk to escape the fall of Gondolin. Gildor motioned to the ground before them, and they saw an unusual track upon it. Tuor recognized it at once, for he had seen something very like it at the ruined pool of Ivrin long ago. His eyes followed the deep furrow and clawed footprints as they bore away northward, up towards the source of the Dry River. He shook his head, and then looked at Egalmoth.

"You and the Lady expected this?" said Egalmoth.

"Yes," said Tuor, "but even so, it is still hard to believe."

"Not when the evidence of our eyes lies before us," said Egalmoth. He stood beside him, looking down at the marks. "The Dark Lord is thorough, and leaves no stone unturned. It is as I said long ago. Who knows how many of our people would have been slain here, had not Turgon sealed the Way of Escape?"

"Perhaps it was foresight," suggested Gildor.

"Perhaps," said Tuor. "We will never know. Perhaps it is best that way. Now let us return to the others and rest. I want to make the ford by tomorrow morning, if at all possible."

Egalmoth shook his head. "It will be a hard march for weary feet, my lord."

"As it has been until now," Tuor answered. "I know. But it will be the last one for some days, if our slim hope is true." He then smiled at the Elf-lord. "We can rest and gather strength once we are hidden deep inside Brethil Forest."

"Assuming the Orcs have not turned it into their private garden," answered Egalmoth.

The land was strangely quiet the following eve. The refugees were again on the move. Egalmoth was nervous, as usual. "I do not relish the idea of crossing the ford in the dark," he muttered.

"Cheer up, my friend," said Penlegod, overhearing the remark and approaching him. "You are far too gloomy. You have portended nothing but gloom and doom since our flight from the hills." (87)

"And why should I not?" Egalmoth shot back, though keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the others. "The past is dark. The road ahead is dark. And our foe has a black heart. Why should I not be weighed down by the heavy burden that oppresses us?"

"You see only the dark clouds in the sky, and the thunder and lightning, and think not of the refreshing rain that must come with them," said Penlegod, shaking his head. "This too shall pass. The Lords of the West have blessed us so far, and that is fortunate indeed. Yes, the Dark Lord's arm is long, and strong, and has grown mighty indeed to destroy our home and fling us into the wild, but fear not! I have no doubt that the eye of Manwe is upon us, and that Ulmo will still aid us as best he can. How else could we have gotten this far? How else will we make it to the South?"

Egalmoth turned and looked at Penlegod. He could not see how the Elf-scribe found it in him to smile at a time like this. "Then let my doubts be a check upon your idealistic hopes," he muttered. "At least one of us needs to keep his feet on the ground." With that he moved away, and left the Elf-scribe to walk alone.

In the meantime, nigh to the head of their company, Tuor and Voronwë were also talking quietly. "I do not like the idea of losing the protection of the Eagles," Tuor was saying. Behind him, the refugees were making their way down the rocky gully as best they could.

"Nor do I," said Voronwë, "but we must remember that Thorondor and his folk have their own problems to worry about. We are fortunate that they were willing to watch our ways for as long as they have."

Tuor peered up the steep walls into the growing gloom ahead. "Our road will not be easy once we leave the ford."

"No," agreed Voronwë.

At that moment, Earendil trotted up to his father. Tuor forced a smile as he looked down at his son. "Mummy sends another message?"

"Yes," said the boy. "She wants to tell you that it is hard going for those who are hurt and bear the wounded. Many are tripping on the rocks and bushes that the dark is hiding."

"Sounds like old times, eh, Tuor?" quipped Voronwë.

Tuor shook his head, then leaned down toward Earendil. "Son, I want you to tell Mummy that I'm sorry, but we need to keep moving. It will get harder before it gets easier. We should reach the ford on the morrow, and Brethil is but three days at the most beyond, even for our folk. There we may find peace, if any there be on this road." The boy nodded, then trotted off back down the line of their folk.

They made the march from the Ford of Brithiach to the outliers of Brethil Forest in two days. They arrived at its eaves weary and spent, and immediately set up what camp they could under the shelter of its ancient trees. In Brethil they had hope of help, provided the Dark Lord had not yet driven away the Men of Brethil from their ancient home. At the very least they would have shelter for the night. The Woodmen were nowhere to be seen, but that was to be expected. Tuor suspected that they had retreated deep into the forest to their stronghold to escape the marauding Orcs, so he took Egalmoth and Voronwë, then with a small band of warriors passed over the Crossings of Teiglin and took the path to Obel Halad. His folk he left behind on the other side of the river, but well guarded, for the fear of surprise and ambush was ever in his heart.

They had not gone far into the forest deeps when there was a noise in the underbrush alongside their path. Their grips tightened on their weapons, but Tuor and his warriors remained calm, quickly forming into a defensive ring. It was but a few seconds before a tall man with a beard came through the trees, holding a sword and leading two others with drawn and fitted bows. Their aim was directed towards Tuor and the Elves, and there were doubtless many others hid in the woods around them. The Elves of course had marked their stealthy approach, and knew where each and every one of them was hid. They neither said nothing nor gave no sign, but remained ever watchful. (88)

The three men came to within a few paces and stopped. Their leader, the one with the beard and sword, spoke to them. "Who are you, to disturb the peace of the Folk of Haleth?" he demanded.

Tuor took one pace forward and stopped, his hands up and open in token of parley. "Then Brethil Forest is still held against the Enemy by free Men, as the tales say?" he said in a respectful tone.

The man with the beard looked him over. "Yes, we hold our own," he finally answered. His eyes narrowed. "Who are you? You are no Elf, and these are not the folk of Doriath, if any still remain there from its ruin. Furthermore, it is not common for a Man to travel with Elves in these days, much less lead them."

Tuor chose his words carefully. "We are joined by circumstance in these dark days. They are a people whose leaders have been slain in the War, and I am the heir of kings among Men whose people are no more. We now join in common cause to escape the Black Hand's reach and flee beyond its grasp to the South."

The man shrugged. "A riddling answer to a plain question. Such is the lack of trust among the Free Peoples these days. But if you desire to flee to the South, then take the Dwarf-road. It is the swiftest way."

"That is held by the Enemy, as you know full well," Tuor said, his eyes narrowing.

"And so you must needs pass through the heart of Brethil under cover of the trees to escape their eyes," finished the man. "You still have not told me your name, Elf-captain."

"Tuor, son of Huor, of the House of Hador, that once ruled in Hithlum before its fall. That name is known to you, for I am your kinsman."

Tuor would have said more, but at the mention of the House of Hador the man blanched and began to back away. His eyes had opened wide, and he fought to conceal a great fright. "The Accursed! The Accursed return to Brethil!" He held his sword before him with shaking hand, pointing its tip at Tuor. "Begone! Begone from Brethil, ere Morgoth's curse follow thee and destroy us all! No welcome have you here, Man of Hador!" With that he and his companions backed away as quickly as they dared, weapons held at the ready before them, until they were once again under the cover of the trees. Tuor made as if to follow them, but at that instant a shaft sped from the tress and buried itself in the ground but a step away from his right foot. There was a great sound of scrambling in the underbrush, of swaying branches and rustling leaves all around, and then all was still again in Brethil. Tuor and the Elves looked about in amazement and wonder, but they were alone.

"It appears we are not welcome," said Voronwë grimly.

"It would seem so," Tuor replied. He looked down at the arrow, which still stuck out of the ground next to his foot. "I wonder what happened here."

"We may never know," said Voronwe.

Egalmoth looked disgusted. "What now?" he said.

"Back the way we came," said Tuor, and he put his back to the deep forest path. "Obel Halad is closed to us. It seems we can expect no help from the Folk of Haleth. Let us return to our camp, and devise new counsel for the road ahead."

Dusk had already fallen by the time Tuor's party reached the Teiglin. They made the crossing in great haste, for they could now hear the cries and see the fires from their camp across the river. Tuor's fears had finally come true: the Orcs were attacking his folk. They drew their swords and stormed into the Orcs from behind, scattering all before them. Their desperate charge worked, for their foe had expected none to come to the rescue. Those Orcs who were not slain in Tuor's assault dropped their weapons and fled, running with all speed into the growing darkness of the forest deeps. Tuor and the Elves did not give chase; for they were weary, and found themselves too busy recovering from the wrack of the Orc-raid to even consider it. Thus it was that the Woodmen of Brethil were forced to pick off the stragglers, even though they had purposed to give no aid to Tuor's folk, and none returned to the Orc-camps beyond to tell their tale.

Tuor found Idril and several other Elves beneath a clump of ancient oaks, tending to the wounded that lay there. He rejoiced at once within his heart to see her alive, despite her torn and bloodied raiment, for it was not her blood that stained her ruined clothes and armor. He stood there silent, watching, as she tended a deep gash in a fallen warrior's side. The sound of the Elf's spasmodic breathing was interspersed with the low tones of Idril, as she softly chanted the staunching song of the Elves. Under her magic, for it was powerful, the wound slowly ceased its flow of blood long enough for her to dress it. When she was done, she rocked back on her heels and sighed. It was then that she noticed Tuor. He leaned over and kissed her bloodied forehead.

"My beloved lives," he whispered.

"And so does mine," she whispered back. She touched her fingers to his face but for a moment, but that moment was long and precious to both of them. When she lowered her hand, there were red on Tuor's cheek. She stood up, moving to her next charge and shaking her head. "They came on us at unawares, without warning--"

"I know. We saw even as we returned."

"And the Men of Brethil?"

Tuor shook his head. "They will not help us. The Shadow has already touched them." He suddenly looked about. "Where is our son?"

"Safe," Idril said. "I have had him safe in the trees ever since you left." She pointed to a great oak not far from them. High among its highest branches was Earendil, along with two warriors from Tuor's own host. The boy was between them, and they were busy removing many Orc-arrows from their shields. Idril smiled wearily. "He was not noticed in the confusion of battle."

"That was good thinking," said Tuor.

"One of but many lessons I have learned these past few days," she said.

"They are hard lessons to learn, for one so fair."

"But necessary, given our road." She rose to her feet and quickly moved to her next charge. It was a weeping Elf-maid, holding a bloody cloth to her left shoulder.

Tuor watched in silence, as she quickly treated the maiden's arrow-wound and then moved on. It suddenly came to him that Idril was the only one who was chanting healing spells. "Where is Noleme, the healer?" he asked.

Idril did not look up. "He was one of the first slain," she said calmly. Her new charge was missing his left arm from just above the elbow down, and had a nasty gash on his same side, both of which had been crudely dressed. It had been enough to stop the bleeding, but the fallen warrior was in obvious pain, his face twisting in terrible grimaces. Tuor waited patiently as she turned from him and redressed both wounds, quietly singing staunching songs and healing spells all the while. The wounded Elf-warrior grimaced, but never cried, and after a time he lifted his remaining hand to her lips. She stilled her song and took his hand, holding it as the fallen Elf closed his eyes and breathed no more. She laid the hand back on the fallen Elf's breast, then looked up at her husband. "The wounded were on the side of the camp that the Orcs struck first. Nolome and his charges were easy targets for their blades."

Tuor shook his head, saddened at the news and by what he had seen. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he said.

Idril smiled at him. "Attend to your duties, my lord, and I will to mine. There is work enough for both of us."

They buried their dead that night in a simple, unmarked grave, with no ceremony or song. After a short rest, they gathered themselves, and left the sorrow of Brethil behind them. They followed the old path that led from Brethil to the forest of Nivrin, across Sirion and away from the Woodmen's haunts. They had no other choice. They had no friends in those forsaken lands, and no help was to be had from the ruin of Doriath. Fortunately, the bridge was still up, and thankfully free of Orcs, so at least that part of their journey was eased. Perhaps Ulmo's power had protected it all this time, just for them? Tuor didn't know, and cared not to guess.

The journey south lasted though what was left of summer, and all that autumn, and all of that winter, and it was a grim one for Tuor and his folk, full of woe and travail. (89) They were attacked again by the Orcs shortly after they left Region, but this time they were ready, and their losses were light. Nevertheless there were less than eight hundred left in their host after that fight, and far more would be lost on the long road ahead.

They followed the east bank of Sirion as the river made its journey south. It was not long before they saw Orc-scouts and small bands of Orcs again trailing behind, but their foes kept a respectful distance. No doubt they were espying their movements, and building their numbers until they could overwhelm Tuor's dwindling folk. Thus they passed the autumn in relative peace, but they remained ever wary, and they were never alone.

It was in the lands south of Region where Egalmoth's scouts had come across the ruin of a fort of Men. Voronwë had no memory of such a place from his journey long before, yet there it was. It was a rough affair, and the wooden palisade was long since broken and rotted. It stood on a small hill, from which one might see the lands about and Amon Rudh far away, had the tower of the fort still stood; but it was broken and cast down, and the fort was burned in many places. All signs pointed to a final, valiant defense against many Orcs, far too many for the fort's defenders to overcome. Tuor and his captains examined the ruins, and the few bones that the creatures of the wood had not carried off.

"It was a terrible battle," Tuor said, looking at a cloven skull. "They were surprised and slain to a man. No one escaped."

"I fear we may fall to the same fate, if we stay here," said Voronwe.

Tuor gently put the skull back where he had found it, then looked up at Voronwe. "You are right, of course. Be that as it may, let us give what is left of these few what decent burial we can, before we move on."

The Orcs attacked in force two days after the finding of the old fort. It was a bitterly fought affair, and Tuor's folk were hard pressed, yet at the end the Orcs were defeated. All but a handful were slain, and those few that escaped ran shrieking into the dark, their weapons and gear thrown behind them in their flight. Victory had been achieved, but at grievous cost; for Tuor's host had been lessened by that bitter battle. About fourscore of his folk were slain, and twice as many wounded. So it was, that as Galdor had foreseen, so it came to pass. Theirs was a bloody running battle, lurching from one temporary shelter to another down the course of Sirion through all the trials and hardship of that autumn, and into the early days of winter. Nevertheless the attacks lessened the farther they journeyed, and eventually stopped. For the power of Ulmo grew in Sirion's southward course, and he would send the river-mists to shield them and cover their ways, when he could. But there were other enemies than Orcs in the wild, enemies that needed neither shaft nor sword to strike, and these now assailed them as the cold days passed, and the snow began to fall.

The lands were empty and bare, for the coming of of winter swept it clear of almost all sustenance, save what little they could find or still grew along the river. There was great hunger and suffering among the exiles of Gondolin for the lack of food, and Tuor's scouts had to search far and wide for enough to feed their folk. There never was enough, and not all the scouts came back. Many of the Elves died on the road, for the wounded and weak among them were the quickest to fall into darkness, and parents would refuse their scanty rations for the sake of their children. Idril was among these, and she came perilously close to being lost; yet she was not, for the people refused to eat if she would not, for she was precious to them.

Thus many survived despite their plight, and the end of winter found them approaching the Twilit Meres. Then Voronwe retraced his steps of old, guiding them through its cold and dank waters, until they passed through safely. With much hardship they made their way that spring through Aelin-uial and across the Andram, until in the early days of summer they came to Nan-tathren, the Land of Willows, watered by both Narog and Sirion. All things there were yet green, its ancient meads were rich and full of many flowers, and full of the song of many birds. It seemed a land enchanted, and the weary refugees from Gondolin rested, ceasing their journey for a time; for it seemed to them a sweet and peaceful dwelling, after their weary and troubled wanderings over the winter.

So it was that the long and dangerous march of the survivors of the Hidden Realm came to an end a year after the fall of Gondolin; for the power of Ulmo yet ran there in the lower waters of Sirion, and it was about them. There they rested for a while, but sang not, nor smiled, for their sorrow could not be healed. Of the mighty lords and nobles of the Hidden Realm, only four still walked the land: Tuor, Egalmoth, Voronwe, and Penlegod. Of the fair ladies and maidens of the nobles of Gondolin, only Idril Celebrindal had escaped the sack of the city. Those who survived, aside from what few warriors remained, were for the most part of the common folk, along with many servants and others of lesser stature. The hearts of the Elves were sorrowful that so few of the people of Gondolin were saved; for many were slain, or burned, or taken in thralldom before they could join with Tuor's host and flee the Vale of Tumladen.

