Narn Gil-galad by Earonn

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Chapter 9: The Fall of Nargothrond

 

Curtsy: to Nemis 'Consider leaving it out', Mistress of commas. :)

Dedicated? To all the 'Tolkienians' (see Matt Ruff's fantastic book 'Fool On The Hill') in the net, who write in forums or submit articles and thus answered many of my questions or solved some problems (or pointed out new ones).

A/N

Finch: the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lómin would have been great, but to tell the truth, I never could imagine how it should have made its way to Nargothrond. I mean, with Túrin being captured by orcs and all what happened afterwards. Further I liked the little story of Azaghâl and his fellow Dwarves pushing back Glaurung wearing those masks (though, of course, the helm originally was made for Azaghâl). Far too few dwarves in our stories, don't you think?

*presses poor little underrepresented dwarves to her heart*

…

*poor little underrepresented dwarves don't want to be mothered*

….

:)

So you will have to write about the helm...

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IX The Fall of Nargothrond

Those who were left behind in Nargothrond waited in fear and worry for the return of the host. Helegethir ordered all guards to withdraw from Amon Ethir and to erase all hints of the dwelling's existence. The elves took refuge in their fortress and set their hope on secrecy.

And then, one afternoon, the queen felt it.

She felt it, like all bounded in Nargothrond did, as before only a few had, and it was terrible: the bond she shared with Orodreth was cut off harshly, his fëa suddenly barely noticeable, so far away, unreachable. And like all others Helegethir burst into tears in face of the unbelievable truth.

Orodreth, her beloved, the light which had enlightened her world for so long, was dead, his fëa summoned to Mandos' Halls.

She kneeled down on the floor of the Great Hall, on a mosaic portraying the Two Trees Telperion and Laurelin, bent forward and helplessly sobbing. Finduilas held her mother in her arms, also crying but without the comfort or the curse to know the fate of those who were like her father dear to her. What had happened to 'Ellach, to Túrin, to Gwindor?

Eventually the queen suppressed her sorrow with all her strength and forced herself to calm down. She was the queen; the welfare of Nargothrond's inhabitants now lay in her hands alone.

With a reddened, wet face, as unlovely as an Elda possibly could be, she rose and went through the rooms, chambers and hallways. Everywhere she found the same horrible sight of crying, mourning elves, some loud and full of despair, some silent and stuck with grief. There was no doubt: a great battle had been fought and many of the elven warriors had been slain. Too many. Things were looking bad for Nargothrond's future.

But there was still hope. Still the orcs did not know where to find the entrance to the hidden stronghold – or so she believed.

A horrific race for the survival of Nargothrond took place on the plain between Tumhalad and the High Faroth.

The host of orcs with Glaurung the dragon in their company was far ahead. They did not even hurry very much; they knew there was no army of elves anymore which could become dangerous to them. Nargothrond would be theirs.

Some hours behind them Túrin led his party southwards. He was in great fear, now that he had seen the dragon and his terrible power himself. He cursed the strong bridge over the Narog and he cursed himself for not having admitted its destruction. There was only a slight hope the elves would be able to demolish it, before the fell beast could cross the river. Within the stronghold they should be able to stand Morgoth's siege long enough until a messenger was sent to Thingol and reinforcements from Doriath could come over the Talath Dirnen.

The same fears and hopes also drove Gil Galad and his men. They were more than half a day behind the orcs and not even able to hold their enemy's pace. Many of them were more or less seriously wounded, hence it seemed doubtful if they could be of any help for their home at all. This question, however, none of them spoke aloud.

Helegethir stood in one of the smaller council chambers the window of which allowed a view over the river and the bridge. Already she could hear the clamour of the orcs. Most likely soon they would find the gates.

Just as the queen sent some of the warriors left behind down to occupy the bridge and prepare its defence, the first orcs came down the path.

And at the sight of what was following them, Helegethir turned pale.

On the other shore of the river a scaly, horrible, disgusting beast crawled towards the bridge. Cold searing eyes full of cleverness, hate and malice searched around, but it was already clear where the entrance of Nargothrond was: the bridge gave it away all too clear.

"Glaurung the dragon," she whispered, "Nargothrond's bane."

She turned to the captain of the guards. "Go out! Take as many with you as you need. Tear down this cursed bridge before the dragon can cross it. Hurry!"

