The Seven Gates by Laerthel  

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Auta i lómë

The Master of Dreams shows his true colours, Anardil meddles in the affairs of battle, and Laurefindil does a deed worthy of song.

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He might as well have chosen the swifter road to the same destination, and cast himself straight down the Caragdûr.

Planning an escape out of the Hidden City, clad as a guard of whichever-gate-it-was sounded like a gripping adventure in theory. In truth, it proved a gruelling task for the inexperienced, a tough trial for one completely unused to wearing armour, and a near insurmountable challenge for Anardil of Gondolin who could barely tolerate the pebble stuck in his left boot since the break of yesterday’s dawn.

He kept to the right flank of the army, the one under Laurefindil’s command; and although he still felt some strange compulsion to go to war, he came closer to regretting it every day. Ten thousand soldiers left the city at once, with more urgency than fanfare; and yet their progress was still slow and troublesome, as if the mountains were not quite willing to let them pass.

It was a lifetime ago, it now seemed, that Anardil had come to the Gate of Silver on Eagle-back. Now, he had to take the long road back across the green valley of Tumladen. The landscape had changed: the foundations of the Seventh Gate and the surrounding walls were already being laid in a wide semicircle across the meadow. Enclosing a whole acre on each side, they promised power and splendour; and he hoped he would live to see it finished.

The Gate of Gold surprised him. Anardil remembered it as a shelter from the scorching sun, the City unveiled like a vision at the end of its tunnel; but now, with the white walls to his back and the arms of the Oroquilta opening in front of him, the beauty of the golden walls seemed as deceptive as the silent grace of the Gate of Silver beyond. From that point onwards, the ground started rising steadily, the wide beaten path forking repeatedly into long-dried gorges among the mountains. With each step he had to stifle sudden bursts of energy, as if his legs sought to foreswear his will and flee.

The next Gate barred the canyon at its highest point. No lanterns or torches were hung from the ramparts or the four watchtowers, but the image of an Eagle graced the façade between the two inner towers—perhaps a likeness of Thorondor himself. The gate was made of three layers of iron, each wrought in the shape of trees; some bore flowers, some bore leaves. It was so thick that the army had to pass through a tunnel below the arch, and so narrow that Anardil had to wait an hour for his turn, even though Laurefindil and his men marched right behind the scouts and the vanguard. Their plan was to gain headway north once they came out of the Oroquilta, and take their places along the lesser mountains and the Rivil’s Well before the rest would come through; and after the long wait, Anardil could not help but wonder if they were running late.

Beyond the iron gate, the landscape changed. Gone were the patches of gentle green sward and the uilos flowers scattered like stars: the army had come to a harsh mountain-land. Each step echoed back thousandfold from the smooth stone surfaces like battle drums; and Anardil would not have been surprised if the clamour of their passing had reached the Enemy himself in his halls of eternal gloom, and made him tremble on his throne. He almost felt dangerous as he marched on, draped in Tyelcano’s much-suffered chainmail, lance in hand. He had never fought with a lance before, but every single member of Laurefindil’s company carried one, and he did not wish to draw attention to himself.

They came to the next gate at nightfall: it had been raised of simple stones, and its three towers were roofed with bright copper. Bronze plates and intricate shields were hung on the great double door, and the walls were lined with many red lamps. The guards carried red-bladed axes as well, as if their weapons were perpetually covered in blood.

Anardil had never seen these Elves in the the City. They were Sindar, not Noldor; and to his eye, now used to the pomp and luxury of the King’s court, they were fearsome and alien. Laurefindil, however, seemed to know them, and he stood aside for a while to exchange news with their leader; but soon enough, they marched on.

Beyond the bronze gate, the canyon kept narrowing with each step, and the army had to pass in single file again. Anardil trembled at the weight of the merciless rock pressing at him from each side, and once again he wished he had stayed in the City.

After what felt like half a day, they came to a high wall with two stone towers. The gate itself appeared to be wrought of solid stone as well, polished and smooth, placed upon a pivot with a lantern above. Laurefindil rode ahead, and the Gate was set in motion; Anardil watched with open amazement as the polished stone gave way to a gentle push of his friend’s hand. Passing through, he saw no hinges, chains or pulleys, nor any other structure that could have made it so mobile.

The path narrowed again after the stone gate, and the canyon took sudden turns. The ground was uneven: sometimes it rose rather suddenly and dangerously, then sloped again, and if one left the beaten path, each step dislodged a small avalanche of boulders. The army walked an entire league in such circumstances before the passage narrowed again, quite abruptly, and Anardil finally came before the last gate of the Hidden City, or the first to the newcomer: a great arch framed by pillars, and a beautifully wrought wooden portcullis that had been raised to let them pass.

Thus, Anardil betrayed his King and and disobeyed his command; and yet his first thought was not one of regret, but of wonder. The entirety of the western landscape opened before his eyes; he saw the gloomy mountains of Hithlum, the treacherous marches of the Serech and the wide Vale of Sirion below his feet, lined with the meandering silver ribbon of the river: half-remembered sights he thought he would never glimpse again.

And then came the dread.