There came a day when Tuor and Idril went to the booth in which Penlegod had his abode, under the willows not far from the riverbank. They found the Elf-scribe seated on his cloak, which had been spread upon the ground. He was staring dejectedly before him at a small blanket upon which had been spread a small pile of old books, a few scrolls, and a stack of loose pages written with a firm hand carefully bound with string. He did not look up as they entered. "Hello," he grunted.

"Excuse us," said Tuor. "We did not know you were busy. We can come another time."

Penlegod looked up at the sound of Tuor's voice, and his face brightened as he beheld them. "No, no, it's quite all right," he said as he rose. He offered Idril his sleeping pallet on which to sit, then busied himself with fixing his guests something to drink. As he filled three wooden serving bowls on a nearby stand, Tuor helped Idril seat himself on the pallet, then sat cross-legged on the ground beside her. Penlegod offered them two of the bowls, and they accepted with thanks. He then moved the blanket and cloak somewhat and sat across from them. It was a tight fit, given the smallness of the booth, but with elbow room to spare.

"My apologies for not offering you some wine, my lady," said Penlegod. "Water must suffice in these settings."

Idril smiled. "You are forgiven, friend Penlegod. It will be refreshment enough."

"My lady is gracious," said Penlegod. Together they drank from the hand-hewn bowls. "How goes it with the rest of the camp?"

Idril shook her head. "Three more left for the halls of Mandos today. There was Indor, wounded in the last Orc-raid upon us. We also lost Meril and her little girl, both to the fever. We do what we can, but there are few among us with healing arts, and hard has been our lot since Nolome was slain."

"The only Elf trained in the ways of a healer to escape Gondolin, save yourself," said Penlegod. "How are you holding up?"

"I am tired, but I will manage," said Idril. "I must." She looked over at her husband, and he squeezed her hand.

"How many of us are left now?" said Penlegod.

"Less than four hundred," said Tuor grimly. He was looking over one of the books Penlegod had set on the blanket. "Three hundred eighty-seven Elves and one Man, to be exact. Two hundred twenty-five warriors and other menfolk, and one hundred sixty-two maidens and children."

Penlegod's face fell. "That is all?" he said.

"We escaped the high pass with nearly a thousand," said Tuor, "but lost over three hundred to assault, sickness, starvation, and other hazards of our long journey from the North. Of what remain, there are a hundred or so who lie wounded or sick in the camp, and it is likely more will die before the season passes." He sighed. "You can almost tell which ones will go next -- the ones who are not sick or gravely injured, that is. They have simply given up the will to live, and do little but lie about, waiting for Mandos to claim them."

Penlegod shook his head sadly. "Only four hundred, from a realm of over fifty thousand. Well do I remember Galdor's words to the king concerning the road to the South. We might have proved him wrong had we left when we were first warned. Now few of us remain ... and even less of our lore." Both Tuor and Idril gave the Elf-scribe a questioning glance, and he waved his hand over the blanket before him. "This is it. This is all I could save. This is all I could grab and carry before we fled the city." He pointed to each as he named their titles. "The Ambarktana. The Lay of Lethian. The Annals of Aman. A few maps, and some old songs." He pointed to the bound pile of paper. "I Eldanyare, the manuscript of my life's work, the history of our people in these times. Only these few, from a library that once held over two hundred thousand volumes -- the collected lore of the Elves, East and West. Books I have known, I have read, many that I knew by heart -- now lost forever to the fire." He looked at them, as if pleading. "Tell me -- why must this be? Why must knowledge perish in times of war?"

It was Idril who answered him. "So it can be born anew to those willing to listen. So it can be appreciated by those who survive. The Royal Library of Gondolin may be no more, but its knowledge is not lost forever." She leaned forward, and tapped the Elf-scribe on the forehead. "It is here, Penlegod. It lives still in the heart and mind of one who loved it and appreciated its worth more than any among us." She then laid her hand on his shoulder, speaking in a solemn tone. "Just as the Powers chose my husband and I to play a part in the fate of our people, so have you, my friend. A great charge is now laid upon you by the Lords of the West. You are now the keeper of the combined lore of the Elder Children. You are the library now."

"My lady," said Penlegod, and he bowed his head.

That evening Tuor took his harp and walked alone along the waters of Sirion, setting aside his cares and sorrows for a time. It was not his harp of old, of course. That had been lost in the sack of Gondolin long ago. Once they had reached the peace of Nan-tathren, however, he had found the time to make a new one. Harp in hand, he followed the river-path as it wound its way through the trees that lined the western bank. Beneath his feet, the packed earth of the path followed its course within sight of the river. At times it was a well-defined track lined with grasses and ferns. In many places, though, it was little more than trampled turf marking the place where foot and paw frequently passed by. The willows stood silent watch above, their ancient limbs drooping about him like some swaying canopy of green stirred now and again by a soft breeze. Through them he could see the bright rays of the setting sun, which cast a reddish glow upon all within his sight. The gentle breath of the evening breeze slipped past the pen of the groves, easily escaping the wide grasping fingers of their many trees. It caused the flower-laden fields beyond to undulate and roll like some giant tapestry of many colors being shaken by unseen hands.

The Land of Willows was alive with the sounds of the evening. The air was full of the song of birds on wing, warbling their eventide odes. One could now and again spot their elegantly plumed bodies flitting about or settling down in their nests high above in the willow branches. The land was full of the pitter-patter of little furry things, the small animals who make their homes in the wild, scampering about on unknown errands. Often they would suddenly stand still as a statue, watching and measuring, unsure if Tuor was a predator afoot. Once they had satisfied their curiosity, they would just as suddenly dart and scamper away. The nearby waters were full of the noise of splashing, as the trout and perch danced above the breeze-stroked waves. It was the orchestra of twilight in full swing: the rise and fall of the cicada song sounding on the eve, the soft whispers of crickets heralding the coming dusk, and the four-toned calls of the whippoorwills as they welcomed the coming of night.

Tuor walked on, drinking in the sights and sounds of the evening. His mind was completely at ease for the first time in many days. The river murmured its assent to his mood with a faint gurgling sound, its main current driving it on as it flowed beside him on its long journey southward. At length he came to part of a toppled trunk that lay upon one side of the riverbank, and there he stopped. He seated himself on the bole of the fallen tree and stayed his course for a time. He was not tired by any means, nay, far from it. The twilight magic was having its way with him, as it does to all who are open to its many charms. He sat there, drinking in the sights and sounds, his mind concerned with nothing but the natural beauty that lay all about him. Presently it came to him that he could join in the wondrous song of night that was unfolding about him. With that he picked up his harp and made ready.

As he tuned his harp to the night-sounds, Tuor found himself remembering the days of his journey to Gondolin so long ago. At that time Voronwë had told him the tale of his journey down Sirion on Turgon's errand to the Lords of the West. He recalled Voronwë's brief but potent description of the Land of Willows, and found himself nodding his head in approval as he spoke the Elf's words aloud.

There Aule is but a servant of Yavanna his spouse, she who has charge of all green and growing things within the Circles of the World, and there the Earth has brought to life a wealth of fair things that are beyond the thought of hearts in the hard hills of the North.

Tuor ended the words with a smile, then suddenly exclaimed, "Fair are the willow-meads of Nan-tathren, where the waters of Ulmo and the gardens of Yavanna are as one!"

"I am glad that you approve," said a quiet but deep voice near at hand.

A startled Tuor quickly turned towards the sound of the voice. He was no longer alone on the fallen log. Seated not far from him was what appeared to be an old man, unarmed, dressed in a simple robe of sea green and dangling his feet in the waters of Sirion. He might have been an Elf had it not been for his gray beard, which was long and full. Something about him seemed familiar, and yet Tuor could not place him. He was certain that he was not part of his company from Gondolin, and they had picked up no stragglers on the road. He seemed harmless enough, yet Tuor's hand moved to the hilt of his sword even as he spoke. "Friend or foe?" he challenged immediately, leaping to his feet. "It is not wise to walk up on a man unannounced in these times."

The old man looked keenly at Tuor. His wrinkled eyes crinkled at the edges and his brow furrowed, but there was a smile on his lips. "Put away your blade, good sir. As you can see, I am unarmed. I did not mean to startle you." He chuckled. "It is just that it has been so long since I heard any speak kind words of this place."

"Then you live here?"

"I come here." The old man sighed deeply. "Not as much as I did long ago. Seldom now, since the rise of the Dark Lord. 'Tis a shame," he added, motioning for Tuor to resume his seat. "Please, sit. Share this beautiful evening with me. It may very well be that neither of us will enjoy such a wondrous night again."

Tuor slowly resumed his seat, still eying the old man. He did not know what to make of him. "You are alone?"

The old man nodded. "As are you. Do not worry. We are not far from your camp. I daresay a good shout would bring the Elves running to your aid."

"Then you know of us?"

"From the hour you arrived. I have been watching you."

"For what purpose?"

"Such suspicion!" The old man smiled broadly. "One cannot miss the arrival of so many in such a place, even if they make no orcish racket. Furthermore, Nan-tathren welcomes you. Can you not see it?" He waved an arm before him. "Long has it been since the Elves graced one of the gardens of Yavanna still left unsullied on these mortal shores." He then looked back at Tuor. "I see its song has touched your heart as well."

Tuor could not help but smile in return. "I welcome it. Long and hard has been our road and our lot. If Nan-tathren welcomes us with open arms, as you say, then we will gladly rest in its bosom."

The two of them, seasoned warrior and old man, sat in silence side-by-side on the fallen log by the riverbank. The sun had just set, but its rays still danced above the treetops from over the hills. The shadows were beginning to grow long. The chorus of the cicadas and crickets was picking up, with the warbling of the whippoorwills running in harmonious counterpoint. One could not help but become enthralled by that beautiful night, and yet Tuor was still troubled. His mind was searching, groping through memories past, trying to find ... what? It was he who finally broke the silence.

"Do I know you?"

The old man gave him a quizzical stare. "Eh?"

"I feel that we have met before, sir, and yet I cannot place you. You could not have come with my party, so you must be from my past. Yet that was so long ago, and so much has happened since ...."

"That it is hard for you to remember, is it not?" The old man nodded. "Yes, I daresay we have met before, Tuor son of Huor. It is because of that meeting that you now find yourself here in Nan-tathren, the Land of Willows, one of the few places left in all of Beleriand that I still visit from time to time."

"When was that?"

"Do you not know me, Tuor? Have you not guessed?"

Tuor shook his head. "It seems as if it were within my grasp, and yet I cannot reach to seize it." He looked the old man over again, then frowned. "You called me by name, yet I have not spoken it."

"Be that as it may," the old man replied, "I know your name. I also know your errand, those that you lead, from whence you came and where you will go. I have followed your progress from the fall of Gondolin as best as I could, but the hand of Morgoth is long and his power grows strong. You and those that you lead have done much to come this far, Lord of Gondolin."

Suddenly the realization came to Tuor. If the old man were wearing armor of sea-scale, and stood as tall as a giant, then .... He instantly slipped from his seat and descended to one knee with head bowed. "My lord Ulmo," he said with great reverence. "Forgive me for not knowing you." (90)

Tuor felt a hand lift him up and saw the other wave him back to his place on the log. "How could you?" Ulmo said. There was a laugh in his voice and a twinkle in his sea-gray eyes. "I do not look now as I did then. Many are the forms I can assume at will, so long as I remain uncorrupted by evil. What you saw then and what you see now are but two of them. Not always do I play the part of the terrible Sea-lord of the Waters of Ekkaia." He looked away for a moment, as if to some place far away, and then back at Tuor. "I came to you as a mist upon the airs of Manwë, and took this form in order that you might see me and not be frightened as before. Many are the years that have passed since last we met on the shores of Vinyamar, son of Huor, and much has happened in that time."

"Indeed." Tuor looked down. "Forgive me, my lord, but Turgon would not listen. I did as you bade me to do, yet he would not listen. Perhaps I should have left then, and sought the Sea again as my heart bade me to do, but I had seen naught of the glory of the High-elves, and there was also ... another."

"You are forgiven, son of Huor, although there is nothing to forgive. Who among mortals could resist the charms of Idril Celebrindal, daughter of Turgon and among the fairest of her people? And did it not work out for the best, your staying in Gondolin?"

"My lord?"

"Had you not stayed, none would have been saved. The city would have fallen, all would have been killed or enslaved, and your beloved wife and son would have both fallen to a fell fate."

Tuor started to say something, but thought better of it and held his tongue. Even so, Ulmo nodded, as if he had heard the unspoken thought. Tuor's mind was racing, trying to find the right words, given the mighty Lord who even now sat next to him. Ulmo waited patiently for Tuor to collect his thoughts, letting the Man feel his own way to the light. At last he looked up.

"My lord?" Tuor said in a humble tone.

"Yes?"

"For what purpose were we saved from the fall of Gondolin?"

Ulmo looked long at Tuor, saying nothing, but holding the Man as if transfixed in the gaze of his sea-gray eyes. Tuor had long ago grown accustomed to the penetrating gaze of the Noldor, yet now it was as if it were that first time when he encountered Gelmir and Arimas so many years ago on their errand, but magnified a thousand times. It was as if he stood naked before a brilliant light from which there was no place to hide. At last Ulmo looked away, staring instead across the rippling waters of the now-darkened Sirion. Tuor took in a deep breath.

"The Doom of the Noldor is long and fell, and many has it claimed who were meant to walk long upon mortal shores," Ulmo said. His voice was even and low, yet its tone carried the faint booming echo of that which Tuor had first heard on the shores of Vinyamar when first they met. "Yet as a man, son of Huor, you are not subject to that Doom. You are the instrument of my design -- a single, noble Man of mortal stock, who by the designs of Illuvatar wields one of the greatest gifts in all of Middle-earth: that of choosing his own fate. I could not choose your path for you, nor would I be sure that you would play the part I was long in preparing for you, yet you chose it of your own free will. It is because of your choice that a portion of the Noldor will be saved from their own accursed Doom."

Tuor was astounded at the revelation. "I do not know what to say, my lord."

"Then say nothing. Or, once you think of it, say what you will. It is not my place to set your ways, son of Huor. I can but suggest, guide, and offer what aid I may without revealing myself to Morgoth or crossing the will of Manwë. Your hand alone controls your fate and that of those who follow you. It is a fortunate thing that you are not a lesser Man, and have let wisdom guide your ways instead of power and glory."

At that Tuor laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. "I am not so wise, my lord. Had I but--"

"But what, son of Huor? Do you second-guess yourself even now? Had you to do it all over again, would making any changes have led you on this same path? Think carefully of what you say. Not even my Lord Manwë has the power to alter one's doom. Do you dare to presume his place? Do you dare to challenge the unswerving hand of Mandos?"

"Forgive me, my lord," Tuor quickly replied, humbly bowing his head

"It is well." To Tuor's surprise, he felt that strong hand again clasp him on the shoulder. "You are forgiven, son of Huor. Now arise, and walk with me a space, before I must leave and return to my home in the Sea. Let us lay aside our burdens for a time, mortal and immortal, and enjoy the eventide delights of Yavanna while the night is still young."