He obeyed and soon the elves desperately tried to destroy the bridge they once had built so elaborately over the river. Covered by archers they worked hectically, always in danger of being shot down by an orc arrow, a dreadful reflection of what their spouses and fathers, sons and brothers had done before some leagues upstream.

But those only had had to destroy makeshift crossings of wood, while the women of Nargothrond were confronted with a bridge of stone, build for longevity and endurance. A bridge planned and built by Noldor.

They had no chance. Glaurung already was too near. When he reached the crossing and set foot on it, the elves retreated in fear and fled to the gates and the safety behind them.

Helegethir met them at the doors and for a heartbeat her gaze was set on the dragon and his on her. They saw and recognized each other and the elvenqueen despaired.

Then the great wings of the gates slammed shut and the moment was over.

She turned towards the other elves.

"The gate will not long withstand the dragon. We have to flee!" she said. "We'll leave on the secret ways. In small groups, children first, with five or six guards. The rest will stay and defend the fortress. Maybe we can keep the orcs occupied until they are safe. We will gather in the caves."(1)

Southwards in a bend the stream had carved out deep caves in the smooth sandstone of the High Faroth. With great effort the elves had strengthened their ceilings and built a small stair from the cliffs down to these caves, which in times of low water level were completely dry, to use them in times of danger as a refuge. They were not useful for a long stay, but large enough to gather the people and hide them before the orcs' eyes.

While she controlled the flight of her people, Helegethir felt calmness and determination return to her heart. She was a Sinda of the House of Aewarn, bound by marriage to the House of Finarfin. She would save her people.

With a slow, gracious motion she drew her sword. The light of the torches and Fëanorian lamps was reflected on the curved blade, a weapon admirable in its beauty and elegance. It had been a gift from her father, many years ago. She thought back to the countless hours she had sparred with Orodreth, already long before their marriage. Now the time had come to use her skill for the defence of the folk of Nargothrond.

She sheathed the weapon and began with her preparations.

Finduilas approached, her golden hair neatly braided down her neck, also her sword at her side. Tears glimmered in her eyes, but she withheld them well. The queen caressed her daughter's cheek.

"'Las, I want you to leave with one of the first parties and receive the people in the caves."

The elvenprincess gazed pleadingly at the elder woman. "Mother-"

"You must, child. You and I are the only members of the royal house here. I will stay until the ends as is my duty, but you have to lead them. Finduilas, please! We have no other choice."

For a few heartbeats Finduilas seemed to object, but in the end she lowered her head and sighed. Her mother was right, of course. It would not even had been necessary to tell her, more than once she had been told what to do in case Nargothrond fell to the hand of an enemy.

"Where should we go when all have left?"

Helegethir already had decided this.

"Doriath probably would be the safest place. Gondolin...I'm not sure if Turgon would open its gates for refugees, even if we could find the Hidden City. But the Talath Dirnen most surely is already occupied by the orcs and I won't take the risk to lead all the children over the plains. We will go to the South. To the Mouths of Sirion or Balar."

One by one the groups of elves – many children accompanied by some adults – left the stronghold through the old tunnels carved by the petty-dwarves. The young elves were frightened, but none of them said a single word, as they had been seriously told not to speak.

But the orcs and wargs found the exits of these tunnels one after the other. Many were caught once they left the stronghold, though some managed to escape back. The Noldorin and Sindarin women fought hard to hinder the orcs from invading the dwelling through the tunnels and they were mostly successful, but their losses were terrible. Many defended the ways until these could be brought to collapse behind them, well aware that this meant their certain death. Few withstood the attacks of countless enemies until help could be sent.

It was this defence by the women of Nargothrond, which prevented the stronghold from being taken too early and which enabled many of the children to escape.

In the Great Hall Helegethir stood bent over the most detailed map of her home she could find. She organized groups, marked those tunnels which could not be used anymore, sent warriors for the defence of others. A frown was upon her face. Far too soon the orcs found the different exits; the groups had to be more and more numerous to get all refugees out of Nargothrond. The main gates already were taken and the warriors and guards stood against the orcs, fighting for every hallway, every chamber, every single door.

Behind the orcs, however, came the dragon, and the elves had no chance against him. Slowly he crawled forward, chasing the defenders deeper and deeper into the dwelling.

Despite Helegethir's orders Finduilas had managed to delay her leave for a while by assisting in handing out the provisions. Maybe today was the last time she would see her mother and she wanted to be near her as long as possible.

But in the end they had to part and now she ran through one of the last tunnels, leaving her mother and her old life behind.