Many leagues south, he knew, the same river would widen, and gird the small isle of Tol Sirion with the high tower of Minas Tirith; once proud and fair, now sullied by Sauron and his wolves. And he may have briefly passed out of their reckoning, but he was no longer protected. The reality of what could happen to him, of what would happen to him if the servants of Sauron ever got wind of him being alive tied his stomach in knots; and Tyelcano’s mail hung from his back like something heavy and alien.

His impulse to flee remained while Laurefindil’s men split and lined up above the vale, hidden from both evil and friendly eyes. The army was to be stationed in a great semicircle from Rivil’s Well to halfway down the Vale, its front line as wide as the terrain allowed, ready to strike at the appointed moment.

But the appointed moment never came.

By the King’s—and Laurefindil’s—orders, no one was allowed to go forth, no trumpets were sounded and no banners were raised for what felt like an unreasonably, unbearably long time. The army was frozen in silent anticipation, watching out for any movement below. Anardil knew that the High King’s army was likewise hidden in the woods; and they were all waiting for the Feanorians to light a great beacon, north of what remained of Dorthonion.

Of course they would have to set something on fire, Anardil would have liked to tell Tyelcano now, they just cannot help it, can they?

His friend was somewhere down there too, with the High King: he breathed the same air and watched the same fading colours in the same valley. He may have also trembled when the Enemy’s darkness spread over the land, and he must have also rejoiced when King Turukáno finally did sound his trumpets and did raise his banners, probably against his own better judgement. The Eastern Army should have come already, storming the plains with the inexorable force they were; but they were, clearly, nowhere.

And then, the army of Morgoth was spotted.

Does He truly deem us this foolish and blind? Anardil thought. Does He think that we would simply take the bait?

He was startled to realise that he was thinking in terms of we, and even more amazed at the depth of his own aggravation.

You are Anardil of Gondolin indeed, said a soft Voice in his thoughts, once forsaken and lost, now a dweller of the Hidden City, and servant to its King. You may now feel like would face the Black Foe himself, even, if you had to; but peace, brave one! This is only part of a delegation. They come forth to discuss terms of surrender: but whose surrender? Well, that remains to be seen.

Anardil froze. Such was not the usual tone of his thoughts at all; this was something else, something he could not entirely explain.

As if something—someone—inside his head was talking to him.

You cannot see me, but I am here, said the Voice. How could I stay away and not witness the great victory that we have laboured for, you and I?

Anardil looked around. Laurefindil’s men still held their silent battle-vigil, their spears like a forest of silver. No one else seemed aware of the new Presence, although it was there: faint and distant, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of Power.

I can walk Unclad if I wish to, said the Voice. I shall be perceived only if I reveal myself.

You are the Master of Dreams, Anardil realised with a pang of fear.

And you are not supposed to talk to me. Or have you forgotten? What would your friends say?

There was a strange ripple in the Voice; it could have been wrath, or it could have been laughter. Anardil’s fist clenched and unclenched around his spear.

Do you blame them? You would not tell us a word about who you were, and why you would help us.

Or, perhaps, you were not asking the right questions, said the Master of Dreams. Like his Presence, his Voice also shifted. Anardil now perceived it as quiet and melancholic: the voice of a helper silent and unnoticed, forsaken by the ones he saved from a sinister fate. You should never have broken your King’s command. You have no notion of how safe you were, or for how long the Enemy of the Eldar had tried to infiltrate the Hidden City. And to little success! The folk of Thorondor are powerful and vigilant, and the power of Ulmo is in the very foundation of your King’s walls. Foolish child! You were not made for battles such as this. It will crush you.

Anardil gritted his teeth. I had to come; and if I must die, then I shall die with honour.

And who told you to come? You speak like your new friends: proud and fearless. Only, you are not truly proud and fearless, are you?

No, I am not, Anardil admitted. He suddenly felt terribly useless. Why did he come indeed? And why did his friends humour him?

Because you would not have listened to them, he answered his own thought, and they knew it. Tyelcano and Laurefindil both wanted to you be as safe as you could possibly be.

Am I going to die now? he asked the Voice. Is that why you are here?

Why, your sense of self-importance clearly benefited from the time you have spent among Noldor, said the Master of Dreams, now openly amused. You think I would Unhouse myself just to watch you die? I have already told you: I am here to see my plans unfold—or I should rather say our plans! For you have helped me greatly, child, and I shall not forget it. But if you wish to know if you shall live or die, I cannot answer. You must decide.

Decide? Anardil almost cried aloud. Are you the Master of my fate as well, then?

I can be many things, said the Voice. Today, I may help you or harm you. Save you or destroy you, fëa and hröa. I can make you See, Hear and Understand. I can detain weapons so they would not touch you. I can stay armies if you as much as raise your hand. I can walk you through the Unseen, and change you, change you so profoundly that you would forget your own name. I can torment you or lift you above everything and everyone you have ever known. I can make you crawl in the dust, or I can make you King. The choice is yours. What shall it be?