Later that season, Tuor and the survivors of Gondolin came together and made a feast in memory of the Hidden Realm, and of the Elves that perished there: the maidens and the wives, the young and the old, the servants and the nobles, and the King and his warriors. Many were the songs they sang under the willows of Nan-tathren in the waning summer of that year, and it was at this time that Tuor made a song for Earendil his son concerning the coming of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, to the shores of Nevrast. For he heard in the waters of Sirion an echo as it were of the horn of Ulmo, and desired to share with his son the vision of the Sea that his call had stirred within his heart. But with that, the sea-longing of old woke in Tuor's heart, and stirred in his son's as well; and it was not long after that Tuor and his family departed from Nan-tathren, and went southward down the river towards the Sea with all who would follow them.

There came a day on their southward journey when a familiar scent wafted northward in the breeze, and memories long-cherished awakened in both Tuor and Voronwe. That night as they made camp the Elves heard the mournful cry of seagulls in the air, and they knew with a certainty that their long journey was almost over.

The next day the salt scent in the wind grew stronger, and the wailing of the gulls grew louder. They now walked upon a well-trod road that led southward towards a series of low hills blocking the line of the horizon. They followed it as it wound its way to and fro among those hills, and wearily marched over the slopes of their shoulders. Even so they did not rest, for they could now see the sea birds dancing in the skies overhead, and hear the faint sound of waves breaking on rocks and reefs, so they set aside their weariness and hastened on. At last, when evening was nigh at hand, they came to a place where the road ascended a large, grassy ridge that ran across their path, marking an end to their trip through the low hills. With Idril and Voronwe at his side and Earendil running before him, Tuor led his host to the top of the ridge -- and there beheld a glorious sight.

Below them lay the Great Sea, its wide waters sparkling like a field of rubies in the light of the setting sun. It covered the whole of the horizon from a point due west all the way to the southeast, and was nestled within the arms of a great bay into which the waters of Sirion emptied. A large expanse of forest lay to its east beyond the banks of the river, stretching southward along the coast as far as the eye could see. Below them, starting at the delta of Sirion and stretching westward, were broad, level hills -- broken now and again by patches of forest and low hills like the ones they had just crossed. Straight ahead of them, nigh to the mouth of Sirion, was a great walled city, not unlike the ruins of Vinyamar that Tuor had visited so many years ago, save that this city was inhabited. They could see banners flying from its towers, and could see all manner of watercraft moving about its many piers and quays. It was not the shining jewel that Gondolin had been, but right now to Tuor and the Elves it was the most beautiful city in all of Middle-earth. It was Siriombar, better known throughout the lands as the Havens of Sirion, and after many sorrows they had finally come to its gates. (91)

Then Tuor and the exiles of Gondolin rejoiced, and before long passed within the safety of its walls. In that place they found the survivors of Doriath but new-come there. Together they joined their folk, and together they shared with each other the woes and falls of their kingdoms. And it was there that Tuor was reunited with his foster-father Annael; for he had escaped the ambush of the Eastrons in Hithlum so many years ago, and gathering the survivors had fled to the South. He had long wondered what had become of Tuor, and there was both gladness and sorrow at their reunion.

There by the mouths of Sirion nigh to the Sea was established the last of the Elven-kingdoms of Beleriand, wrought from the gleanings of Doriath and Gondolin. Its people named it after the land in which they now dwelt: Arvernien, the Place of the Venturers. They took Tuor as their lord, and from the Isle of Balar the mariners of Cirdan came among them, teaching them the arts of shipbuilding and seafaring. They took to the waves and the building of their own ships, and dwelt ever nigh to the coasts of Arvernien under the shadow of Ulmo's hand. But as the years passed, and the power of Angband waxed over Beleriand, Earendil the fair grew to manhood in the house of Tuor his father.

Chapter 20 - A Parting of the Ways (92)

The Havens of Sirion were still darkened by the cloak of night when Earendil awoke from slumber. His father was standing over him. "Arise and dress quietly," Tuor whispered. "I do not wish to wake your mother." The young man did as he was told. About a quarter-hour later he and his father were walking down the stone-paved streets toward the harbor, which was but a pleasant walk to the southwest of their home.

Above their heads, the sky was draped with a grey canopy still lit by a few faint stars. Towards the east, though, it was already suffused with a growing azure glow, betraying the nearness of the coming dawn. A few scattered lights burned in several houses. No sound was to be heard save for the morning birds and the quiet thudding of boot soles on the paving stones. The city was still at this hour. None else were about save those Elves and Men going about their early morning chores. Some of these were also heading towards the harbor to make their vessels ready for sailing. There were the fishermen, walking alone or in groups of two or three; and there were the venturers, Cirdan's folk and all who aided them, preparing themselves for the new day's journeys up and down the coasts of Middle-earth. Tuor did not fall in with any of these, and Earendil stayed by his side.

A call from the watchmen on the walls in the north of the city caught their ear. They stopped and turn to see what it could be. The others on the streets did as well. Though they could not see the North-gate from where they were for the buildings in between, there was no mistaking the herald's call. They heard from afar the grinding of the gates as they were opened, then a distant din of many voices entering within.

"Another party of refugees," said Earendil. "I wonder from where these could be?"

"Ossiriand, most likely," said Tuor. "That was the last land of Elves left free in all of Beleriand. Now all that remains are this place, and the fortress of the Sons of Feanor upon Amon Ereb. Both still lie far from the fingertips of the Black Hand."

"So now the Dark Lord takes to attacking the Gree-elves as well," said Earendil, "who have kept to themselves, and have never crossend swords with him in all the battles of the War of the Jewels? They have nothing of value to him."

"Nevertheless he would dominate or destroy them," said Tuor. "That is his way. That is Morgoth's will."

With that the conversation ceased, and the two walked in silence for a while. They kept to one side of the street, in case any of the refugees were brought through to the houses of healing. They followed the street as it wound its way though the city between many fair houses of white stone. Most were but one story, although there were not a few that had two or more. They now passed one of these, and the Man smiled as his son looked up at one second-story window in particular.

"I do not think she will be up at this hour," said Tuor.

"I know," said Earendil. "One can hope, can he not?"

Tuor chuckled. "He can indeed, my son. Elwing daughter of Dior is the fairest maiden in the Havens, other than your mother. She possesses wisdom and knowledge beyond her years. You are fortunate to have such as your beloved." He gave his son a conspiratorial smile. "Tell me, have you plighted your troth?"

"Father!" said Earendil, his voice rising somewhat as he blushed. "It is still too early for that. After all, I am but a youth in the reckoning of the Elves."

"But not in the reckoning of Men," said Tuor. "You are not an Elf, although you have elvish blood in your veins. Neither is she, for that matter. You two are something new, something different -- something special. The Grey-elves have a word for it: peredhil. Half-elven, the blending of the Elder and Younger Children into one." He looked away towards the harbor. "You two have known and loved each other ever since you met, so many years ago after you both escaped the falls of your kingdoms. Now that love has grown into something more -- an inseperable bond that links you both together." He looked back at Earendil. "What lies in store for the both of you is beyond my reckoning, perhaps even that of the Elves, but it is my belief that you two will share your destiny together."

"Like you and Mother?"

Tuor's voice faltered. "Perhaps." He recovered quickly. "Perhaps I should leave that in your keeping. You are old enough now to be your own master, and I trust you to make the right choice when the time comes. Today is another matter altogether."

With that the two rounded a turn in the street and were lost from both hearing and sight, but their passing had not gone unnoticed. High above the paving stones, a dim light was kindled in a second-story window. The slender form of a young Elf-maiden appeared and leaned over the sill, looking after the two that had passed in the night.

"It is going to be a beautiful sunrise," said Earendil as he looked up at the sky. The red fingers of the morning sun were now spreading fast. The glow on the eastern horizon was growing greater by the minute.

"Yes, it is," said Tuor, also directing his gaze heavenward. "It will not be long before the sun ascends the slopes of the Blue Mountains, and drives away the last shreds of night."

Earendil looked at his father. "You have not told her, I take it?"

"No, I have not," said Tuor, returning his gaze. "She worries for me, and she suspects my plans, but she does not know that this is the hour of my departure. She knows the danger and would keep me from it, or go with me if she could. She cannot keep me from it and I will not have her in harm's way again. Thus am I forced to sneak away like some burglar, so she will not know until I am gone."

Earendil shook his head. "Father, I have never questioned your wisdom before, but to depart in this manner is wrong. You do Mother no kindness in leaving her this way."

"It is hard on me too, my son," said Tuor, "but this is the way it must be. If she knew, then I could not keep her from my side. She stood by me twice before in times of great danger. I almost lost her both times. I do not want to risk such a thing again."

"So you would abandon her in the East, while you make the hopeless journey to the West?" said Earendil.

"You are out of line, Earendil," said Tuor, and a note of anger crept into his voice. "I would never abandon your mother, not for anything."

"Forgive me, Father," said Earendil. "My words were ill-chosen. It is just that I cannot help but be reminded of the tales that Voronwe told me in my youth of his journey to seek the West. I remember him telling about the long, lonely days on the waters of the Great Sea and the many dangers that he and his companions found there. You are likely to die long before you reach the Western Shore, and what then will Mother do? Would you have her to die the death of loneliness, pining away her days in ceaseless mourning for the one she had lost? I would not have it so."

"Your mother is made of sterner stuff than that," said Tuor. "She is not the kind to surrender her life in such a manner. She is a survivor, Earendil, as are all of us. She has survived such partings before, and will survive them again. But come! We are almost at the harbor."

They came around a bend in the street and there Tuor stopped. They stood at the top of a small hill overlooking the harbor of the Havens, now visible in the growing light. All manner of watercraft were moored alongside the docks and piers -- from small dinghies and curraghs through fishing vessels and on up to the large swan-prowed sailing vessels of Cirdan's folk. One vessel larger than the rest sat alone in its quay nigh to these, of like form and build but of greater girth and length. It was built exceptionally strong, and great purple sails were even now being hung from the yardarms of its stout masts. Its sailors were busy making ready to cast off, and even now the final provisions for its voyage were being loaded.

"Earrame awaits," said Tuor, gesturing towards the tall ship in the harbor. "The time of departure is at hand." For the first time, as it seemed, Earendil noticed the wrinkles about his father's eyes, the dark spots on the back of his hands, and the grey hairs on his head. He had never thought of his father as old before, but now the looming mortality of Tuor came upon him as it never had.

Tuor saw his son's stare. "Yes," he said, as if reading his mind. "I am old. We of the Younger Children age and die in time. Such is our lot, and I do not have many years left. I must do this thing while I can, before the time comes when I must pass beyond the Circles of the World. One must seek the aid of the Lords of the West in this war if the Dark Lord is to be brought to final defeat."

"But what if you are not that one?" said Earendil.

"I do not know whether I am or not," said Tuor, "but there is much that lies in my favor. I can speak for both kindreds, for I am a Man wed to an Elf. I was the messenger of Ulmo and had his countenance. That alone has given me cause to ponder these many years."

"Who am I to question the choice of Ulmo?" said Earendil. "Yet how can a mortal walk the shores of the Blessed Realm and live?"

"I do not know," said Tuor. "Perhaps it can be so if the All-father wills it. I will find out soon enough."

Earendil paused before he made his reply, choosing his words carefully. "Father, I could do this thing just as well as you, and with greater authority. You may be a Man wed to an Elf, but I am the child of Elves and Men. I am part of both kindreds. I could seek the West in your place."

Tuor looked long and hard at his son after those words. "Yes, perhaps you could," he said. "Perhaps you could at that. It would explain many things: Ulmo's favors to the House of Hador, my father's words to Turgon, your mother's foreknowledge of our marriage." He smiled. "Perhaps you might follow me, once you better know the Sea. You need to know more that you do now in order to make such a journey, should I fail to return."

"Then I cannot stop you from going?" said Earendil.

"Would you have me abandon this thing now, upon the eve of my departure?" said Tuor. "Am I to turn my back upon my errand, and the call of the Sea? I could no more do that than stop breathing. I must go through with this, my son. Only in the doing will we know whether or not you are right."

"I understand," said Earendil, "but I still worry for you, Father."

"Then promise me this," said Tuor. "Should I fail to return with the Lords of the West, then you must follow me. You must take upon yourself the dangerous mission to the Blessed Realm. Should my embassy fail, then you must go in my stead."

"Then I must master the Sea, and become a mariner like you," said Earendil.

Tuor smiled. "The Sea lies within your heart, Earendil, even more than mine. Once you have learned the Sea, and how to master its waves, then you will become a great mariner -- perhaps even greater than I, perhaps the greatest that ever shall be. It will take such a one to brave the perils of the Sundering Sea. Should I fail, then you must go. Promise me this, Earendil."

"I promise," said Earendil, clasping his father's hand. "I vow to seek the West in your wake."

With that Tuor embraced his son. "I would say goodbye now, for there will not be time once we reach the harbor."

"May the Lord of Waters see you safe to the Western Shore," said Earendil, returning his father's embrace.

With that they parted, and again took up their walk to the harbor below. Neither one of them noticed the form of the young Elf-maiden, who had been following them for some time now. She slipped away into the shadows and then ran back up the road toward Tuor's house.

A small group of Elves stood on the pier beside Earrame watching Tuor and Earendil approach the ship, awaiting the arrival of the Lord of Arvernien and his son. Earendil recognized them immediately, for they were all old acquaintances of theirs. There was Voronwe the Elf-mariner, who against his wisdom had elected to brave the Sundering Sea once again out of love for Tuor his lord. There was Cirdan the Shipwright, master shipbuilder of the Elves, come from the Isle of Balar to witness the most important voyage of his latest creation. There was Annael of the Grey-elves, there to see his foster-son away on his greatest voyage. Finally, there was a tall and regal High-elf in robes of blue and purple bearing a crown of gold on his brow, holding converse with Voronwe and Cirdan and flanked by several attendants. He was none other than Gil-galad Erenion, son of Fingon, sent by his father to the Havens after the Battle of the Bragollach, and with the death of Turgon was now by right High King of the Noldor. They ceased speaking among themselves as Tuor and Earendil drew nigh, and the two bowed in deference to Gil-galad. (93)

"The appointed hour is at hand, my lord," said Tuor to the High King. "I have come even as I said I would. I now beg thy leave to sail into the West as emmisary of the Two Kindreds: to seek the pardon of the Valar for the sake of the High-elves, and to secure their aid and assistance in the war against the Dark Lord."

"Then ye are still of a mind to do this thing?" said Gil-galad.

"I am, my lord," said Tuor, "I and all those who would sail with me. Now I beg leave to surrender my office to my son before I depart, so that he may assume his rightful place as Lord of Arvernien."

"Dost thou acede to thy father's wish?" said Gil-galad.

"I do," said Earendil.

"Then by the laws and customs of the Elves, and in the presence of these witnesses, I name Earendil Ardamire as Lord of Arvernien in his father's stead," said Gil-galad. He took the circlet of gold from Tuor's head and set it on Earendil's. "Guide this people until thy father returns."

"I will, my lord," said Earendil, his voice heavy with emotion.

Then Gil-galad clasped Tuor and bid him farewell, and so did Cirdan beside him. Annael embraced his foster-son but could not speak for the tears in his eyes. Tuor and Earendil embraced one last time, and with Voronwe at his side boarded the ship before them. The gangplank was removed, and the group on the pier stood watching as the ship of Tuor prepared to set sail. Its anchor was hoisted from the waters upon its chain, and then straightway the ship began to move away from the pier -- slowly at first, but gathering speed as it moved into the wide harbor. Earendil and the others watched as Earrame began to cut its way through the glistening crests of the waves, leaving a trail of dancing foam in its wake as it rode upon the wide waters of the Bay of Balar, its purple sails billowing before the west wind's breath.

"Goodbye, foster-son" Annael finally stammered, as he watched the ship sail away. "May the Lords of the West welcome you."

"Go, my friend," said Cirdan. "May the wind be ever at your back"

"Farewell, son of Huor," said Gil-galad. "Fare now forth, and may ye find thy way home in the end."