The elvenprincess gripped her sword tightly. Whatever she wanted, feared or hoped was no longer of importance. She was of the royal house and so all that mattered was to lead those whose welfare was her charge by birthright safely to the caves and later to the South.

They reached the end of the small tunnel and the two warriors at the front made some cautious steps into the wood outside, all senses wide awake. Finally they signalled them to leave the tunnel. Finduilas was last, the sword already drawn in her hand. As silent as possible they went southwards.

The exits of the tunnels lay at the western slopes of the High Faroth, so they sneaked through the light woods in a wide bend back to the Narog. Finduilas listened intensely to the sounds of the forest.

In the end, the noise did not even surprise her when it came. Leaves rustling, panting, the movement of great animals in the undergrowth. These were no deer or wild boars and surely no ordinary wolves.

The orcs and wargs had found them.

They stopped and sent the children away, told them to climb into trees, to hide in caves, to crawl beneath heaps of leaves. This would be of no use against the fine noses of the wargs, but maybe at least some of them would escape. Flight was impossible, since the huge creatures ran nearly as fast as a galloping horse.

When the first wargs came in sight, shaggy greyish fur, raised flews, growling and slavering, each of them accompanied by some orcs, the grown elves turned to face them. Two men and fifteen women they were, no real match for what seemingly came through the woods.

Finduilas took her sword and looked up. The last leaves on the trees were glowing above her red and golden and incredible beautiful. Between them crossed the black bars of branches and twigs the pale sky. Would there be as wonderful trees in Aman, once she left the Halls of Waiting? As beautiful autumnal colours?

She inhaled deeply, and when the first orc arrived and lunged towards them, it was her sword cutting off his arm.

Helegethir resignedly dropped her head. The fight was over. Not long and the orcs would reach the Great Hall. Nargothrond had fallen.

She allowed herself a short thought of her spouse and her son. There was no doubt regarding Orodreth. His fëa had left this world and approached Mandos' Halls. She would follow him. Sooner or later. To cope with the lost of her beloved would be impossible, living without him unthinkable.

Therefore she stayed, determined to sacrifice her meaningless life to provide the refugees with just a little more time. She did not know how many orcs and wargs were outside in the High Faroth, if only one of the groups had escaped, but there was nothing left but to try.

She hoped with all her heart that at least 'Ellach had survived the battle. But this, of course, was unlikely, what enemy should kill the father and spare the son? Well, so they would meet again one day in Aman, the place where Orodreth had lived during his youth and of which he had told her so much in more peaceful days.

The door of the Great Hall had been barricaded with heavy huge beams. From the other side something crushed against it with incredible force and wood and metal couldn't withstand this onslaught. It shattered and the noise of its destruction echoed through hallways and chambers.

Helegethir rose, took her sword and turned to the door, ready to face her enemies.

And for the second time she looked into the eyes of Glaurung.

Hail, queen of Nargothrond!

The elf-woman stared at the dragon, stunned by horror. Then she raised her head in a gesture of defiance.

"Get you gone, beast of Morgoth!"

Your people die. They die as your king died, as your son died.

She swallowed and despite herself tears welled up in her eyes. 'Ellach dead, too! She wanted to bury her face in her hands, sink down where she stood and give in to her grief, but she was captivated by the dragon's gaze.

"Kill me swiftly," she whispered.

The cold expression in Glaurung's eyes she had thought to be terrible, his dissonant voice disgusting, but now he laughed maliciously and if she could have moved she would have covered her ears with her hands. Nothing could be more dreadful than this laughter.

No, I won't do you that favour. You will witness all of your people be caught from their hiding places, one by one. You will see the accusation in their eyes, since you are to blame for their captivity, you and your king, who allowed the building of this bridge for me. You had had doubts, queen, yet you said nothing. And your spouse, who was too weak for a king, has yielded to the will of a Secondborn. It would have been truly better for the folk of Nargothrond had the sons of Fëanor taken leadership. Your husband, queen, has led the realm to ruin. You know it. Everyone knows it!

She cried out. He fears, her doubts, her sense of guilt, the dull awareness that indeed Celegorm and Curufin would have been stronger leaders, it all broke through the old barriers in her mind. And against all that stood her faith to the House of her husband, her love for him, all his merits...

"No! He cared for them, he has-"

He has led them into destruction. He might have been a talented bookworm, but he was a bad king. And you know it, queen!