Anardil’s breath stuck in his throat. Fear gnawed at his stomach, now slow and insidious, now fierce and unbridled. He had promised that he would not talk to the Voice in his dreams; and yet he had also promised to remain in Gondolin. How would he hide anything now? The Master of Dreams sees through him; and he is now in possession of many of the City’s secrets. What was he thinking, when he came? There was so much more at stake than his own wretched life! He could be seized now, and taken to Angband. Would he be strong enough to keep his King’s secrets, even in the face of torture?

Your wit is returning, said the Voice. That is good. Anardil, my child, do not let my power discourage you! You do not have to die in this battle. If your wish is to return home, than I shall guide you back, even if the road leads across fire and terror. You only need to listen.

It changed again, Anardil observed: it was now mellow and gentle, as if it had been merely jesting before.

Open your eyes, child, said the Voice, and learn. See the envoys of your Foe as they walk through the Serech. They are going to the ford, of course, seeking parlour—or debate.

Anardil raised his brows. And the thousand Orcs behind mean to provide an argument?

Ai, said the Master of Dreams, amused, not even that. Those Orcs have seen several battles. On more than one occasion, they have fled at the sight of the Lords of the Noldor; so they are now made to face them head-on. And they are so terrified that it is almost amusing. Every step they take, they expect the Warden of the East to run them down, but they are slaves; and slaves do as their masters command.

Their masters are cruel, Anardil remarked.

Perhaps, but they are also fair; and most of all, they take no risks. The task does not require prowess in battle; all these Orcs have to do is come just a little too far for the High King to ignore them. Then, once his army is moving, they may flee again. They are almost at the ford now; and lo! here comes the Lord of the Golden Flower, bearing the High King’s message to his brother, no doubt. Surely, an appropriate response has been thought out to retain the Orcs…!

The Voice fell silent for a moment, as a solitary figure emerged from the shadows of the vale. Anardil and Laurefindil’s men were of the few who could see him clearly as he spurred his horse down the riverside, mail gleaming softly in the unnatural gloom. Anardil recognised him instantly, just from the way he sat in the saddle.

The High King could not have possibly sent him alone…?!

The Orcs fear him nearly as much as they fear Nelyafinwë, said the Voice lazily. Do not pity your friend, Anardil! He is a warrior, stern and ruthless. And blood is on his hands, or have you forgotten?

Blood or not, Anardil was relieved to see Tyelcano’s solitary figure joined by a few other Elves with billowing dark cloaks—perhaps they were hunters. He held his breath when the two delegations met, wishing he could hear what was said. Laurefindil was nowhere to be seen; he was probably still climbing up from the vale.

What could they possibly talk about? Anardil wondered, staring at the strange pair of Tyelcano and the Captain of Morgoth.

War, said the Voice. Terms of surrender, that your friend cannot accept, no matter the cost.

The cost? What cost?

Anardil barely finished his question when he saw the answer. Prisoners were being kicked forward, bruised and battered and barely alive.

He will think of something, Anardil was sure of it. Just watch! He will do something stupid, and heroic, and entirely impossible, and he will save them all. He will not let anyone suffer!

He must, said the Voice, or else he would break the parley, and start the battle. Nay, Anardil, my child; this shall be a valuable lesson for you about your friend. Now you shall see his true character. You see—the High King sent him because he has no mercy!

Mercy? Anardil stared. What does that mean?

The Voice was silent while one prisoner was kicked forward. A soft murmur rose around Anardil, breaths hitched in horror, the members of Laurefindil’s company were gripping their lances and stomping their feet.

He just stands there!

He has no choice.

But he must do something! He must!

He won’t.

But how can he just watch?!

He is a Servant of the Star, the Voice was dark now, low, and deeper than the roots of the mountains. Nelyafinwë commands him, body and soul, and he has little love for anyone or anything else. Perhaps you have forgotten that your friend can be cruel. Ruthless! Deadly! Fearsome! You have witnessed it yourself, but you choose to overlook it again and again, over and over. Behold him now! Behold who he truly is!

The prisoners’s hands were cut off.

Do you not remember the blood on the snow? Laurefindil as he fell to his knees? Have you not stopped the fight, your friend would have killed. He would have drenched the Caragdûr in blood.

The prisoner’s feet were cut off.

You cannot stop him ever again; you can only wish that you would have. Would that Findekáno had come himself; he would have mercy!

He has no choice, Anardil reasoned with himself. He would sentence the entire army to death if he as much as raised his sword. Cruel, cruel, cruel task!

But he just stands there.

He just stands there!

Tyelcano’s silhouette was straight as a statue, proud, unwavering. He did not speak, or cry out. It seemed to Anardil that he did not even blink.

The prisoner was beheaded.

A cry rose to the heavens, shocked and dismayed and despairing and hysterical—and the dark-cloaked riders sprang forth. The vale was suddenly filled with dust and movement. The earth trembled, the waters were disturbed. Weapons were drawn, battle-cries pierced the heavy air.

Tyelcano came to his senses then; but it was too late. The riders of Nargothrond ran the emissary of Morgoth down like a summer storm, sudden and ruthless. Anardil did not understand what they shouted at first, but then all of Gwindor’s men picked up the same battle-cry as before: the night is passing! It rippled through the army again, and Anardil held his breath as the small company rode forth, taking on an entire army of Orcs. Tyelcano did not go with them; his horse threw him off and bolted, leaving him standing alone in the shallow water.