"Stop!" came the cry from the harbor road. "Wait for me! Do not leave me behind, Tuor!"

All those at the pier and everyone else within earshot looked up the street to see Idril racing madly down the hill, still in her sleeping gown, with Elwing keeping pace just behind. She did not stop running until she reached the pier, and even then stopped only when she reached its edge. She stood there for a moment, then came back before Earendil and the others. She was panting slightly, and the light from the rising sun glistened on the beads of sweat beginning to form on her fair skin. She looked again at the departing ship, then back to her son. Earendil could hardly bear the look of anguish on her face.

"I know, Mother," he said. "I tried to stop him. I tried to change his mind, but he would not listen. Forgive me, but he would not let me warn you." He glanced over at Elwing, who now had drawn up by his side, and she returned his gaze. At once he understood, and silently thanked the All-father for her perceiving his heart.

"I understand," said Idril, but the sorrow did not leave her eyes. "Elwing has told me all that she saw and heard. I knew this day was coming, and tried to watch for it, but I received no aid in my vigilance. Your father had help from others, it would seem," she said, looking at the Elves standing beside Earendil.

"Nay, my lady," said Gil-galad, "we did not plot against thee. We have long known of Tuor's desire, but we did not seek to deny it from thee. We were summoned here early this morn by Voronwe at Tuor's behest, and so we came."

"Then why did you not hold him back until I could come to his side?" she cried.

"Because it was his wish to leave in this manner," said Cirdan, "unencumbered by thoughts for your safety. My lady, the Sundering Sea holds many perils for any of the Noldor who try to seek the West."

"Then why did you not stop Voronwe?"

"Because he is the only one who has returned. He saw the West, although he did not reach it, and went through many perils just for that one glimpse. Tuor agrees with his counsel, and did not want to expose you to such danger."

"I have been by my husband's side through fire and ruin, and I would not leave him now for all the wrath of Osse!" said Idril. She then turned and cried after the departing ship. "I will not consent to this thing, husband! If you would leave me behind, then I must come to you!" To the surprise of all those watching she ran to the end of the pier and dove off its edge. She broke the clear waters of the harbor in a clean dive with little noise or splash. Once she surfaced, she began swimming with all speed in a straight line towards the now-distant Earrame. "Wait, Tuor!" she called between strokes. "Wait for me!"

There was much confusion in the harbor in the wake of Idril's deed. Some raced to their boats to make after her, while some called out from the shore pleading for her to return. Many just stared in shock at the form flailing away in the water in its desperate attempt to catch the ship it sought. Earendil and Elwing remained standing on the pier with Gil-galad and the Elves, as shocked as those on shore, but not Cirdan. He stepped forth, cupped his hands to his lips, and called out toward the vessel in a strong voice that all in the harbor could hear. "Drop anchor, Tuor! Your wife would have a word with you!"

Stroke, breath-and-kick. Stroke, breath-and-kick. Idril knifed through the waters of the bay as smoothly as a trout swimming downstream, her inner anguish hastening her movements. She was an excellent swimmer after the manner of her people, but never had she called upon her body to cross such a wide gap of waters as that which now lay between her and Tuor. Nevertheless, she was already one-third of the way to her goal, and was determined to cross the rest at all costs. She had early given up calling after Tuor, reasoning that the effort would impede her efforts and cause her to tire more quickly. Instead, she focused on her goal, and drove at it with singleminded determination. She would not be left behind.

Stroke, breath-and-kick. Now and again, as she turned her head to breathe, she glimpsed the other vessels in the bay. Some had already been on their morning runs, while others were just setting out from the docks. All were trying to turn in her direction, but for some reason they could not properly tack with the wind. It caught their sails and shook them, and just as soon as they would recover another crosswind would shake them again. There was no chance of them catching her, which was good. She did not want to be caught.

Stroke, breath-and-kick. She took a moment to glance ahead. The quirks of the morning breeze had also caught Earrame in their wake, and the ship was slowing before her. There were Elves running about on its deck, and a form watching from the stern that she knew well -- Tuor, her husband. She could see his face, and could well imagine his thoughts. No matter. She would not be left behind.

Stroke, breath-and-kick. Her drenched ears caught the sound of a splash -- that of a heavy object far ahead being dropped into the water. She ventured another glance at the ship. She was nearing on her goal, and they had just dropped anchor! Her task was easier now. Tuor might not look kindly upon her deed, but at least he would not turn his back upon her. That though comforted her heart, and gave strength newfound to her aching limbs.

Stroke, breath-and-kick. She was drawing close to the ship, and between strokes she saw the faces of those who watched from its deck. Tuor's face had changed, from surprise to a stern countenance. It was what she expected, but no matter -- she was going to make it now. He could not stop her. He could not leave her behind.

Suddenly the look on Tuor's face changed to one of horror, and it disappeared under a stinging splash of salt spray. Her right leg had cramped. She stopped, just out of reach of her goal. She had swam too far and too fast, and now her tired body failed her at the last. She spat out a mouthful of seawater and struggled with the waves about her, but her body would no longer hold her up. "Help me, Tuor!" she managed to cry before she went under, and then the waves closed over her slender form.

There was a dull roaring in Idril's ears from the warm waters of the bay flowing about her as she sank into its depths. The salt water stung her eyes so badly that she had to keep them closed. She did her best to work her cramped leg by touch, but it was no use. She was still sinking, and the cramp hindered her efforts. She would run out of breath long before she could make it back to the surface.

She heard the sound of a muffled splash echoing through the waters. Moments later, a strong pair of arms seized her and pulled her up towards the morning light. She gasped for breath as her head broke the surface, her strained lungs drawing in fresh air in great draughts, then opened her eyes to see her rescuer. Tuor swam beside her, holding her above water with one arm while he paddled with the other, his strong legs kicking behind them as he bore her towards the ship. Idril relaxed in her husband's grip, doing her best not to hinder him. It was not long before he brought them to Earrame's port side. Voronwe and the other Elves of the ship's crew awaited them, and they were hauled aboard. A blanket was quickly set about her shivering form, and with Tuor's aid Idril limped below decks to his quarters.

After he had brought her inside his cabin, Tuor helped her to a seat. He then shut and locked the door behind them. Idril kept the blanket draped about her shivering form in the cool air of the cabin. He came back, knelt beside her, and then began to gently massage her cramped leg. His face was now grim, and she could hear the anger in his voice as he spoke. "You have shamed me before the king, Cirdan, your son, and all the folk of Arvernien," he snapped. "What madness seized you to do such a thing as this?"

Idril returned his stare, with fire kindled in her eyes. "Would you have preferred I come after you in my royal robes, husband? Or would you that I had taken one of the fishing vessels and followed in your wake?"

"That is not what I meant and you know it!" said Tuor, almost but not quite yelling. He stopped, took a deep breath, then continued in a lower tone. "Why did you come after me? You know full well what this is, and why I did not want you with me."

"I have sailed with you before," said Idril evenly.

"Yes, but never on a journey such as this," he shot back almost immediately. "You have no place on this voyage, Idril. It is too perilous for me, let alone you. I have half a mind to turn about and put you back on the shore where you belong."

"Then you had better set me in irons and lock me away, if that is your intent," said Idril, and she matched his ire with her own. "I am coming with you, Tuor, whether you will it or no. You are my husband. I am your wife. My place is by your side, and there I shall remain no matter what perils lie before us."

This time it was Tuor who looked away, unable to bear his wife's gaze. They did not speak for a time, while their wills silently strove one with another. Tuor continued to massage Idril's leg, saying nothing. The only sounds to be heard were the soft sounds of his fingers working the cramp, the creaking of the ship upon the waves, and the occasional gull or other seabird that flew by. Voronwe and the other Elves listening outside the cabin wondered what would happen next. It was Tuor who broke the silence, and the Elves had to strain to hear his words. "Twice before I almost lost you to great peril," he said softly. "I do not want to lose you again."

"Then who better to save me from such peril than my husband?" said Idril. She laid her hands upon his, stopping his massage. "Who better to shield me from danger than my beloved? Have you forgotten our pledge of love, son of Huor? I vowed to follow you to the Circles of the World and beyond. That is your destination, whether it be through the Blessed Realm or upon the waters of the Great Sea. Would you have me break that vow, Tuor? If you make me, then I have naught left but the death of sorrow, and never will we see each other again." Her eyes began to well with tears. "I do not want that, Tuor. I do not want to lose you." With that she began to cry. "Do not do this to me, beloved. Do not leave me behind."

Tuor took one of Idril's hands, holding it within his own. Her slender fingers looked small and frail within the largeness of his own palm -- their delicate paleness in sharp contrast to his own tanned skin. He looked deep into her tear-stained eyes as she wept, seeing the anguish of her love. How could he say no? He knew deep within his own heart that they should never be parted, not after all they had been through together. He should have heeded it before, but his desire to shield her from any further harm had blinded him to her plight. No more. He smiled, then held up her hand to his lips and kissed it. "My lady," he said, with all of the love and tenderness that he could put into his voice, "who among the wise could refuse such a plea?"

Idril's eyes were still wet, but her mood brightened at once. "Then you will not take me back to the Havens?" she said.

"No," said Tuor. "Our destination is the Blessed Realm. Who better to guide us in that place than one who has walked its ways?" At that Idril gave a cry of joy and clasped her arms about his neck in tearful embrace. Tuor returned the same, holding her in his arms as he continued to speak. "I dreaded the coming of this day, Idril. Had I been more wise, then we might not have come to this."

Idril smiled. "Sad is the blindess of the wise," she said.

Tuor leaned back and looked at her, remembering those words. He then shook his head and lifted her up, laughing softly as he did so. "Now I am the wiser, and now my heart is glad again. We have come such a long way, you and I."

"And we have a long way to go," she said, nestling her head on his breast.

"Not in these wet clothes," he said, holding her in his arms. "We will have to make do for now -- but as soon as you are ready, we will set sail for the Blessed Realm."

They looked at each other, their faces full of love, and then Tuor kissed his beloved. There was no one left outside their door. The Elves were already up on deck, making ready to weigh anchor.

Earendil watched with the others gathered on the docks as Earrame sat motionless at the mouth of the bay. The west-wind was also holding its breath, as if it too awaited the outcome of the discourse between Tuor and Idril along with the folk in the harbor. By now it had grown to a fair-sized gathering of Elves and Men, and even a few Dwarves -- all wondering and staring at the ship in the bay. Elwing stood close by Earendil's side, and it seemed to him from the look on her face that she was as expectant as he to the outcome of Idril's swim. "Do you think he will bring him back?" she ventured at last.

"I know not," he said, shaking his head. "I hope not, anyway."

"Why?"

"They belong together."

"Oh."

He did not say more, nor was their any need. Elwing knew his heart, and hers was the same as his. That was the reason behind his argument with his father. That was the reason behind her swift departure to go fetch his mother. They knew Tuor and Idril belonged together, even if Tuor would deny it. All was done that could be done, and now it was out of their hands. All they could do was watch and wait.

"Look," said Earendil, pointing to the distant ship. "They are returning topside. Now we shall know what will be, one way or the other."

The watchers on the shore saw Tuor help Idril onto Earrame's deck. She now wore spare sea-clothes borrowed from the other Elves. They were a bit large in places, but she wore then well, and made them look better on her than they did on their actual owners. (94) The two of them stood together on the deck, hand in hand, and spoke a moment to each other. Then they turned to face the crowd on shore at the far end of the harbor, and Idril uplifting her hand waved goodbye to them. Immediately a heartfelt cheer arose from those on shore, and many waved farewell in reply.

"Now they will never be parted," said Elwing, and she put her hand in Earendil's. "I wonder. Will they make it to the Western Shore?"

"Who knows?" mused Earendil, gently squeezing in reply. "They will be together until the end of time. They will remain so, whatever may befall. To her, that is all that matters."

The west-wind picked up, and the purple sails of Earrame filled with the breath of the morning breeze. It danced across the waters of the Sea, and it seemed to all who stood on the shore that they heard a great song coming from the waves -- a gentle melody song softly by many voices rising from the ocean depths. As Earendil and Elwing watched with the others, the ship of Tuor began to move swiftly, heading towards the clear skies of the western horizon. For a long moment, as the ship paused upon its brink, it seemed that it was bathed in a holy fire -- a brilliance that was at once both marvelous and beautiful to behold. Then the hull dipped below the horizon and with that it was gone. The last they saw of Earrame was its great purple sails racing down the skyline, before they too disappeared and were lost from sight. (95)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Out of the North there came a Man, and beyond the Sea he passed. Towards a land where no mortal had as yet set foot sailed Tuor son of Huor, greatest of those who were ever born of the House of Hador. And though now the tales of Men and the deeds they wrought in the First Age of Middle-earth draw to their close, there is but one final thing to record in the tale of Tuor.

Earendil son of Tuor slept alone in his room in his father's house by the Sea, both his heart and mind at rest. His father and mother were together now, and that was the way it was meant to be. He slumbered on his bed as the fire in the hearth burned low, and the walls were lit by a soft red glow from its dying embers. Outside the night sky was clear, and the bright light of the Moon cast its beams on his still brow, bathing it in a soft white sheen. His face was turned to the open window across from him, and his closed eyes looked out over the dark waves and rolling crests of the Sundering Sea. The song of the waters sang to him that night as they had done many times before, and a vision he had seen often since his childhood came unbidden into his dreams that night.

He dreamed that he was standing on a sandy beach, looking across a green plain towards a mighty mountain range, the highest and largest he had ever known. Right before him ran a great cleft, as if cut through the rocks with a single stroke by some giant blade in ages past. From the far end of the cleft came a shimmering glow, filling the canyon and rising into the sky above. Its radiance fell upon a great city of white stone set upon a hill in the midst of the cleft, the fairest he had ever seen. He heard the sound of someone splashing in the surf, coming from the ship behind, and a presence came up and stood by his side as he gazed speechless at that beautiful sight. He turned to speak to his unseen companion, but before he could catch even a glimpse, the vision faded -- and it was day once again. (96)

Epilogue (95)

In the rubble of the King's Tower, in the center of the ruin of Gondolin, a stilled hand grasped a great sword. An Orc bent over the corpse and wrenched the blade from the cold fingers, then stripped its ivory sheath from the lifeless body. The sword was slipped into its sheath, and then the Orc tossed it into his pack, where it sat alongside many other blades picked from the rubble, destined for the treasure chambers of the Dark Lord.

When the North fell under the might of the Valar in the War of Wrath, and Beleriand sank beneath the waves, many treasures of old were lost. Many creatures of Morgoth, both great and small, fled east behind the walls of the Iron Mountains. With them were some of the Orcs that had guarded the treasure chambers of Angband, carrying whatever riches they could grab in their flight. They were confused and leaderless, fighting among themselves, and in the end few escaped to the lands beyond Lindon. They were waylaid on the road by both friend and foe, and only a handful made it to their kindred under Mount Gundabad; but none of Morgoth's hoard came with them.

In a darkened cave somewhere in the Trollshaws of Wilderland near the end of the Third Age of Middle-earth, some seven thousand years after the fall of Gondolin, a great sword in an ivory sheath sat in a tall stone pot along with several other ancient blades. They were but a part of the prizes claimed by a trio of stone trolls -- a cave full of plunder they had seized when they came down from the mountains. Where and how their victims had gathered their wealth they did not care, but they knew quality when they saw it. They had slain its owners, then claimed the cave for their own.

The sun was rising above the line of the Misty Mountains when the stone door of the cave opened. Inside came not the trolls, but instead spilled thirteen dwarves, one wizard, and a hobbit. They held their noses at the stench of the bones rotting on the floor in one far corner, but the dwarves soon found the troll's plunder, and examined it with the practiced eye of one assessing the current worth of anything that might be valuable. As the hobbit and the other dwarves looked over the pots of coins and piles of brass buttons, the wizard and a dwarf with a silver tassel on his hood began inspecting a row of tall stone pots along one of the cave walls, filled with all sorts of things that had not been dumped on the floor.