With all her mental strength she broke away from the dragon's spell and swung her sword around. She did not mind that she had not the smallest chance to defeat her opponent; she did not care what he would do to her. All what mattered now was to defend her beloved.

Glaurung loomed in front of her, all scales and heat and stench, a misshapen greyish-green figure, and in front of all that the silvery glistening track of her own sword. She not even aimed when she lunged forward; all she wanted was to bury the steel in this flawed flesh.

Along the dragon's flank an orc-arrow whizzed. It hit the queen of Nargothrond right into her already broken heart and she stumbled back.

A young warrior stood in a small door in the backyard of the hall. Deemed too young to follow the host he had been assigned the defence of the stronghold.

He had listened to Helegethir's words but could not understand their meaning and his eyes were firmly set on the giant dragon.

But now he saw her fall, his queen, his lady, saw her fall and heard the fair tingling of her blade on the stone floor, and for the rest of his life this sound should remain in his heart as a symbol for the loss of his home.

He whirled around and followed the other elves.

Gil Galad and his companions reached Nargothrond even later than they had planned, since there were many orc-patrols to avoid. Even before they were near enough only to have a look at the gates they were stopped by seven elven warriors.

"We came together with Túrin," one of them said. "We tried to fight our way through to the gates, but they were too numerous. Only Túrin managed to reach the bridge. Never before I have seen someone fight like him. He simply crushed through the ranks of the orcs, slew dozens of them, but he did not wait for us and we couldn't follow him. In the end Glaurung appeared and put Túrin under his spell. He held him until the orcs and the captives were far away." The elf lowered his head. "We tried an assault, but there were too many of them, we lost the half of us ere we could retreat." He blushed out of guilt and shame.

"You have tried at least. Don't give up hope, they will be slow and there are many leagues between Nargothrond and Angband. We can still catch up with them. There is no use in fighting without a reasonable chance to win. I am sure you did all you possibly could."

It felt odd to Gil Galad to speak those words, words fitting and reasonable but by rights to be spoken by his father alone. Orodreth should be here and encourage the soldiers, tell them that the fight was not yet lost.

"What happened then? What about Túrin?"

Trembling the young elf tried to maintain his self-control.

"A few hours ago the dragon let him go. He went eastwards, I don't know why."

Gil Galad shook his head. "Who can tell what Glaurung did to him? He is old and malicious and I wish we had arrived earlier or could have warned Túrin against the dragon and his lies. I fear for him, but there is nothing we could do for him anymore. We have to rescue our people from the orcs before they reach Angband."

He took a deep breath. It was so difficult to ask the question he frightened so much. "Do you know anything about my sister and the queen?"

"The lady Finduilas was one of the captives. She was alive and seemed unhurt. But I did not see the queen among them."

They did not find any other elf – alive – near the gates, so they cautiously sneaked through the forest towards the caves where they hoped to find some survivors.

In this they were assisted by the greed of the orcs and wargs, for these soon had given up searching for some more elves in favour of plundering the dwelling. Even the guards at the tunnel-exits had left their posts at the western slopes of the High Faroth.

But they never earned only the smallest of the treasures of Nargothrond. Glaurung betrayed them and drove them out of the halls and denied them the prize they desired. Then he gathered all he could find on one large hoard in the main hall like it is custom of dragons and laid upon it to rest from the labour it had been to lure a whole nation on to destruction.(2)

So the elves approached the caves at the Narog slowly but unchallenged, chilled by a cold autumnal rain beginning to fall. On the way they found some children the orcs and wargs had ignored or indeed not found. They bore a much too clear witness for what happened to their home.

Some distance from the entrance to the caves a young warrior kept watch. He was injured and foreworn and received them with relief.

"They came yesterday and," he coughed in pain and sank down, near to fainting. Celebrimbor catched his arm and supported him. "Glaurung was with them. We tried to stop them but could not destroy the bridge and were too few to defend the gates. And then the dragon came. There was nothing we could do against him.

"We tried to rescue the women and children, but the wargs found the secret tunnels. Only a few of them managed to escape. I fought my way through, I really don't know how. Maybe they became indifferent towards one elf more or less. After all, they had what they came for."

"The queen…?"

Gil Galad really wondered how calm his voice sounded, despite his inner turmoil.

The young elf looked at him pleadingly and in a sense this was answer enough already.