Then, the trumpets were sounded, and the High King’s army followed in one breathtaking, unstoppable onslaught. They poured out of the mountains like a swarm of silver-grey ants, and picked up the great searing cry: the night is passing!

Anardil’s spirits rose despite himself as the Orcs started running, and the Western army sprang into pursuit.

And then, his eyes strayed to Tyelcano, standing in the middle of the ford alone.

Alas! said the Master of Dreams. That was unwise. The High King showed his strength too fast.

He is alone, said Anardil. Tyel. They are about to run him down. They can’t stop. There is nowhere for him to go.

Indeed, said the Voice.

Well, don’t just say indeed, do something!

And what would you have me do? Surely, you do not suggest that I should meddle?

Anardil closed his fists. He can’t just die there!

The Voice fell silent for a moment.

I cannot save him for you, it said softly, but I can help you do it. And yet… are you sure that you want me to? You would have to sway Laurefindil’s men, and bend them to your will. You may have to sacrifice them. Are you as ruthless as your friend?

He cannot die like this! Anardil’s breath hitched. I will go alone if I have to! If I start abandoning my friends, I fear I shall no longer know right from wrong.

Very well, said the Master of Dreams, if this is what you think is right. Go, then! I shall speak with your voice, strike with your hand, lead will your will.

And Anardil went. The lance was heavy and alien in his hand; and when he spoke, his voice was both his own and beyond his own. He spoke with great power and persuasion, and his words were irresistible to the ones who heard them; stronger than sense, stronger than law, stronger than the command of the King of Gondolin or the Lord of the Golden Flower. He did not truly hear or understand what he said, but his words were fire and ice, and a great wind that could move the world. Around him, lances were pointed, shields were raised and banners drawn; and many followed him as he broke into a thundering run towards the Vale.

It was the single most elevating moment of his life; as if he had crossed some threshold between reality and song. The heel of his boot sparkled as it hit the rocks on the hillside, and his lance shone with a piercing white fire.

When he came back to his senses, Laurefindil’s men were surrounding Tyelcano’s lonely figure in a wide circle, shielding him from the oncoming storm of the High King’s army. They were numerous enough to succeed; the riders veered away, drawing the influx of the army towards the North, and the Iron Gate in pursuit.

Anardil reached down, and pulled his friend to his feet; and as soon as they hands touched, he felt the otherworldly strength of the Master of Dreams leave him.

He cannot recognise you, said the Voice, now barely a whisper in his mind. I shall not allow it. He cannot know you have ever been here.

Soldiers gathered around him, shoulders bumping into his as he stood in stunned silence. His lance was drenched with black blood from tip to grip; and around his troop were the bruised and battered bodies of Orcs that tried to kill his friend. He did not remember raising his weapon, or touching anyone with it, and yet the ford around them ran black and brown with blood, as if an entire army had ridden through it rather than a few wayward fighters from the army of Gondolin. Tyelcano seemed shaken but unscathed; water was dripping from his chainmail and his eyes were wide and terrified in his stony, solemn face. The expression tied Anardil’s stomach into a knot. His friend hardly seemed to understand that he had been saved.

The Orcs had not fled far, either—the Noldor ran them down like a summer storm, and within minutes, none were left to fight. Once set in motion, the High King’s army could not stop: with fierce cries they rode on after Gwindor, daring the gates of Angband. They seemed fey and unstoppable; and the hearts of the Gondolindrim were also set afire, even though they seemed quite surprised to find themselves down in the Vale.

“Do not run!” Laurefindil’s voice spoke then, harsh from shouting, but not wrathful. He was spurring his horse down the hillside in pursuit, lance in one hand, sword in the other. His golden hair flew wildly about his face like a halo of sunlight, piercing the Enemy’s gloom. “Who broke rank first?”

The soldiers looked at each other. Anardil braced himself to step forth, but his legs were strained.

Do not, whispered the Master of Dreams.

“…it would be hard to tell, lord,” said one of the spearmen. “It could have been me, or any other. I do not know what came over us. It seemed to me that I was being led by fate itself.”

“Or horror,” said Laurefindil. “This could have easily gone wrong if the entire army had fallen into the same frenzy, and decided to follow you. Never break rank like this again! Gather now, and do as I say. We have the King’s leave to pursue his brother. We are to reach him, and guard him if we are able.”

“So shall we, Lord of the Golden Flower,” said a tall Sinda with a battle-axe. “Forgive us.”

“We shan’t speak of this again,” said Laurefindil. “It was an ill-considered deed; but my heart is somehow glad that you have chosen to do it.”

With that, he jumped off the saddle, and held Tyelcano by the shoulders.

“Alas, my friend!” he said. “We meet again, sooner than expected. Are you hurt?”

“I should have been,” said Tyelcano in a low voice. He took a deep breath, and some of the horror was gone from his eyes. “Tell me, Lord of the Golden Flower—where in Manwë’s holy name have you left your helmet?! Have I not pestered you enough about it?”