"See here!" cried the dwarf with the silver tassel, gesturing to a collection of swords in one of the pots. The wizard and the hobbit came over and looked at the various blades sticking out of its mouth. The wizard picked up the sword in the ivory sheath and withdrew it, examining the runes engraved on its blade. The hobbit's attention was drawn to a dagger of elven-steel in a plain sheath -- just the right size for one of his small stature. As for the dwarf, he had chosen another sword from the pot, of similar workmanship to that which the wizard held. "A deucedly fine blade," he said, half-pulling it from its sheath and showing it to the wizard.

"Yes, these look like good blades," said the wizard, resheathing the sword he had picked and examining that held by the dwarf. "They were not made by any troll, nor by any smith among Men in these parts and days. I cannot read these runes, but when we can, we shall know more about them."

"Let's get out of this horrible smell!" cried a young dwarf with a yellow beard. His was the opinion shared by the others, so they carried what they needed from the cave and left, leaving the door open behind them. The wizard buckled the sword in the ivory sheath around his waist, then left the cave with the hobbit trotting at his side, still grasping the dagger of elven-steel.

FIN

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1) The later Tuor opens with a brief summary of the tale of Rian's death and the birth of Tuor, as is recorded in Unfinished Tales:

Rían, wife of Huor, dwelt with the people of the House of Hador; but when rumour came to Dor-lómin of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and yet she could hear no news of her lord, she became distraught and wandered forth into the wild alone. There she would have perished, but the Grey-elves came to her aid. For there was a dwelling of this people in the mountains westward of Lake Mithrim; and thither they led her, and she was there delivered of a son before the end of the Year of Lam­entation.

And Rían said to the Elves: "Let him be called Tuor, for that name his father chose, ere war came between us. And I beg of you to foster him, and to keep him hidden in your care; for I forebode that great good, for Elves and Men, shall come from him. But I must go in search of Huor, my lord."

Then the Elves pitied her; but one Annael, who alone of all that went to war from that people had returned from the Nirnaeth, said to her: "Alas, lady, it is known now that Huor fell at the side of Húrin his brother; and he lies, I deem, in the great hill of slain that the Orcs have raised upon the field of battle." Therefore Rían arose and left the dwelling of the Elves, and she passed through the land of Mithrim and came at last to the Haudhen-Ndengin in the waste of Anfauglith, and there she laid her down and died.

I decided to start the story later in the tale for dramatic purposes. Thus we meet Tuor already full-grown, and most of his childhood -- that of which he knew or would have learned -- is revealed in flashbacks. For the same reason, only the barest, absolutely essential details are given about Rian and how she came to leave Tuor with the Grey-elves. This tale is about Tuor, not Rian, and my adaptation reflects that.

I also made the opening deliberately Hemmingwayesque. We don't learn Tuor's name until well into the first chapter. There is a lot of "the man did this, the man did that," like in some of Hemmingway's novels, in order to hook readers into the story that are not familiar with Middle-earth. Who is this man? Why is he walking through the wilds with a spear? How did he get there, and where is he going? And so on ....

2) Again, for the sake of those readers who are not ardent Middle-earth fans, I have deliberately tried to avoid using a lot of Elvish terms. When I do, I try to use shortened, more convienent forms whenever possible. I also tried to substitute short-form equivalents for other Middle-earth terms as well. Thus "Nirnaeth Arnoediad" becomes "the Nirnaeth," "Ered Luin" becomes "the Blue Mountains," "the Hithaeglir" becomes "The Misty Mountains," and so on. The idea here is to make the work more accessable and easy to read than The Silmarillion -- no insult intended, hopefully none implied. By the way, "Eastron" comes from The Wanderings of Hurin, and was coined by Tolkien himself as an alternative to "Easterling."

3) In my early drafts for the scene where Tuor sees the stream jump its banks, I had picked out Tolkien's "A Song of Aryador" for the song that Tuor sings right before this happens. I eliminated this in later drafts upon the advice of my reviewers, who complained that it slowed down the story.

4) My visualization of the water-covered path leading to the Gate of the Noldor is based on my childhood memories of the submerged roads and walkways I saw in several of Arkansas' state parks in the Ozark Mountains. The most accessable of these is at Mt. Magazine, but others that better fit the tale can be found several miles off the main highways at Jasper, and also in and around the Buffalo River area.

5) Compare the description of the gem-lamp of Gelmir and Arminas with that carried by Gwindor in the forest of Taur-nu-Fuin in The Children of Hurin.

6) Gelmir and Arminas eventually wound up at the court of King Orodreth of Nargothrond, where they gave him a warning from Ulmo not unlike that which Tuor would deliver to Turgon in Gondolin (The Children of Hurin).

7) Tuor's dream is a core element in my adaptation of this tale. It is a dream that he will later share with his son Earendil. In turn, Earendil will experience his own version of this dream at story's end. Thus, they both share the same dream of a visit to Elvenhome. There are two interpretations of the dream at this point: symbolic and actual. The symbolic interpretation is that the white city on the hill is Gondolin, and the presence is Voronwe, who will be his guide there. The actual is that this is prophetic foreshadowing of Tuor's last voyage, of whic only the beginning is told in the final chapter of this tale. The white city is Tirion upon Tuna in the Blessed Realm -- upon which Gondolin was based, by the way -- and the presence beside him is his wife Idril. I will deal with Earendil's version of the dream at the appropriate time.

8) Tuor's finding of the ruined Grey-elven fishing village was inspired by the original version of The Fall of Gondolin from The Book of Lost Tales, Part 2. In that story Tuor tarried for a time in the Cove of Falasquil (and it was there that he met Ulmo, but more on that later) before resuming his quest to find Gondolin. In my adaptation, I never give the name of the cove; however, they are one and the same. I added this in order to provide Tuor a place to stay while he lives in Nevrast. Living in the ancient homes of the Grey-elves who fostered him seemed an appropriate choice, and also provided a convienent trigger for the flashback scene about Annael that follows.

9) You will already note how I have been hinting at Tuor's fondness for axes. This comes from the original tale, in which Tuor's weapon of choice is the axe, not a sword. Tolkien gave him a sword in the incomplete Unfinished Tales draft, but that ends before we see him do anything with it. In deference to both versions of the tale I make him skilled in both, having been taught "all weapons of war" by his foster-father Annael, although his personal preference (per the old tale) remains the axe.

10) Yes, I added the part about "the Green Flash" to the story for dramatic impact. It is a very real phenomena, and is unforgettable to anyone who has either been upon or been near the sea and been fortunate to see it. It occurs at both sunrise and sunset when the atmospheric conditions are just right, albeit it a less dramatic fashion than I describe. The sun will actually turn green for a second or two at the horizon's edge, due to the angle of sight catching both the sun and the sea's refractive properties just right.

11) I greatly expanded upon the vision that Ulmo shares with Tuor in my adaptation, so that readers not already familiar with Middle-earth's mythos would not have to go to The Silmarillion to find out what he saw.

12) Again, I greatly expanded upon Tuor's discussion with Voronwe about Cirdan, the Falas, and Nargothrond for readers not already familiar with the Middle-earth mythos. This was not part of Tolkien's later revision to the tale of Tuor (Unfinished Tales) because he assumed his readers would already be familiar with The Silmarillion -- and thus the situation. It also helps to more fully paint the bleak situation that the Elves faced near the end of the First Age, with Morgoth's forces winning on all fronts and most of the Elf-kingdoms either destroyed or about to be.

13) In all of Tolkien's various extant versions of the tale of Tuor, there is never any mention of his having his own provisions. Common sense dictates that he must have had some, given his living in the wild for as long as he did. They would have been nearly exhausted by the time he reached Vinyamar, so he would not have had much left. Whatever he would have had left, though, would have "helped lengthen the journey" as described in my adaptation.

14) This is an allusion to "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge ("Water, water, everywhere/but not a drop to drink").

15) One of my personal issues with the tale of Tuor, at least from Tuor's point-of-view in the later Tuor (Unfinished Tales), is his continued insistence that the Hidden Realm was in the South. It's a bit of a credulity stretch to be asked to believe that Tuor didn't know any better. After all, anyone who had heard the strange tale of the sons of Galdor (The Silmarillion) -- including his own father Huor -- and how they apparently survived in the wild for a year without help, coming home "as princes," would have surmised that Gondolin was somehow involved. Many did, including Galdor and the Dark Lord. So why not Tuor? After all, he lived in Hithlum. Even if the Grey-elves would not speak of it to him, surely he would have met some of the old folk of Hithlum during his thralldom to Lorgan who would have known and told him the tale. Maybe Lorgan kept him away from the old folk, his being a strong young thrall and all, but it's still a bit of a stretch, IMHO. Nevertheless, in deference to Tolkien's vision, I wrote my adaptation in accordance with his interpretation.

16) I left this part of the tale pretty much as Tolkien wrote it in the later Tuor (Unfinished Tales). I must admit that I was sorely tempted to cut out the bulk of the trip though the Orfalch Echor in order to speed up the narrative, but in the end I let it be. That was one of my few concessions to hardcore Tolkien fans. Most of the changes I made were in wording and structure.

17) Maeglin, the King's sister-son, per the later Tuor (Unfinished Tales).

18) It is after this chapter that I had to leave behind the later Tuor (Unfinished Tales) and strike out on my own narrative ground -- using the original 1918 tale for inspiration and general story flow (The Book of Lost Tales, Part 2) but doing my best to update, revise, and expand it in accordance with Tolkien's later materials and my own conceptions as to how the story should go. The "annalistic" entry that ends this chapter marks this breakpoint. I deliberately wrote it that way, so those fans who insist upon going by Tolkien's text in the later Tuor would have the freedom to do so, then could pick up the tale at this point with my adaptation.

Most of the following chapter is based on an outline written by Tolkien himself for this part of the story, which he never expanded upon after he left the later Tuor unfinished. To this I have added elements from the original 1918 tale and some original items of my own -- such as the comments of the crowd at the city gate and Ingold the Elf-captain escorting Tuor and Voronwe into the city.

19) Voronwe's poem is my own creation. It was actually the first part of my adaptation to be released to the general public. You can still find it in the fan archives section of some of the older Tolkien-related sites on the Internet.

Perhaps this is also a good point to note that I did not attempt any corrections of the "old" Elvish names and terminology used in the original 1918 version of the tale (The Book of Lost Tales, Part 2). My poem is the first place readers encounter these older names in my adaptation. I felt at the time, and still feel, that such an attempt was beyond my capabilities, since I am not fluent in any of the Elvish tongues as Tolkien would develop them in later years. For example, Garstirin should probably be Amon Tirith, or something of that sort. Perhaps it's the dialect of the Grey-elves of Nevrast? (wink) I have no objections to others correcting these should my adaptation be used as the basis for later efforts, but you will probably have to either rewrite my poem or make a new one on your own.

20) This is an allusion to the death of Eol, father of Maeglin, as is told in The Silmarillion. By accident he killed his wife, Aredhel sister of Turgon (and the original Lady of Gondolin), while trying to slay his son Maeglin for going against his will and convincing his mother to lead the two of them to Gondolin. Eol's punishment was to be thrown from the Carag-dur to his death. This was a particular point on the northern course of the city walls used for executions, per Tolkien.

21) My description of the Vale of Tumladen is based on four things: the original 1918 tale, Karen Wynn Fonstad's The Atlas of Middle-earth, and several famous paintings of Gondolin by Ted Naismith and John Howe respectively. Readers can see in Naismith's first Gondolin painting the orchards and hedgerows along the road across the plain, and I have placed the fountain of Eithel Ninui in the same location that he shows in his work. Our biggest difference is in the road leading up the side of Amon Gwareth as seen from the Orfalch Echor. Given the geography, as described by Tolkien in the 1918 tale and as worked out by Fonstad, Naismith's depiction would have had Tuor and Voronwe entering through the South-gate, not the West-gate as the 1918 tale states. I simply flipped the city's orientation in his famous painting in order to put them at the right gate. I note in passing that Naismith fixed this in his later works, such as his depiction of the flight of Tuor and the refuges from the dry lake as the city burns. Howe's paintings were used for the description of the city itself, in particular the walls and gates, but I reverted back to Naismith for the description of the city towers, as his depictions seem to be more in keeping with Tolkien's own depictions of the vale and the city. As for the small boulders and piles of stone mentioned in the text, we had a field full of these not far from my family home in Russellville, Arkansas.  Our home was one side of a tall ridge and the rocky field the other, and Tolkien's description of the vale in the 1918 tale reminded me strongly of that field.

22) As strange as this sounds, I knew as soon as I created the character of Ingold that he would put in more than one appearance. Don't ask me why; I just knew. He is that dedicated warrior you see in almost every army: devoted to his cause and with an unshakeble sense of rightness and justice. He was too noble to be just a throwaway character. As the story developed, I found an opportunity to bring him back, and thus he gets to play a pivotal - if sadly tragic - role in one of the tale's climactic moments. Let this be an example to other writers of how a minor character can rise in importance during the development of a tale.

23) The idea of Turgon calling his lords to council in order to debate the message of Ulmo was to let the reader see "out loud" himself the mental struggle that the Elves of Gondolin, especially Turgon, were going through over this.

24) Perceptive readers familiar with the Middle-earth mythos will soon notice that I have reduced the number of Gondolin's hosts from the original 1918 tale's twelve to a more manageable seven. This was mostly a matter of convienence, inspired in part by the number of gates (seven) in the Orfalch Echor. Seven is far easier to work with than twelve. It also allowed me to neatly sidestep the issues of Rog the Elf-lord in the original tale, who had a very un-Elvish name, and some confusion regarding the lesser-known hosts and who actually commanded them. This is just my opinion, based on Christopher Tolkien's commentaries in The Book of Lost Tales 2, but I think that Tolkien might have reduced them himself, given how complex it made the fall of the city become later in the tale. I won't object if future editors of my manuscript "fix" it back to twelve, as I understand from where you're coming. I guess one might say that the other five were lost in the Nirnaeth, eh? =P

Galdor is lord of the Host of the White Tree -- the tree of Celeborn in Tirion, made by Yavanna herself for the Elves as an image of Telperion the Elder Tree. The White Tree of Gondor, as featured in The Lord of the Rings, is its distant descendant.

25) With this chapter, I got the opportunity to take one of the biggest unsung characters of Middle-earth, smoke him out from the background, and make him a major player in the tale. For you see, Penlegod the Elf-scribe is the original author, per Tolkien, of the collected tales that we know as the Quenta Silmarillion (I Eldanyare) - the third and largest section of The Silmarillion proper. As we know almost nothing about him, save for a few references and what is told about the character of Penlod in the original 1918 tale (from whom Penlegod seems to have been derived), I had to take some liberties in developing a well-rounded character that readers could appreciate. For that I took the quickest path and based him on my younger self. The key clue is the hair color. I have red hair, as does Penlegod, and there were red-headed Elves in Middle-earth. Tolkien never said there weren't; however, he did say that red hair among the Elves was uncommonly rare. I suppose it is as rare as red hair among the Japanese, which comes from the Ainu that lived in the land before them; hence my statement that Peneglod was "seemingly of mixed ancestry." I'm sure it'll give the canon nazis something to rail against, but hopefully it will also give Tolkien artists a little more variety in their depiction of Middle-earth Elves. One oft-overlooked canon example is the twin sons of Feanor, Amrod and Amras, who were both red-headed according to Tolkien himself (The Peoples of Middle-earth).