"The queen…" he choked anew at the memory of the horrible sight and the haunting sound of metal falling unto stone which would never allow him to forget.”She is dead. She fought like all others and she was brave, she even attacked Glaurung himself. But I saw her fall."

Gil Galad closed his eyes. He thought of his mother's beloved smile, her kind voice. How could there be a world in which all this didn't exist?

He forced himself to regain his composure. His loss was not more painful or of a different kind than that of all others. He laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Don't reproach yourself. There is nothing one can do against a dragon. Take a rest."

Then he turned to his friends. "Gather all those with enough strength to chase the orcs. We have to follow them as soon as possible."

But Celebrimbor did not move. "No. Not 'we'."

The son of Orodreth raised a warningly inquiring brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have to stay. Someone must lead our people and keep them together. You are now the king of Nargothrond, or of what is left of its folk."

"I do know all that myself. But if you believe I would forsake my sister, you're a fool!"

Celebrimbor gripped Gil Galad's shoulders. "Do you think it doesn't matter to me? It tears my heart to imagine what Finduilas has to suffer right now. She and all the other captives. But it is not your place to chase them. Not even for the sake of your sister are you allowed to abandon your people!" A bitter smile was on his lips. "After all it was you who reminded us that you've taken your father's duties. Did you forget?"

For a long time they faced each other. In the end Gil Galad sadly nodded.

"Yes, you are right." He pointed to the soldiers around them.

"Some of you will follow the orcs, the others will accompany us. The way we have to go is long and dangerous."

He stepped to the edge of the cliff and pensively looked down to the whirling water deep down.

"We will follow the rivers. Most likely many orcs are on Talath Dirnen, we never would reach Doriath. The Guarded Plain is not safe any more. We will head south-west. To Balar."

He turned away from the roaring river and went ahead to the steep, narrow stair leading down to the cave. When he reached its foot and looked around in the twilight coming from the opening to the river, fear and despair mingled in his heart.

This was all what was left of Nargothrond's inhabitants?

There was suppressed murmur in the cave, mostly from the youngest children asking for their parents and those who tried to comfort them. Children, dozens, hundreds of children, and among them some grown-ups, women and very few men, who looked at him with a mixture of relief and sadness.

All in all it might be one thousand who had escaped the orcs and the Fall of Nargothrond. (3)

Someone approached behind him and looking over his shoulder he saw Celebrimbor's stunned face. The master smith was by no means less shocked than his king at the sight of what lay before them.

"But they are nearly all children," he whispered in a hoarse voice. "Can you imagine how long it will take to bring them anywhere, let alone Balar?"

Gil Galad nodded, though actually he did not. Not at all.

And indeed, the poor remnant of the people of Nargothrond seemed hardly able to fulfil great efforts, not to mention a long journey through the wilderness at winter's eve. The orcs had left the children behind because they were of no interest for Morgoth as slaves and most likely would not have survived the way to the North anyway.

Therefore Gil Galad suddenly saw himself confronted with the task of replacing the parents of hundreds of children, many of them too young to understand what had happened, why their intact world did not exist anymore and why their Mums and Dads did not come to soothe their fears away.

Moreover their provisions were abundantly poor. When they had fled Nargothrond every one of the refugees, even the youngest, had carried stocks of Lembas. Through all the years since Orodreth and his family had arrived in the stronghold and Helegethir had taken up the duties of the most high-ranking woman, there had been much of the elven way bread in Nargothrond, since she ever had been cautious and foresighted.

But most of the warm clothes and other equipment were lost with those captured by the orcs. In order to provide the young elves with enough food the adults would have to starve on the journey except for what they could find in the wilderness. That was no real problem, since elves were able to endure long periods without food.

But not even with Lembas could they feed the suckling babies.

The second problem was the cold. Already every morning the meadows and clearings were covered with hoarfrost. The children that did not yet have control over their small bodies like adult elves would suffer gravely.

Besides that there were the many wounded, too weak or too seriously hurt to walk. They had to be carried on makeshift stretchers.

Gil Galad went to a small corner somewhat aloof, and Celebrimbor and Gildor followed their friend, sensing the pressure weighting on his fëa. His shoulders slightly shook, but he did not cry.

"He should have known," he said in a low, trembling voice. "He should have known what would happen, that this battle was to be lost, that this bridge was to become our undoing! He must have known, yet still…"

He choked. A wet strand of his hair clung at his cheek but he did not bother himself with stroking it away. The sight of this dark, nearly black strand on the pale face of his friend disturbed Gildor to no end and he reached out to gently wipe it behind Gil Galad's ear. The king of what had left of Nargothrond and his people did not seem to pay any attention to it.