“What have you done to your hand?” Laurefindil countered; and indeed Anardil could see that Tyelcano’s left hand had bled through his glove. “And what happened here, either way?”

“Later,” said Tyelcano. “We must be away.”

The High King’s main force passed them as he spoke; the riders steered clear of them and those who were on foot could merge with Laurefindil’s men. Laurefindil himself chose to have his horse led away.

“If you think I shall let you out of my sight, than you are sorely mistaken,” he told Tyelcano. “We will catch up with the High King sooner than you think. Not all soldiers shall tire their horses completely like Gwindor would, in his unbridled wrath. Let us follow on foot, and be swift!”

Laurefindil’s spearmen then raised their shields, and grouped together over a wide line, nearly impenetrable to Orcs. So they sprang forth, and crossed the Fens of Serech. Anardil rallied with them, and he realised, with gratitude, that some power of the Master of Dreams was still with them. They moved with amazing speed through the treacherous terrain, and yet their feet did not sink into the marshes, nor did they they slip or miss a single step along the many paths that crossed the land.

Do they see me at all, marching with them? Anardil wondered. Or do they see someone else?

They perceive you not, the Voice answered. You are a glint in their eye, a strange shadow, a shred of their imagination. You are here with them indeed; and yet their awareness and understanding slides off you like water.

Why are you helping me? Anardil pressed. They were out deep in the Anfauglith now, and the ashen dust stirred into foul-smelling clouds around them. You are so powerful. Why do you care?

I have long laboured for this day, said the Voice, and you have been in my thoughts. And yet as I said, you were not meant to be here! Go now, and fight if you so wish. Should you need my strength, I will lend it to you. But be vigilant: I cannot face the Black Foe.

Their march through the grey dust was too long for Anardil’s courage not to waver. They were on enemy land now, and he could see the gates of Angband itself as they towered, high and impenetrable, over the dusty plains. Gwindor and his company had ridden right up to them, and in their unabated battle-rage, they had seized a battering ram from the fleeing Orcs, and kept slamming it against the gate.

“Take something heavier!” Laurefindil shouted at them.

But Gwindor’s men heeded him not. With their full strength they smashed the head of the ram between the two wings of the gate; and with a sharp, shrieking clang, it broke into a thousand pieces. A cloud of arrows was loosed from the walls above; most of them slid off their mail and shields, but some found their mark.

They will never break that gate, Anardil realised.

And do you wish to? said the Voice, amused. I do not think that your Foe is expecting that.

Can you? Anardil was amazed.

I can help you do it, like before. But you have to be certain, Anardil, my child—is this truly what you think is best? To open a way towards what might lurk in the Iron Prison?

The Enemy could open those gates at any moment either way, Anardil countered. Let Gwindor in!

He shivered wildly as the strange, otherworldly power flooded him once more. The chaos of the battle blurred, and with it the silhouettes of Tyelcano and Laurefindil who had now snatched two shields from the fallen to ward off the rain of poisoned arrows from atop the walls. The only clear things he saw were Gwindor, his men, and a small pillar from a nearby Orc watchtower that they intended to use as a replacement for the broken battering ram. Anardil joined them when they picked it up, ran ahead with them, then smashed it against the gate with a force that was not his own.

The spell on the gate broke with an icy pang, and the metal gave way.

The Gate of Angband was broken.

A great cry flared up among the Noldor, and Anardil’s heart sang with the triumphant joy of it. The night is passing! Weapons in hand, Gwindor and his company sprang forth, through the gate and into the Enemy’s courtyard; and a few others followed, both from Gondolin and of the High King’s men. Laurefindil came as well, sword-light dancing on his hair, laughing as he kept slaughtering Orcs. The night is passing! The Gate is broken! Elves poured into the dark silent courts of the Iron Prison, Elves flooded the walls and ran along the ramparts. All Orcs that stood on the walls were swiftly slain, and the banner of the High King was hung above the ruins of the main gate. Gwindor then climbed atop the arch, and held up his sword, blackened to the hilt with Orc-blood.

“THE DAY HAS COME!” he cried. “THE TIMES OF DARKNESS AND DEATH ARE OVER—AND OUR DEAD WE SHALL NOW AVENGE!”

“THE DAY HAS COME!” The army echoed as one heart, and one throat. “THE NIGHT IS PASSING!”

“HALT— ” Anardil heard Tyelcano’s command from the outside. “Go no further! Wait for the others! You are far too few to start a siege — wait!”

But Gwindor and his company obeyed him not. With a fierce cry they sprang from the walls once again, picked up another, larger pillar, and set about breaking the entrance to the main fortress at the end of the courtyard. The walls echoed with the thunder of rock as it hit the door, each blow amplified tenfold, thousandfold. Each strike shook the earth below their feet, as if the much-suffered land itself trembled at the sheer force of their fury.

“WE HAVE COME FOR THEE, BLACK FOE!” Gwindor cried out in his great voice. “WE ARE HERE, AND WE SHALL MAKE THEE PAY!”