26) My depiction of Maeglin in my manuscript was inspired at the time by the character of the prime minister in the anime feature film Windaria - a rather shifty fellow who looked, dressed, and acted a lot like Tolkien's description of Maeglin. At that time there were no depictions of Maeglin available. I was later pleased to find that Ted Naismith had painted Maeglin for the illustrated version of The Silmarillion. His depiction of Maeglin is surprisingly close to what I had envisioned back then.

27) The full story of Anguriel's origins and how Maeglin came by this unusual sword is told in The Silmarillion. Its mate was Anglachel, given by Eol to King Thingol of Doriath in exchange for permission to dwell in Nan Elmoth. Later it was given to Beleg Strongbow, march-warden of Doriath, and afterwards fell into the hands of Turin Turambar, cousin of Tuor. It was because of that blade that Turin was known as the Black Sword. So now you know whom Tuor and Voronwe encountered at the ruin of Ivrin! How Turin got there and why, along with as the rest of the sad story of his life, is told in The Children of Hurin.

28) Tolkien himself states that Idril had the habit of walking barefoot, as is noted in the 1918 original (The Book of Lost Tales 2):

Fair indeed was she and brave thereto; and the people called her Idril of the Silver Feet (> Celebrindal - ed.) in that she ever went barefoot and bareheaded, king's daughter as she was, save only at pomps of the Ainur ....

Her head remains uncovered in all version of the tale, and I have followed the accordingly.

29) The rescue of the remnant of Nargothrond by Turgon helps explain the presence of Gildor Inglorin later in my adaption, who I brought into the tale in order to give him more backstory in the Middle-earth mythos. As is implied in The Lord of the Rings, Gildor was at one time one of the Elves of Nargothrond.

"I am Gildor," answered their leader, the Elf who had first hailed him [Frodo]. "Gildor Inglorin of the House of Finrod."

This would have made Gildor a blood relative of Finrod Felagund, who was king of Nargothrond. Unfortunately, we never learn anything else about him in that tale. Hopefully I have rectified this somewhat. By making him part of Gwindor's company that fought in the Nirnaeth, he thus survives the eventual fall and sack of Nargothrond -- helping to explain how he turns up in The Lord of the Rings some seven thousand years later.

30) I realized when writing this part of my manuscript that Tuor lacked a good reason for staying in Gondolin - aside from gawking and sightseeing, that is. I would also point out to my readers and critics that he wasn't yet in love with Idril. He was amazed at her beauty and charm, yes, but not yet in love with her. I had to find a way to keep these two together so that Tuor would stay in Gondolin (per the 1918 tale) and the seed of their love would start to grow in a believable fashion. Tolkien himself provided the deus ex machina in The Children of Hurin - the queen of an Elven-realm (in that case Melian) was responsible for the upbringing of her lord's children (Turin, Thingol's foster-son). Then it hit me -- Hurin and Huor had been youths when they spent their year in Gondolin, and had spent a lot of time with Turgon. Who would have been responsible for watching over them whenever they were not with the king? Gondolin had no queen, and the king's sister Aredhel was already dead by that time. That made his daughter Idril the de facto Lady of Gondolin. She would have been the one responsible for them. She probably got to know them as well as Turgon. That made Idril the only living link to Tuor's lost past, aside from Turgon himself. She knew much about his family and heritage, beyond tales and such, because she had learned it directly from Hurin and Huor. What else could match the call of the Sea other than a chance to discover one's lost past -- especially from one of the few people still living who had known his father?

31) The placement of Tuor's home upon the walls itself may strike modern readers as odd, yet is historically accurate when compared to medieval European history. It was a long established practice for key military personnel, as well as lords of high rank, to live in the outer towers of a castle. That way they could rush to the defense should the castle be attacked. Gondolin may be a walled city but the general principle is still the same -- as we will learn, later in the tale.

32) The bulk of this chapter, in particular the section dealing with Tuor's training in the ways of the sword and his duels with Maeglin, were not part of the first edition of this manuscript. I had planned for them, and had even done some drafting on them, but to be honest I got in a hurry to finish the tale and omitted them. Over a decade later, as I wrestled with the notion of finally releasing this manuscript to the public domain, I realized I needed to put this material back in, like I should have done in the first place. I didn't have enough in the way of character development for Tuor and Idril, and I needed something (other than prejudice) to give Maeglin a reason for his obvious dislike of Tuor. I also needed an event that would jump-start the growth of the love between Tuor and Idril, rather than "the curtain falls and time passes" and such, as the late Andy Griffith once said. This additional material covers that ground.

To be honest, I have no idea if Tolkien's Elves practiced their warrior skills in the way that I describe. I guess it betrays my ignorance in this respect. I got this largely from other fantasy works. I observe in passing, though, the way Boromir is trying to train Pippin and Merry in the movie version of The Fellowship of the Ring. Same idea, different tale and medium.

33) In my original drafts, the scenes in the Hall of Warriors would have take place right after the opening to Chapter 10, "A Day of Decision." Tuor and Voronwe would have left the royal library and gone to the Hall of Warriors, and Voronwe would have been Tuor's opposite number in training, not Gildor. I relocated this material to its present location in this edition and rewrote it, so that it made more sense for what I was trying to accomplish.

34) The first duel between Maeglin and Tuor was inspired by a scene from a episode of The Prisoner television series. In "The Schizoid Man," an imposter who looks, talks, and behaves exactly like Number Six bests him in a fencing match. The real Number Six, who has undergone a month of drug and electroshock conditioning to act other than he normally would, is easily defeated. The imposter, Curtis, threatens him with his foil after the match, saying, "If ever you do challenge me to a duel, your safest bet would be battle axes in a very dark cellar."

35) Why didn't Maeglin notice what Tuor was doing with his axe, when Egalmoth and Glorfindel did from up in the stands? He was too caught up in his duel, of course, and prematurely proud of the prospect of defeating Tuor a second time. Hence Idril's words later on, when she is alone with Tuor: "Maeglin needed humbling .... He has a stiff neck, and I am glad somebody has finally come along to bend it."

36) The idea that Idril had healing powers comes from Tolkien's other works. Both Luthien (Narn I Tinuviel) and Galadriel (The Lord of the Rings), two powerful Elf-maidens in their own right, had considerable healing powers. Having Idril heal Tuor of the dueling mark that Maeglin tried to give him turned out to be an excellent means of jump-starting their romance - especially with regards to close physical contact.

37) The inclusion of Hurin's visit covers an important gap left at the conclusion of the published version of The Children of Hurin, for those who have read that tale. In that text, Hurin suddenly appears at the grave of Turin a year after his release, with little explanation as to what happened in between. This hopefully addresses that - at least enough so that readers who don't want to won't have to go look up the tale of Hurin's last days in The Silmarillion or The Wanderings of Hurin (The War of the Jewels). In this manuscript, it also provides a useful springboard for, of all things, the growing love between Tuor and Idril.

38) This chapter is key to the development of Tuor and Idril's romance. Important to the building of any deep relationship is the discovery of commonalities - the things you share in common with your partner. The unexpected arrival of Hurin, which should have been a negative event by all reason (given his doom), instead has an unanticipated positive effect: it pushes Tuor and Idril's relationship to a new level. They now have something in common other than living in the same city and seeing each other every day. They've both lost parents. They've both suffered the pain of longing. They both turn to each other in sharing their pain, and in seeking comfort to assuage it. They both gain new respect for each other from this, and now share a new intimacy that they did not have before. That is why Idril choose to drop all formalities by chapter's end. No longer does she want Tuor to address her by title, as he should to the Lady of Gondolin. She wants him to call her by name, as a friend ... and, maybe, possibly more.

39) The opening of this chapter comes from "The Lhammas," an essay on the development of the various Elven-tongues that Tolkien ascribes to Penlegod. You can read the full text in The Peoples of Middle-Earth.

40) The scenes where Tuor and Idril finally admit their love, and are subsequently caught in the act by Maeglin, draw obvious parallels to the tale of Beren and Luthien. The story was already well known in Beleriand by this time, per Tolkien himself, and would have been obvious inspiration for any mixed couple of Men and Elves looking for guidance. The idea of the Lay of Leithian already being in existence this early is my own idea, given the notion that is was already an old tale, written in a convoluted and archaic form, by the time Penlegod prepared the short prose form that appears in Quenta Silmarillion - echoing, of course, the real-life development of the tale by Tolkien himself. By the way, Tuor and Idril's costumes were inspired by those worn by "Art" and "Jenny" in the movie version of the musical Camelot. I also wanted Idril to have her own color, if you will, since the heroines in the other two tales of the Atanatarion have them (Luthien = blue, Nienor = white) -- if only for this one scene.

41) Maeglin's confrontation with Idril is yet another scene inspired in part from an episode of The Prisoner. In "Hammer Into Anvil," the new Number Two is determined to break Number Six once and for all after the latter threatens him for causing the suicide of a fellow Villager. As we join the scene, Number Two has just revealed that the cane he has been carrying is in fact a disguised rapier, and he threatens him with it, waving it close to his eyes and tapping him on his forehead with the point.

TWO: Aahhh. You react! Are you afraid of me? What is going on up there?

SIX: Disgust.

42) Turgon's warning to Idril about the fates of Elves and Men is taken from "Athrabeth Finrod an Andreth," another of Tolkien's essays. It purports to be a record of a debate on fate between Finrod Felagund the Elf and Andreth the wise-women of Men. Christopher Tolkien used it himself in a similar manner when fleshing out the tale of Turin's stay at Nargothrond in the published version of The Children of Hurin.

43) "I will not be the fool that Thingol of Doriath became." Ironic, isn't it, given how Turgon was behaving with regards to leaving Gondolin? He must have subconsciously reflected on that, given his subsequent statement: "Ours is not to be the fate of Thingol and Luthien." It wasn't, as events will later show.

44) The notion that Idril "was long in labor with the birth of her son" was meant to mirror the birth of Feanor, greatest of the Elves, which was so taxing on his mother Miriel that she died shortly thereafter (The Silmarillion). The birth of Earendil, son of Tuor and Idril, was just as significant event, if not greater -- plus you have the complications that might have been caused by the crossing of species (Elves and Men). Tolkien himself notes the naming ceremony one of his later essays, as well as the fact that Earendil's mother-name was Ardamire (The Peoples of Middle-earth).

45) Galdor comes across as something of a non-entity in the original 1918 tale, so I beefed up his part a bit in my adaptation. He's still not the sharpest blade in the drawer by any means, but at least he's no fool ....

46) The image of Tuor and Idril in their embrace on the city walls was inspired by a popular picture from the anime fantasy OAV series Record of Lodoss War. It is a cell of Parn and Deedlit, the mixed couple of that story, standing together in a forest in winter, with Deedlit the Elf wearing a furred mantle with a hood. Idril's mantle has no hood, per her long-standing habit of keeping her head uncovered.

47) The news about the fall of Doriath accomplishes two purposes - it helps to bring closure to the tales of Beren and Luthien (Narn I Tinuviel) and the tale of Turin (The Children of Hurin), and also further highlights the growing danger to the realm of Gondolin -- just as Ulmo foretold.

48) Idril's dream of the furnace comes straight from the original 1918 tale, albeit with a few updated details. It's actually out-of-sequence chronologically in this chapter, but was put where it was for storytelling effect. Timewise, it takes place before Turgon reduces the watch on the hills, not after. A flashback of sorts, as it were. Here is how it reads in the 1918 original:

Lo! I dreamed on a night that Maeglin builded a furnace, and coming at us unawares flung therein Earendil our babe, and would after thrust in thee and me; but that for sorrow at the death of our fair child I would not resist.

49) I added the ploy of building the new library so that there will be a good excuse for Tuor's stonewrights to begin "breaking the black iron of Tumladen" without arousing suspicion. For those of you trying to envison Penlegod's new library, think of the legendary Library of Alexandria - but done in Elvish style, with books instead of scrolls, and so on, in the best medieval tradition. He's building it "in the place of the warehouses" (read several warehouses), so it's a fairly big complex - big enough to hold "two hundred thousand volumes, the collected lore of the Elves both East and West." There are at least 2-3 floors, maybe as many as 4-5. The entrance to the secret way is hidden inside one of the basement sub-annexes - a storage room, or private office or reading room, or such. It's within a strong-arm's stone-throw of Tuor's house on the city walls, as we later find out in both "Red Sky at Night" and "The Eyes of Death." Also, making the library the location of the secret way avoided certain issues -- such as how to deal with the large numbers of Elves fleeing the city -- in revising the 1918 tale, where it was located in the basement of Tuor's house.

50) In The Silmarillion we learn that Ulmo gave Turgon a final warning concerning the impending fall of Gondolin, but never learn the particulars. I gave that job to Earendil in my adaptation, foreshadowing the important role he will play at the end of the First Age in years to come. Earendil's ability to hear the voice of Ulmo is thus contrasted with Turgon's loss of the same, reflecting his obsession with the city of Gondolin. This will happen again in "Red Skies At Night," where his love for the city has literally made him blind to the afterglow of the dragon-fires behind the northern fences of the Echoriath, whereas Earendil is the first to see them.

51) Idril's offer to "handle" Earendil when he tries to speak to the king is exactly the kind of thing you would expect ... from his mother. ;)

52) Yes, there are thirty pieces of silver in Maeglin's bag. Biblical reference (Judas Iscariot).

53) The bit about the gates in the northern hills disguised by Elven magic is strictly conjecture on my part. The original 1918 tale implies that some kind of defensive system was up there, but never goes into detail about it.

... into the plain they could not win for the vigilance of its guardians and the difficulty of those mountains.

And later, in the account given in The Silmarillion:

The host of Morgoth came over the northern hills where the height was greatest and the watch least vigilant ....

One is tempted to interpret those "guardians" from the 1918 original as the Great Eagles, but what would the Gondolindrim do whenever the Eagles were away? The Elves had explored the surrounding hills, and knew there was more than one path out of the vale -- provided one was willing to climb mountains to reach them. The Eagles' Cleft (Cristhorn) is a good example. The only easy path was the Orfalch Echor. Plus, with all those warriors at his command, as implied by The Children of Hurin, Turgon had to do something with them. There were more than enough to guard the city, so where else would they have gone? What else could they have done? We know that the Elves made regular trips into the Echoriath; Maeglin's mining excursions are one prominent example. What did those other Elves do up there? Thus there were other "watchers" in the hills, helping to guard the Hidden Realm from assault, as The Silmarillion states. Using magic to hide the Hidden Realm would have been perfectly natural, just as Celeborn and Galadriel used Elven-magic to shield the land of Lorien from outsiders, and (as is implied) what made the Elf-refuge of Rivendell so hard to find for people who did not know the way (The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings).

54) In some of my early drafts, Morgoth put a restored Sauron in charge of the tormenting of Maeglin -- a test of them both -- and it would have been Sauron who eventually broke Maeglin's will. I eventually decided against this for two reasons: Sauron had not yet had enough time to recover from his downfall at the hands of Beren and Luthien (Narn I Tinuviel), and it seemed too much of a departure from Tolkien's original intent.

55) The description of Morgoth's audience hall comes from the Lay of Leithian (The Lays of Beleriand).

56) The image of hell that Maeglin is forced to endure is stock stuff, I know, but it seemed appropriate. I threw in the part about his soul being trapped in "the lake of fire" in order better fit with some of the things that Tolkien had conjectured about Elvish reincarnation.

57) Morgoth's promise to Maeglin that "thy head will bear the crown of the Hidden Realm" is fulfilled later in the story - though not quite in the way Maeglin might have envisioned. Yes, this is one of my additions.

58) The chapter title comes from the old sailor's maxim: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky at warning, sailor take warning." In this case, though, the red sky at night is bad, marking the imminent fall of Gondolin.

59) The idea that Idril's secret tunnel wasn't finished with Gondolin was assaulted comes from the original 1918 tale.