"…Yet still he allowed it. And now he is dead, dead like all the others. And why? Because of this cursed stones and his own handful of pride!"

Gildor did not know if to interrupt this bitter stream of words and cast a help-searching glance at Celebrimbor. The smith formed a silent "Let him!" with his lips.

The tremble in Gil Galad's shoulders increased and he choked again. Gildor desperately hoped he would cry. Cry to diminish the pressure on his fëa, cry to allow his friends to comfort him, cry to mourn.

But just as he thought Gil Galad would give in and share his tears with theirs, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and forced himself into calmness. A miserable and bitter calmness, as far away of peace of mind as hysteria would be.

Then he jerkily turned around and went to the stair, murmuring something about dry wood, through the groups of elves, who looked at him and for whom now he was and had to be the centre of their community and the one in charge for their wellness.

Celebrimbor looked after him.

"A king has to be self-controlled, but you have learned this lesson much too fast and much too thoroughly." He made a fierce, angry gesture. "Curse you!" he hissed.

Gildor looked puzzled at the master-smith.

"Curse whom?"

"My father, of course!"

Seventy warriors were chosen to follow the orcs and try to free the elves. As soon as they had left, Gil Galad led the others downstream along the Narog. A cold wind came up, a messenger of the long hard winter in this year of grief. The young king knew that much hardships and sorrow awaited them.

When they built up their first camp deep in the night, he searched for a secluded clearing in the forest of Taur-en-Faroth and looked up to the stars shining on the cold clear sky.

"O Finduilas, you have loved the stars so much," he sadly whispered. "Do they shine for you tonight? Or did you already follow our parents into the Halls of Waiting?"

He thought back to the feasts they had held in Nargothrond. Nearly none of those with whom he had laughed and sung was still alive. Finrod Felagund. Angrod and Aegnor. His parents – they all were dead and had left this world cold and empty for him.

'Of all children of the House of Finarfin there are now only Galadriel, Finduilas and I – and the Valar alone know if Finduilas is still alive. Little sister, 'Las, my little leaf, please do not leave me, too. It would be unbearable to live in a world where I could not hear your laughter.'

He did not dare to think any longer about it. He missed her so badly. So much he had lost in these past days, his father, his mother, his home. And what had become of Túrin who had fallen to Glaurung's spell? Of Gwindor who had loved Finduilas so deeply? How could all their happiness so quickly turn to misfortune?

But the stars, shining brightly and glittering at the sky, couldn't give him an answer to that question.

Sighing he raised and returned to the camp. The guard he passed on his way was a half-grown girl with wide, fearful eyes. Those able to wield a weapon should rest this night, he had decided. In passing he encouragingly patted her shoulder and she smiled and straightened herself.

He couldn't find a place at one of the few fires, so he cuddled himself between other sleepers. All over the camp there were such islands of sleeping elves, crowded tightly in the cold night air.

As good as possible he shielded a young girl against the chill and laid his arm over her body to give her some of his warmth. All elves that were old enough to control their bodies did this; they surrounded themselves with children to let them participate in the heat they created.

But they were many children, too many, they could not warm them all. Gil Galad closed his eyes, it was too much pain to notice those who were forced to sleep aside from any warm elder elf, trembling and frozen.

Again he thought back to Finduilas. So often had she cuddled herself to her big brother, not out of necessity but of sheer pleasure.

The grief was overwhelming.

Almost he cried.

For two weeks she lived in a nightmare. A nightmare of malice, pain and fear. But she was the daughter of the king. She had to be strong for all the other captives. She gave comfort, sometimes with words, sometimes only with a single glance. She was not allowed to surrender to her despair; she was Finduilas of the House of Finarfin son of Finwë.

To this she clung in the endless hours.

The orcs were nervous, she did not understand their foul language, but their speech sounded more worried than angry.

One of them came to her, took her arm roughly and dragged her away from the other women. He talked to her continuously, but she could not fathom the meaning of his words.

Others arrived, drove her aside, and pushed her back against a tree. She looked at them scornfully.

'Do you really think I would let you see my fear, slaves of Morgoth?' she thought. Then her courage faded. 'Oh Túrin, why did you abandon me, why did you fail to come? I have waited for you, Túrin, beloved, I know you are still alive.' This thought carried others with it. 'Oh father, and 'Ellach, dear brother, are you already dead? Or are you alive, searching for us?'