Leave, my child, Anardil heard the whisper of the Voice in the depths of his mind, you do not wish to see what is coming. Alas, they are too furious to listen to reason! But the way is still open. Go now, silent as a shade!

And leave the others? Anardil’s eyes widened.

If need be. Or do you wish for the Lord of these lands to seize you, and torture you until you would betray the secrets of your King’s realm? You know too much! You must leave.

Will Gwindor die? Anardil swallowed hard.

Just go!

His legs moved without his own accord; and when he tried to take command of them, his fear got the better of him. It was much better, much safer to obey. The Master of Dreams led him through the ruins of the Gate, and he watched with growing horror as new Orcs swarmed out of the fortress, taking on Gwindor and the others. There were too many of them: ten times, twenty times more than their assailants, and the ramparts were once more filled with the soldiers of Angband. The strange midday gloom deepened over the battle, the shades lengthened under the walls, and Gwindor, Captain of Nargothrond was forced back into the courtyard from Morgoth’s doorstep.

Then, there was a loud, screeching metallic noise, and a portcullis began descending within the still-standing arch of the main gate. At the same time, secret passages opened within the walls, and another fresh army sprang forth to meet the High King’s riders outside.

And the portcullis kept descending.

Anardil watched helplessly as the dark sea of Orcs closed ranks around Gwindor and his men. Laurefindil was still in there, too, soaked in blood from head to toes, his shield cracked and his lance broken.

“RETREAT!” He bellowed. “GWINDOR, FOLLOW ME! WE CANNOT WIN HERE!”

But it was too late. The shield wall of Orcs was too thick, the distance across the courtyard too great, and their enemies too numerous.

Before Anardil could beg the Master of Dreams for his friend’s life, Tyelcano slipped under the portcullis, dagger in hand. He grabbed Laurefindil, quite unceremoniously, by the hair, and dragged him out from among the Orcs he was fighting with. The dagger pierced a hand, slashed a throat, stopped a heart; and Anardil watched with awestruck horror what his friend was capable of when he truly meant to kill. Then, Laurefindil was shoved out under the descending portcullis. Tyelcano threw his shield and a sword after him, struck another Orc on the head with his armoured elbow, then followed. He had to crawl at the end, and roll out of the reach of the portcullis just as it descended completely.

There was a shrill, metallic clank, and the Gate was closed again.

Stunned silence followed. Even the nearest fights stopped for a moment as the two friends struggled to their feet, panting slightly. Laurefindil stared at the portcullis, then at Tyelcano, then again at the portcullis.

“You saved my life.”

Tyelcano looked him straight in the eye. “Next time you decide to do something like that,” he said dangerously, “I will do the work for the Orcs and slay you myself.”

“I was not thinking!”

“So I have gathered.”

“And Gwindor is still in there!” Laurefindil cried as new arrows started to whizz around them. “However shall we free him?”

“Let us hope that the Black Foe shall not kill him yet,” said Tyelcano, “that he would rather laugh and gloat until the battle is over, at least. Let us go! Small though our chance of success may be, let us at least try and not be separated from the rest of our men.”

The Orcs were swarming everywhere around them indeed, bursting from behind clandestine gates, beating the host back from the walls. Looking around, all Anardil could see were Orcs, terrified but enraged, with great battle-axes and crassly wrought scimitars. There were many of them, thousands and thousands more than he had ever seen in his life, and as the countless bodies pressed them against the fortified walls of Angband, he found himself fighting for breath.

Help us! He pleaded with the Master of Dreams. Get us out of here!

No harm shall come to you, my child, said the Voice with ethereal calm. I am with you.

What about my friends? I cannot leave them!

I can make you terrible and frightening to the Orcs’ eye, and you may cut yourself a way out of the battle. But I cannot leave all of you unscathed, Anardil, not without revealing myself. You may go, and lead again; but many shall perish when the Orcs rally again, and attack from behind.

Please, just do what you can, Anardil thought. Fear surged in his chest, spreading in his entire body. It was a strange, searing, debilitating feeling, not unlike pain. His head was pounding ceaselessly, and the borrowed lance trembled in his hand.

Then, the otherworldly strength flooded his veins for the third time. He raised his shield and sprang forth with a fierce cry. The Orcs fled at his sight as if he was the Lord Maedhros himself, or Fingon the Valiant. Their weapons broke upon his shield, and his lance pierced even the strongest of their mails. There was fire in his eyes and power in his hands; and for a moment, he wished he could keep this power forever.

Oh, my child, said the Master of Dreams, but you may. You may, if you so wish, and if you remain as eager and obedient as you are now. You have fought so valiantly! You have helped my cause so earnestly! Death is not the reward I have prepared for you. You shall return to your beloved Gondolin, and there you are to dwell to the end of your days, with your King. And I shall be with you as well, my child. I shall guide you. But if this is what you want, then you must go now.

Anardil stopped in his tracks.

My friends! They have fallen behind!

You must go, said the Voice. There is no other way.