... as autumn came ... Tuor stood upon the battlements gazing at the Encircling Hills. Now behold, Idril stood beside him, and ... she questioned him concerning the secret delving, and he said how it now led a league into the plain ... but still she counseled that the delving be pressed on, "because now is the time very near."

And later ...

Nigh two hours were they in that tunnel in the earth, and towards the end it was scarce finished, but rugged at the sides and low.

The original intent, again as per the 1918 tale, was to build the tunnel all the way to the Eagles' Cleft.

Now this way must not lead towards the Way of Escape, for my heart bids me trust it not, but even to that far distant pass, the Cleft of Eagles ... and the further this delving reach thitherward beneath the plain so much the better would I esteem it ....

60) Compare the image of Turgon relishing the vision of Gondolin on the night of Midsummer's Eve, just before the army of Angband came over the hills, with the feasting Babylonians from the Biblical book of Daniel, right before Cyrus and his Persians seized the city in a surprise attack. Tolkien himself drew the same allusion at the end of the 1918 original, and adds a few more comparisons:

Glory dwelt in that city of Gondolin of the Seven Names, and its ruin was the most dread of all the sacks of cities upon the face of the Earth. Not Bablon (> Babylon), nor Ninwi (> Ninevah), nor the towers of Trui (> Troy), nor all the many takings of Rum (> Rome) that is greatest among men, saw such terror as fell that day upon Amon Gwareth ....

61) "Father? I'm scared." --> "Captain, I'm frightened." (Star Trek TOS, "The City On The Edge of Forever)

62) The scene concerning the council of war is my own devising, giving me the chance to kill three birds with one stone: the initial assault upon the hills, the cowardice of Salgant, and the contention between Turgon and Tuor over the proper course of action. Again, this is another one of my "thinking out loud" scenes for readers not familiar with Tolkien's mythos, even though it draws on some elements from the original 1918 tale - most notably the council and Tuor and Turgon's argument over the proper course of action.

The biggest differences between the 1918 original and my adaptation are the notable absences of Maeglin and his toady Salgant. The absence of Salgant is easy enough to explain (cowardice), thus necessitating Penlegod's participation to cover for his absence. The absence of Maeglin, however, is another matter. In rewriting this part of the tale it seemed to me to make more sense, from a dramatic point-of-view, to make it look as if Maeglin had been killed in the initial assault on the hills. This would have been prearranged, of course, as part of his plans in aiding the Dark Lord to take the city. He would be in a better position to help Gothmog direct the assault from outside the city rather than from within, where his treachery would have been more easily discovered and dealt with. It also left Maeglin free and unencumbered to take appropriate action when the time came to seize Idril. Another point to consider is the emotional blow that Maeglin's "death" must have had on Turgon, his uncle, as I imply in the subsequent text. Maeglin was first prince of Gondolin and had been the King's Heir prior to the birth of Earendil. Also, he held a position of command and authority within Gondolin second to none save the king himself. His presence would have been, and proved to be (in my adaptation) sorely missed once the defenses in the hills were overcome and the city itself was assaulted. Of course, he had already compromised the city's defenses with his treachery, but making him absent early saves him (and me!) a lot of time and effort in covering his tracks during the assault.

63) The original 1918 tale mentions that Idril wielded a sword in battle during the fall of Gondolin, although it never mentions anything else about it. This fact was taken up by Peter Jackson and company in the movie version of The Fellowship of the Ring, and they invented a history for it during production. Although this never comes out in the movie proper, the sword that Arwen wields against the Nazgul while carrying Frodo to the Ford of Bruien is supposedly none other than Idril's own sword, Hardafang, saved after her departure into the West and kept by her grandson Elrond as a family heirloom. The movie also implies that Arwen's behavior and bravado might have been inspired by that of Idril, her great-grandmother on her father's side (Idril > Earendil > Elrond > Arwen).

64) This is pretty much a cleaned-up and slightly expanded-upon version of what was told in the original 1918 tale at this point. A lot of the more fantastic imagery, like the mechanical dragons and hundreds of Balrogs, has either been removed or reworked to be more in accord with later accounts (and depictions) of the tale. My reducing of the number of the hosts of Gondolin from twelve to seven means the actions of some of the hosts have had to be combined or assigned to others; for example, it is Galdor and not the problemsome Rog who makes the fatal counter-charge down the slopes of Amon Gwareth during the assault. The description of the new defenses of Gondolin, including the extended and expanded water barriers, also comes from the 1918 tale.

Purists will no doubt have something to say about my eliminating the "fabulous mechanical monsters and dragons" so vividly described in the original 1918 tale. There is little doubt that these would have been either eliminted or greatly reduced, given what we know and comparing it with the siege of Minas Tirith in The Lord of the Rings. That does not discount the possibility of other engines of war, such as siege towers (which I and both the 1918 tale mention), crossbows and crossbolts (same), catapults, trebuchets, and other such medieval implements of destruction and mayhem. "All manner of flaming missiles" apparently included red-hot rocks, molten metal, liquid fire, etc. -- plus you've got the fire-drakes for major blasting, the cold drakes for extra "big muscle," the troll-guard of Gothmog -- yes, you still have lots left in that big can of medieval whoop-ass on both sides to play with.

Another observation concerning the flow of action, for anybody who intends to either rewrite the original tale of Gondolin or revise my adaptation. You need to re-read the siege of Minas Tirith in The Return of the King and pay close attention to every detail. That is as close as Tolkien ever came to re-writing the assault on Gondolin. It's quite obvious, once you begin making comparisons, that Tolkien was drawing on the older tale when he wrote that part of The Lord of the Rings. As I said back then to my reviewers, and I say to you now, "There is a lot of Gondolin in Gondor."

One other thing to note. If you pay attention in this and the next three chapters, you'll notice that everything is tightly timed. The siege of Minas Tirith took days. Gondolin fell in a single night due to overwhelming force. The Witch-king of Angmar could have only wished for the number and kind of resources that Morgoth threw at Gondolin on that night in his siege of Minas Tirith seven thousand years later ... which, of course, makes the escape of Tuor and Idril's following all the more miraculous.

65) My major contribution to this part of the tale is my account of the cold-drakes. For years I and my fellow fans have always assumed that cold-drakes were dragons that lived in the cold parts of Middle-earth, such as the Withered Heath (The Hobbit). When it came time to adapt this part of the tale of Gondolin, I got to thinking. We have fire-drakes (the breed of Glaurung) and winged drakes (Ancalagon, Smaug) pretty much down. So just what did Tolkien mean by cold-drakes? After all, the only references to them are in The Hobbit and in the appendices to The Return of the King.  Both the Dwarves and the ancestors of the Rohirrim got to tangle with cold drakes in the Third Age, per those appendices. The fact that they lived in the Northern lands didn't mean anything to me -- many of Morgoth's creatures fled the ruin of Beleriand by that way. What was so special about the cold-drakes? Then it hit me. They were "cold" because "they had no inner fire." Why would Morgoth create such a beast? It didn't make sense -- unless it were fighting a foe that had lots of water at its disposal, just as Gondolin is described in the original 1918 tale. Such would quench and kill a fire-drake, but a cold-drake? No - it would just keep right on going! That's where I got the idea, and my conception of their appearance for this tale is based on the work of artist John Howe. Yes, I know his painting was meant to be that of Glaurung, but it didn't fit Tolkien's original description of that beast and I needed a distinctive look for the cold-drakes for purposes of my adaptation. In the end, they worked out as a nice and more realistic substitute for the mechanical dragons of the original 1918 tale.

66) I want to make it clear that the Elves of the Mole who reported Maeglin's death did so in all honesty. Unlike the original 1918 tale, in which most of the Folk of the Mole were corrupt, I have only those who were put under Morgoth's spell turn against the Gondolindrim. That still allows for normal vices, and Elves who are not as noble as one might think of their kind (Salgant, the Elf-captain in the hills, etc.). Tolkien made it clear in his later essays that no Elf would willingly serve Morgoth for any cause unless he had been duped, forced to do so, or enslaved by magic. As we find out near the end of the chapter, the last survivors of the Folk of the Mole give their lives in order to save Ecthelion and Tuor's battered host. Unlike their lord, they died with honor, and are so recorded in my version of the Gondolin legend.

67) The description of Tuor's knife as "a slender sliver of Elven-steel" is figurative, in comparison to the size and might of Gothmog the Balrog. Remember, Bilbo's sword Sting was in origin an Elf-knife wrought in Gondolin. Not as large as the LotR movies make it, most likely, but still a fairly good-sized blade - somewhere between a bowie and a machette, thus making it "almost" large enough for a hobbit-sword (The Hobbit). I later imply the possiblity, though it is nowhere recorded in canon literature, that Sting could very well be Tuor's knife, which he loses during the fight with Gothmog in my adaptation.

68) Tuor's defense of Turgon and his subseqeunt attempt to draw Gothmog away from the wounded Ecthelion allowed me to re-introduce the idea of Tuor being skilled with a sword. What better sword to wield than Glamdring, the king's own, since he no longer had his axe and Turgon wasn't in any condition to use his own blade? Of course, Tuor doesn't get the chance to wield it in battle against Gothmog, but at least you get that one fleeting image for all you artists out there. ;)

69) Turgon's prophecy is my own addition, meant to foreshadow Gandalf's fight against the Balrog of Moria during the War of the Ring seven millennia later (The Lord of the Rings). The same applies to the observation made during Tuor's final challenge to Gothmog: "But it was not yet time for Glamdring to slay such a foe as a Balrog ...."

70) The tale of the fight for Idril in Gar Anion is my doing, albeit inspired by elements of the original 1918 tale. She is playing the part she had foreseen herself during the assault on the city, and in my adaptation almost gets killed in the process. This is the closest she will come to dying in combat, but not the closest she will come to death during the fall of Gondolin. The following passages are from the 1918 original:

So it was that they [Tuor and his survivors] passed the Road of Pomps and reached Gar Anion, the Place of the Gods .... Here Tuor looks for an evil stand and is scarce in hope to get much further ... and lo! There stands Idril before him with her hair unbraided as on that day of their marriage before, and great is his amaze .... Coming now at length to a greater quiet Tuor asked Voronwe of tidings, in that Idril spake not and was well-nigh in a swoon .... [She] had fared about gathering womenfolk and wanderers and speeding them down the secret way, and smiting marauders with her small band; nor might they dissuade her from bearing a sword.

This has obviously been heavily rewritten in my adaption. I note in passing a piece of artwork floating around the web, artist unknown when I last revised this, mislabeled as "Maid of Hithum." Based on the appearance of the lady in question, I believe this better depicts Idril in her elven-mail and wielding a sword, as she is described in the original 1918 tale.

71) Didn't I tell you I had a feeling Ingold the Elf-warrior would be back? It is almost as if he sprang from my mind for the purpose of later playing his crucial yet doomed part in this chapter of the tale. I wish I could explain it - writer's intuition, perhaps?

72) This is my nod toward the account as presented in the original 1918 version of the story, with regards to Maeglin's attempted seizure of Idril. He is planning to capture Idril, then flee northward across the top of the city walls toward the Dark Lord's forces. He never makes it in my version, but I just wanted you to know that this was his intent.

Another point deserves mention to fans who might object to my reworking of this part of the tale. Per the 1918 original story, the south part of Gondolin was never attacked per se. The North-gate was the first to fall, then the East, and the fall of the West-gate is implied (although never directly mentioned). The South-gate was the last, and Tuor's "home upon the city walls" was in the southwestern part of the city. Also, per the original 1918 tale, its tower was one of the last to fall. That means you can have events taking place in the southwest part of the city, with little or no interference from Morgoth's forces aside from siege missiles and raiding parties, almost all the way to the end of the affair.

73) I will admit that my solution in getting everybody back to Tuor's house for their climactic confrontation is horribly contrived, and makes one wonder why Tuor and Idril didn't just send their things to the library with Earendil right at the start of the siege. I have decided to leave it as is and let my fellow fans fix it as they will, but I would like to make a suggestion. In retrospect, if one wants to keep my "late attack" by Maeglin (as opposed to the "early attack" in the original tale), then it might be better if he were to surprise Idril's party before she makes it back to the library (and thus the secret way). He and his "darkened Elves" would bar the way, and possibly make their attack at that point. The action would somehow force Idril (and Ingold, too?) to flee to Tuor's house (a place of refuge he would know?). Ingold still falls trying to stop Ingold, Tuor's conversation with Penlegod over Idril's location is correspondingly reduced, but you still get the dying Ingold crawling back to the library trying to warn Tuor of what's happened. The only fly in the ointment is figuring out how Earendil would fit into this new scheme of events ... but that, my fellow fans, I leave for you to work out.

74) The last half of this chapter, starting with the frightened Earendil hiding in his bedroom and going all the way to the death of Turgon, was in fact the very first thing I ever wrote in my adaptation of Tolkien's classic tale. The entire sequence came to me in a very vivid dream that I had in 1996, not long after reading the original. I still remember writing it down as fast as I could so I wouldn't forget it. The only major change from what I dreamed was one line of dialogue - Idril's "Run!" was actually "Run, Earendil!" in the dream - but aside from that it remains pretty much as I wrote it.

This confrontation between our four principals - Idril, Earendil, Maeglin, and Tuor -- grabs the reader at an almost instinctual level and doesn't let go. Stripped down to its essentials, it's no more that a mother and father trying to save their son's life, even if it means sacrificing their own in the process. Not all of my early reviewers understood or even liked fantasy, but this part of the tale they grasped without question or complaint -- and often praised, if I may sound my own horn.

The big problem was, of course, reworking the rest of the tale so that the nexus of events -- Maeglin's attempt to seize Idril and Earendil - would fit with the way I envisioned it. In the original 1918 tale, Maeglin's attempt to seize Idril and Earendil happens early, while the North-gate is still under attack. That has never made sense to me. Don't get me wrong -- I know that's what Tolkien wrote, but it still didn't make sense. There's just so many complications that naturally arise if the seizure attempt happens early in the assault of Gondolin itself. The city would have been better defended, Idril under better guard, Maeglin lacking in ready opportunity to seize her, etc. Perhaps I took too much of a liberty, but it seemed more sensible to me for Maeglin to make his move after Morgoth's assault on the city was already well underway. For one thing, he wouldn't have to go as far or through as much in order to escape with the captive Idril.

There is, of course, the issue of the manner of Maeglin's death - he's supposed to fall to his death, per his father Eol's prophecy in both the original tales and the published Silmarillion. After carefully reading the texts, it came to me that my fellow fans (and possibly some Tolkien scholars) have always interpreted this too literally -- that Maeglin was supposed to fall to his death at the Carag-dur, just as did his father Eol. That stands to reason given what fans understood, in that Maeglin attempted to flee with Idril (and Earendil) to the forces attacking the North-gate, was intercepted by Tuor, and both forced to fight over and eventually fall from the Carag-dur itself in the process. Yet ... neither source ever says directly that Maeglin died at the Carag-dur. In fact, they say something entirely different. Here is how it is told in the original 1918 tale:

Now Tuor did this, though his valour leapt to the noise of war, that he might take farewell of Idril and Earendel; and speed them with a bodyguard down the secret way ere he returned himself to the battle throng to die if must be: but he found a press of the Mole-folk about his door .... He seized Meglin by that hand that held the knife and broke the arm with the wrench, and then taking him by the middle leapt with him upon the walls, and flung him far out. Great was the fall of his body, and it smote Amon Gwareth three times ere it pitched in the midmost of the flames; and the name of Meglin has gone out in shame from among Eldar and Noldoli.

and here is what the text of the published Silmarillion says:

Tuor sought to rescue Idril from the sack of the city, but Maeglin had laid hands on her, and on Eärendil; and Tuor fought with Maeglin on the walls, and cast him far out, and his body as it fell smote the rocky slopes of Amon Gwareth thrice ere it pitched into the flames below.