The orcs bound her to the tree's trunk.

She remembered her childhood. Her mother had told her bedtime stories, her father had taught her reading and writing and 'Ellach – 'Ellach had been her brother. Ally. Comforter.

In her memory she was a small girl again. She had sneaked into her father's study to have a look at all the precious and exciting things which waited there for her expeditions. Especially father's glass pen was a wonder. She just learned how to write and her own quill was clumsy, fitting to her small hands and untrained grip. Father's quill was slender and elegant and he could write so beautifully and fluently. Often she spent time just watching him writing. Only once she had been allowed to touch it and its shimmering green and the smooth surface had enraptured her. But soon she had to hand it back, for then she was very young and the quill was fragile.

But in the meantime she had grown so much, nearly could write herself, and she longed to touch the beautiful pen again and write with it.

Of course it came at it was bound to happen: the quill dropped from her hand to the stone floor, shattering in thousands of pieces. She looked at the damage she had caused and then cried heartrendingly.

A short time later her brother found her, originally searching for their father. He took her in his arms and she told him what had happened. His face had turned pale and that was the worst of all. So often she came to him with her little worries and even though he ever had taken them seriously, also he never seemed to be extremely worried himself. If even 'Ellach was shocked by this it had to be really grave.

And meanwhile she knew that it was indeed. This pen had been a gift of Orodreth's great-grandfather Finwë, long ago in Tirion ere the death of the Two Trees. Its worth for her father had been immense, a memento of the first High King of the Noldor and a beloved kinsman.

Her brother had soothed and convinced her to go to Orodreth and admit her guilt. He came with her and his company gave her the strength to face the consequences.

Coarse laughter, hysterically overturning in its pitch. She focussed her glance and saw three or four orcs staring at her. She did not mind.

Finellach went with her to their parents and while she told Orodreth what had happened, he stood behind her and held her small shoulders. It had been so horrible, to watch the sudden hurt on her father's face, his shocked silence, more painful than any punishment could have possibly been. And then her father had cried, he had tried to hold it back, but failed. Nothing, nothing in this world ever was as terrible as watching her father cry – not even the orcs, pointing at her and again and again turning to look into the deep of the woods where now in some distance much more pleasant voices were to be heard.

In the end she had heard her brother's deep voice. "I will bring her up," he had said and taken her by the hand. He had put her to bed and held her until all tears were shed and she finally fell to sleep. He had been there when she needed him – always.

''Ellach, 'Ellach, where are you now?'

One of the orcs raised his arm and he held something long, apparently heavy in his hand, at first she had difficulties to focus her attention enough to recognize it.

And then she saw, it was a spear, a long ugly spear and the point was directed at her, o Elbereth he aimed at her, he swung back, now she knew what the orcs had in mind and why they had chosen her, no, she did not want to die, not now, not in such a way, he swung back and she heard her own screams, she did not want to scream, it was not suitable to the daughter of the king, but she couldn't suppress them, oh please not yet, father help me, mother, Túrin, 'Ellach, 'Ellach, 'ELLACH-

Thorondor, Lord of Eagles, flew high above with the winds and his keen eyes watched the events down in Beleriand. He saw the battle of Tumhalad and the second orc-host when it left the woods of Brethil. Sadness filled his heart; he knew the elves could not win this fight.

He followed the trace of the dragon, the disgusting creature of Morgoth. And he witnessed the fall of Nargothrond, centre of the largest of the elven-realms.

He turned northwards, back to his eyries and to the Hidden City in the midst of the Crissaegrim. He longed to help the Firstborn who suffered down there, but this was not allowed to him by decree of Manwë himself. So he only did what he was sent for, and like often before he brought news to Gondolin.

Like often before news of death and ruin.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

(1) The hidden tunnels: the ways made by the petty-dwarves like the one through which Lúthien escaped from Nargothrond

(2) Of course most of Nargothrond's inhabitants lived in the woods and plains between the rivers Nenning, Teiglin and Sirion. But with the destruction of the dwelling and the seat of its king, technically the realm ceased to exist and the folk of Nargothrond lost its political and cultural heart.

(3) I've always imagined Nargothrond as something like a small town with about 20,000 inhabitants. And surely in times of war many elves living around would search for safety in it. So I believe at the time of its fall there were about 30,000 elves inside. 3% seemed to me a realistic amount of refugees.