Anardil looked back, struggling with himself. Orc bodies were pressed against him from all sides, half an army stuck between the wall and the fighting Elves. Bloodstained spearheads bumped into his back, scimitars and axes grazed his legs, but none of them did him any harm. Further away, he glimpsed a troll with a giant mace, wading through the crowd; and he knew that it was but one of many. The numbers of the Orcs still kept growing, but the Eldar were falling. He could still see Laurefindil and Tyelcano further back, fighting shoulder to shoulder but being pressed further and further back towards the gate of Angband. Their faces were grim, their hair thick and matted with blood. Tyelcano had lost his helmet too in the chaos of battle, and he found himself constantly dodging arrows and strikes that aimed his eyes and temples.

I cannot leave them, Anardil thought. How could you ask such a thing of me after you have witnessed them fight each other? Because you were there that night, were you not? You were the crow. You know that the Hidden City is so difficult to enter because you have been there in flesh—even if the flesh was not your own!

You are perceptive, said the Voice. And you have all acted honourable that night; but it is one thing to act honourable, and another to succumb to folly. Did you not say that you joined the army because the Enemy sought to have your King killed? Why not watch over him? Here, you shall find only death; and then you have left the Hidden City for naught.

I said no such thing, said Anardil. Suspicion kindled in his chest like the spark of a cold, low-burning fire. I sensed danger, without knowing what that danger could be. And yet, be it even the end of the world or a final stand against the Black Foe himself, you cannot make me leave my friends! If that is how things must be, then I will stay, and die with honour.

Will you? said the Master of Dreams, and his Voice was low now, dangerous. After all that you have suffered, you would truly risk it all again? And for what—a Kinslayer, and and a high and mighty lord who would not spare you a second glance if you were no longer in the King’s favour? Do you honestly think that you have ever belonged with them?

Anardil lurched forward. These were familiar thoughts, although they had not plagued his mind for a long time now. These were the kind of thoughts that had made him lie about his origins when he first came to Gondolin, that made him lash out at the Council, that made him think that his King would exile or execute him. These thoughts spoke of worthlessness, and darkness, and despair. These thoughts were, in their essence, entirely alien to him; and yet they offered a sense of dark comfort that was hard to explain.

Anardil used to believe that though false, these thoughts were entirely his own, all the time, and no one was thinking them for him.

Familiar despair descended upon his soul. His chest tightened as if an invisible fist had closed around his heart, and beneath the surface of his turbulent emotions, a bottomless pit of fear opened.

And he knew that fear.

Suspicion flashed through him like lightning, clear, blinding and cruel.

You shall not leave your friends, you say, said the Master of Dreams, and you speak so bravely! So valiantly! And yet you are neither brave nor valiant, are you, my child? You are dishonest and craven, and you have broken your promise to your King. Be thankful that I even entertain the thought of saving you! You have certainly shown me no gratitude this far; you keep taking, and taking, and never giving anything back. You are a fraud, a trickster, a breaker of your oath of fealty, and a liar above all!

Anardil’s heart was pounding in his throat. He was aware of himself now, entirely aware, in a way he had hardly ever been; and he was aware of the Master of Dreams as well, and the weight of his will as it settled over him, fëa and hröa, tendon and bone, blood and flesh, and he felt its tendrils gripping at his very conscience.

You are not helping me, he realised, you are using me. You are making me believe things that are not true!

He was no longer aware of the battle raging around him, but fully aware of a much greater Foe, beautiful and terrible, admirable and ruthless.

I know who you are.

I know.

I know.

He gasped as he felt the grip of the hand, Unseen, upon his shoulder. Its touch shone with its own inner light beyond the bounds of the waking world, sharp and unforgettable, gleaming with stormy dark undercurrents. A figure was towering above him, his very Presence woven of Power and Might, Craft and Talent, Wit and Ingenuity. He was fair as the dawn and terrible as the Void, marvellous and abhorrent, heinous and worthy of song.

The Master of his dreams looked him in the eye, and his glance was thunder and ice; and the understanding of what befell the Lords of the Noldor and what awaited them flooded Anardil’s mind all at once. Despair clawed at his throat and fear shackled his every limb; and he could have wept if he dared to even blink.

There is no escape, said the Voice, the very same Voice that had always been there, from the first dream of crows and battlefields, for the first night he had spent in Tol Sirion naked and trembling, and there never was. You are mine, child; your name and your titles, your thoughts and your dreams, your friends and your foes, your plans and your intentions, your curses and your oaths. I own your songs and your tales, your hands and your voice, and I am the light in your eyes. What did you think of yourself? That your King would save you from me? I am your Master! I am your King!

Anardil fell to his knees, his chest heaving. He expected Orc-blades piercing him, but nothing happened; the battle around him was reduced to a dance of dust and shadows, and the only clear figure within his sight was the Giver himself: the Voice in his thoughts and the Lord of his body and mind as he towered over him in silent wrath.

Why did you not tell me, if things have always been like this? Anardil cried. Why would you not command me, send me, dispose of me the way other lords do?

Because you had much to learn, said Gorthaur, bright and terrible. Now you have. Use your knowledge wisely.

And then, he was gone, suddenly and without trace; and with him left all Anardil’s remaining strength. A great, impenetrable darkness descended upon his heart, and his eyes saw no more. Blinded and terrified he crawled in the dust, expecting with every passing second that Orcs would run over him, or a Troll would kick him around. And yet no one touched him; he was protected by his Master’s sorcery and power, and he was not harmed.