You see, Maeglin never fell to his death from the Carag-dur. He fell to his death from having been thrown off the city walls near Tuor's home. The only liberty I took was that, as Tuor's home was within a tower upon the walls, I have Tuor throw him from a wide window of that tower - which still fits the general requirements of The Silmarillion, if not exactly the original 1918 tale.

Artists who want to do a picture or paiting of Tuor's rescue of Idril and Earendil as it is depicted in my adaption might want to take a look at Gino de Achille's cover for the first paperback printing of Marauders of Gor. Totally different kind of fantasy (!?!), yes, but it approaches the image I had in mind at the time I wrote the scene.

75) The image of Turgon's death comes from a period magazine cover (Black & White) reprinted in one of the articles in the Readers' Digest anthology Strange Stories, Amazing Facts. It told the story of Admiral Sir George Tryon, who died aboard the warship HMS Victoria after ordering a fleet maneuver that had the unforeseen consequence of his vessel colliding with another. He went down with his ship in true naval tradition, reportedly saying, "It's all my fault." The magazine cover shows him in a typically heroic pose -- one which would later inspire my vision of Turgon "riding the tower down with his foot upon the rail, like the captain of a doomed ship that sinks at sea." Sir Tryon's famous line also inspired a bit of Turgon's dialogue in my adaptation: "I was wrong, and she was right. All this time, she was right."

76) In one of my original drafts, Salgant was violently slain by an Orc raiding party while still cowering in his house. I eventually eliminated this, deeming that both his cowardice and his notable absence from the party of survivors naturally implied his death.

78) Tolkien mentions the storm above the Cirith Thoronath in the original 1918 tale but never explains why it is there, nor needs to. It is nothing more than a plot device. I make it more sinister in my adaption, having it be a tool of the Dark Lord in an effort to ground the Eagles of Manwe - and thus prevent their aiding the Elves of Gondolin. This would not have been the first time Morgoth did such a thing. The Fell Winter is perhaps the most obvious example of Morgoth's power to interfere with Manwe's control of the airs.

79) ... when we crossed The Grinding Ice: The crossing of the Helcaraxe by the Host of Fingolfin, after they had been abandoned by the Host of Feanor. The completion of that crossing marked the beginning of the First Age of Middle-earth. Idril's mother Elenwe had died during that crossing, along with many others, as has been noted earlier in the tale.

80) The business about Maeglin's head on the pike is my contribution, meant to resolve the promise of Morgoth back in "A Dark Bargain." Morgoth always keeps his promises -- but the keeping is never quite what the promised might have had in mind!

81) I'll admit that I probably went overboard in Glorfindel's surmises about the Balrog that he will eventually fight in the high pass. Even so, I felt the need to explain just from where this Balrog came. It is a matter of record that Tolkien always intended to reduce the number of Balrogs from the "hundreds" in the original 1918 tale to a handful, and those would be commanders or lords of hosts. That means, in any revision of the tale of Gondolin, if Gothmog is commanding the assault on Gondolin then there is no place for another Balrog ... unless he were in command somewhere else. The Lay of Leithian states that a Balrog was sent to recapture Sirion's Vale for Morgoth after Beren and Luthien had left there. It stands to reason, therefore, that this particular Balrog might have returned there after the Nirnaeth, and was still present when Morgoth let loose his assault upon Gondolin. Now if Maeglin had done what he was supposed to do and tell Morgoth everything about the vale and its defense, he would have mentioned the Eagles' Cleft as being the only other pass out of the vale. It led to those lands that would have been under the control of the Balrog in Sirion's Vale ... and thus you get the second Balrog needed for the tale!

One other thing. In every version I have ever seen of this part of the tale, from the 1918 original all the way to the abbreviated version in The Silmarillion, the path through the Eagles' Cleft is described as being on the north or right side of the cleft (chasm to their left, wall to the right). This works only if the Eagles' Cleft is in its original position per Tolkien's earliest map of Middle-earth, where the cleft is where the Orfalch Echor was later located. The path should be on the left side of the cleft, not the right (wall on left, chasm on right). Otherwise, with the pass in its current position in the northwest of the Echoriath, the refugees are going the wrong way, north towards the Anfauglith, and not south towards Dimbar! Any route south is cut off by "the chasm at the bottom of the cleft." Professor Tolkien never corrected this, and it also got by his son Christopher Tolkien during his effort at assembling The Silmarillion for publication. I have left it as is for the sake of the purists, even though it is wrong geographically. I guess one can but assume that the Eagles knew of some path into and back out of the chasm that would allow them to cross in safety.

82) In one of my rejected drafts for this part of the tale, we would have learned that Idril was pregnant with her second child when the city fell. Maeglin's kick during his attempt to kill Earendil eventually caused her to miscarry a stillborn daughter not long after Glorfindel's death. I soon abandoned this as straying too far from the original tale, but reprint my last draft of the idea below for anyone who might be interested.

... Idril was just finishing a refreshing draught from the stream brought to her by a warrior of the Wing, who along with three of his fellows stood constant guard over the Lady and Heir of Gondolin. Tuor was not about to let her come within harm's way again if he could help it. Nolome the healer was there as well, obviously there to check on her injuries, and motioned for her to remain seated even as she started to rise at Tuor's approach.

"I have been relieved until sundown," Tuor said as he sat down on the grass beside his family. "I was told to give my mortal bones a rest until such time as they are needed."

"My lord needs his strength for the trials ahead," said Idril as she smiled at him.

"Then I shall gather it," said Tuor, "but not before I check to see how the Lady of Gondolin fares. How do you feel?"

"The pain in my side is less than before, but it is still there," said Idril. "It no longer hurts to breathe, yet now and again it rises to remind me of its presence." She looked crossly at the Elf-healer kneeling beside her. "Noleme has tended me with all the skill for which he is famous, but he has not told all. He refuses to let me walk about, and would not speak to me of that which he has learned."

Tuor looked at the Elf-healer. "What is this?" he said. "Are there more injuries unseen? What else ails the Lady of Gondolin?"

The Elf-healer looked down at the ground. "She will learn soon enough, if she does not already know, or suspect."

It suddenly struck Tuor that Noleme was disturbed about some grave thing, about which he was ashamed to speak. "Do you speak of our second child?" he asked quietly.

The Elf-healer looked up. "You knew?"

They both nodded. "We knew," said Idril. A look of anguish was beginning to form on her face. "It has been two months now."

"And you said nothing of this?" said Noleme.

"We were ... busy," said Tuor, glancing back at the city.

"I see," said Noleme. He sighed, and shook his head. "This has been a terrible day. So many lives lost." He looked at Idril. "Even the unborn suffer the wrath of the Dark Lord."

Idril drew in her breath quickly. Tuor took her hand. She clasped it tightly, fighting back the tears that welled in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," said Noleme. "I did not know until I was able to examine you. Had I known sooner--" He rose to his feet. "I must go. There are others I must tend."

"Thank you," said Tuor. "I know you would have helped if you could."

"Yes," mumbled Idril. She did not look up.

The Elf-healer made his way towards another knot of refugees in the hazels. Tuor moved so that he was sitting beside Idril, his arms about her. She laid her head on his shoulder and began to cry -- the soundless sobs of a mother bereaved of her children. Tuor said nothing, but just held her, doing what he could to fight back his own tears.

"My father wanted our second child to be a girl," Idril choked.

"Yes," Tuor said.

"Little Elenwe," Idril said between sobs.

"Ssssshhhhh," said Tuor gently stroking her hair.

"He so wanted a granddaughter," Idril said. She shook her head. "It was my fault. My foolishness killed her, and almost cost us both our lives ....

In cutting this passage, I also cut the only scene involving Noleme the Elf-healer in my adaptation. The only time we hear about him in my final text is after the ambush in Brethil, where we learn that he was among the slain.

83) "My foolishness almost cost us both our lives." Even the wisest and most intelligent people are quite capable of doing truly stupid things, as did Idril when she went back to their house instead of immediately fleeing down the secret way (Frodo's gaffe involving the Ring at Bree in The Fellowship of the Ring, for example). Tuor knows this, and they've just been through far too much for him to be angry at her anymore. He might have done the same thing -- in fact he did, reaching to his back for an axe that wasn't there to fight Gothmog the Balrog. That's why he's so forgiving of her in his reply. "Decisions are hard to make ...."

84) Tuor's dream in the hazels is my contribution, forshadowning Earendil's future and his fight with Ancalagon the Black, the greatest of winged drakes, over the peaks of Thangorodrim in the War of Wrath. See Naismith's painting.

85) "... save for blankets and other such things ... that had been stored ...." Remember, the assault on Gondolin came before Tuor and Idril were ready. The secret way was only halfway complete, so they probably hadn't yet had time to stock sufficient store of provisions and gear for the trip, either.

86) Given Tolkien's original description of the Balrog's assault in the high pass, I surmised that Tuor did not throw his axe at the Balrog for fear of injuring Idril and Earendil. They were probably still in the rock chimney that had saved them from the stones. That and the mountain face made things far more difficult for an axe-throw than it had been in the King's Square. If Tuor threw his blade, like he did against Gothmog, it might have ricocheted on the rocks and hit one or both of them. Also, the "fiftful airs" of the dying storm might have caught it and caused it to miss -- or worse. Leastways, that was the best explaination I could come up with at the time.

87) The man who confronts Tuor in Brethil is Avranc, from The Wanderings of Hurin. This explains his later behavior, once Tuor reveals that he is of the House of Hador. He had already had enough of the House of Hador, thanks to the earlier stays of both Turin and Hurin in Brethil.

88) I greatly expanded on Tolkien's brief description of the trip south, making more than one reference to The Children of Hurin in the process, and also drawing on selected elements from the original 1918 tale.

89) The second visit between Tuor and Ulmo is entirely my invention. The intent is to help those readers not schooled in Tolkien's mythos to realize just how important was Tuor's role in the First Age. I hope the Tolkien scholars will not crucify me for depicting Ulmo the way I did, but I wanted to make him seem less imposing and more approachable to my audience - hence his visit in Nan-tathren, which was inspired by similar stories in Greek and Roman mythology. Also, Tokien himself said in his own writings that those Ainur who remained true to Illuvatar could assume any form they wished at will. I merely took that notion and expounded upon it - or did I? Oddly enough, in the original 1918 tale Ulmo's visit to Tuor was in the Land of Willows (per his old conception of the map of Beleraind) -- right where I put Ulmo's second visit in my adaptation. Hmmmmmm ... maybe it wasn't entirely my invention after all, it seems. Maybe it was somehow inspired by the old version of Ulmo's first visit, perhaps? Memory is such a strange thing, especially when more than a decade has passed since I started writing my adaptation ....

90) Tolkien's various writings on the Havens of Sirion seem to go back and forth from a permanent dwelling to a camp or village of some sort. I made it a walled city in my adaptation, like those of the now-ruined Brithombar and Eglarest farther northwest, and tried to take into account its potential growth and evolution from a mere camp in the days of Finrod to the small walled city of this tale. The name "Siriombar" is my own invention; feel free to change or correct it.

91) Some of my ideas for this chapter come from Tolkien's notes for the original, never completed tale of Earendil - in particular, Idril following Tuor and her (Elwing) casting herself into the sea after him (Earendil). Having Idril's leg cramp when she was almost in reach of Tuor's ship is of my own doing. There's lots of foreshadowing of Earendil's future - and that of Elwing's too - in this chapter.

92) Gil-galad's presence at the launching of Earrame is never mentioned in any of the original texts. I added him because it seemed a perfectly normal thing for the High King of the Noldor to do: to be present at such an important event - the sailing forth of an embassy to the Valar in the West. Same goes for Cirdan and Annael, although their motivation is more of a personal nature. Finally, Gil-galad gets far too short a shrift in the tales of Middle-earth. I wanted him to get his time in the spotlight for a change - if only for an extended cameo.

93) The author reminds his readers that Idril was tall for an Elf-maid, "and could doubtless look Tuor in the eye, yet she was still a half-head shorter than her father." She must have been one of the tallest, if not the tallest Elf-maids that ever lived, given what scant clues we have in Tolkien's writings. Translation -- she could wear men's clothing fairly well, after it had been adjusted in the appropriate places. By the way, my original draft gave Middle-earth fans some eye candy at this point:

The watchers on the shore could see as Tuor helped Idril onto Earrame's stern deck. She had changed into one of Tuor's spare robes, which was cinched at the waist with a piece of rope. it was much too short for an Elven-maid, and downright scandalous attare for one so fair, but understandable given the circumstances.

At the time I envisioned her wearing just the top of one of Tuor's garments -- a shirt with a long hem, or such. The makeshift belt would have turned it into a sort of miniskirt dress. I rewrote this in order to make it more realistic, but you fan artists are welcome to go ahead and have fun with this older concept.

94) I left Tuor and Idril's fate open-ended, as did the original tale; save for my saying "They are together now, and will be for all time." Tolkien says in The Silmarillion that Tuor was eventually "numbered with the Elves," though the exact how and why is never discussed. It is a tricky and thorny issue and involves crossing the design of Illuvatar, but an observation if I may. I see a metaphysical balance being restored in Tuor becoming an Elf. After all, Luthien had become "a Man" before him - a mortal woman, that is. That left the Elves one soul short, since reincarnation was their lot. Tuor becoming an Elf would have restored that balance, as the Elves would have gained a new soul to take Luthien's place. Idril was already an Elf; thus they would indeed be together "for all time." I'll let my fellow fans more learned on the subject argue this out if they wish, but it works for me. After all, it was Illuvatar who granted the change to Luthien's fate in the first place. Why couldn't he have done so as well for Tuor?

95) The tale ends as it began; save that now Earendil is having the dream of Tirion, not Tuor, and the presence running up beside him is his [future] wife Elwing, not Idril.

96) The epilogue is deliberately designed to link with The Hobbit. That way, the significance of the swords that Thorin and company find in the cave becomes even more potent, and Turgon's prophecy concerning Glamdring can be seen as coming true in The Lord of the Rings.. Those who are reading this work as their first Middle-earth novel can naturally jump right into the story of Bilbo Baggins without a hitch, and have a deeper appreciation for parts of its backstory that would not have been evident before. Also, should anyone make this into a movie or miniseries, the epilogue should come after the credits roll.

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Sources

Fonstad, Karen Wynn. The Atlas of Middle-earth.

Foster, Robert. The Complete Guide to Middle-earth, revised edition.

Tolkien, J.R.R. Amroth and Nimrodel. As published in Unfinished Tales.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Children of Hurin.

Tolkien, J.R.R. "Of Tuor and His Coming To Gondolin," aka the later Tuor. As published in Unfinshed Tales.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fall of Gondolin, aka the early Tuor. As published in The History of Middle-earth Volume 2:The Book of Lost Tales, Part 2.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Grey Annals. As published in The History of Middle-earth Volume 11: The War of the Jewels.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Children of Hurin.

Tolkien, J.R.R. "Quendi and Eldar." As published in The History of Middle-earth Volume 11: The War of the Jewels.

Tolkien, J.R.R. Quenta Noldorinwa. As published in The History of Middle-earth Volume 4: The Shaping of Middle-earth.

Tolkien, J.R.R. Quenta Silmarillion, original draft. As published in The History of Middle-earth Volume 5: The Lost Road.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Silmarillion.

Tyler, J.E.A. The Tolkien Companion.

I would also like to thank the many, many people who have established Internet sites dedicated to or inspired by Tolkien's works in the past decade; in particular, www.theonering.net and Rolozo Tolkien. I would also like to acknowledge the many artists who have attempted to illustrate Tolkien's world -- in particular the efforts of Ted Naismith and John Howe, and the many fan artists who have gone out of their way to illustrate the tale of Tuor.