He would soon be taken, he supposed, and carried back to Angband or wherever Master dwelt.

That was how things have always been.

That was his fate.

But nothing happened. The battle raged on around him, and judging by the sounds, the Elves were retreating from the walls of Angband towards the open plains.

Faintly, Anardil could hear Laurefindil’s cries from nearby; but he could see nothing but blackness. He could not recall his friends’ faces either, or the towers of Gondolin, or the voice of the King. He was imprisoned in utter darkness, and the ashes of the Anfauglith filled his lungs, his mouth, his ears, his nostrils.

This was the end of all things.

He would never see sunlight again.

Nor would, perhaps, any other.

 

✶ ✶ ✶

 

The blade grazed his waist first, then the hilt knocked him hard in the head. An inch closer, a fraction harder, and he would have lost consciousness. The last thing he would have seen, then, would have been Tyelcano ripped in two by a Troll.

Laurefindil dodged the strike of the morningstar and rolled to the side, pulling his friend with him. Tyelcano raised his dagger while rolling, dealing a deep cut to the Orc standing above them — to try and stab them, no doubt, and steal what he could. Their chainmail and clothing betrayed their high rank; they would have made valuable prisoners.

Their predicament was becoming quite dangerous. The sudden onslaught of the Noldor had met the swarm of Orcs quite valiantly, but their strength was dwindling, and their enemies were everywhere, outnumbering them at least tenfold. Laurefindil’s other, even more pressing concern was that the High King’s men were drifting away from Tyelcano and himself. The Orcs were pushing them back towards the great plain, and as more and more Trolls joined them, the casualties became numerous. Soon enough the dead lay in heaps around the gate of Angamando, and the rain of poisoned arrows from the walls never ceased.

The fierce battle-cries of Gwindor and his kinsmen were heard for a while from beyond the walls, then they ceased—either they had fought to death, or they were brought to the dungeons. Laurefindil hoped that an opportunity would come to rescue them; there was, however, nothing they could do until the battle was won.

It was clearer to him now what the Enemy had planned: taunting with prisoners was probably not the only provocation he had thought of. He had to know exactly who Gelmir of Nargothrond was, and either that his brother would stand in the vanguard, or someone else from the High King’s delegation would know him. Coming to the Iron Gate was reckless, and bold, and exactly like something Moringotto would have wanted them to do. Breaking it, however… Laurefindil was not so sure about that. He hardly believed it when the giant gate-wings gave way to some unknown force, and Gwindor stormed into the courtyard with his men. The moment was so sudden, significant and dangerous that he doubted Moringotto had planned it. The terror and confusion of the Orcs seemed genuine while their ramparts were taken, and the retaliation far too tardy to have been prepared.

Still, the Enemy’s strength only wavered for a moment, and what started off as a momentary breach in his fortress’s security was quickly and efficiently transformed into a trap.

Laurefindil was fighting shoulder to shoulder with Tyelcano now. Orcs were coming at them from all sides, battle-rage taking over their natural fear of Elven warriors. They were almost completely cut off the Gondolin forces; Laurefindil could see his men pressing against the walls, losing steps, dropping their weapons as new Orcs came over them in one sweeping assault. There were also more Trolls now: enormous creatures with bodies like giant boulders, faces grey and roughly hewn like living stones. They wielded maces, morningstars and clubs, every step shaking the bloodied ground like drums beating the rhythm of death.

“BACK! GO BACK!” Tyelcano bellowed, chest heaving. A long, shallow cut ran down from his temple to his chin, and blood was dripping from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wide and terrible, Tree-light dimmed into battle-rage.

Laurefindil squeezed his shoulder.

“We should try and reach the High King’s banner,” he shouted into his friend’s ear.

“Aye, we should,” said Tyelcano, his voice strangely calm and level, “but how?”

“We hew our way through — no, don’t start! I know there is not much hope of it. We cut our way back to my men, gather as many as we are able, and turn back. We seize some shields from the Orcs: ours are too broken now. And I wonder if I could lift that morningstar. Take it from that Troll over there. Wade through. Let’s try! You take the biggest shield you can find, and cover me.”

“Very well,” said Tyelcano. “Take the lead; I shall take the rear.”

“Nay! We should both be at the front. There is no way of knowing…”

“I am a good fighter,” Tyelcano cut him off. “You need your men. I shall bring up the rear, and find my way back to you, even if it takes me an Age.”

Laurefindil then beheld him, clad as if he were a prince from the House of Finwë; tall and proud, fair and fey, calm and dangerous; and his heart, though grieving, was at peace. Tightly, he nodded; and he pulled a long lance out of the carcass of a horse with newfound determination. He gave a great battle-cry, one that reverberated off the dark walls of Angamando, and made the Orcs cry out in dismay in return.

“ENEMIES OF THE DARK ONE, COME TO ME! THIS CANNOT BE THE END—FORTH, KINSMEN! FORTH, GONDOLINDRIM! FORTH, AND VICTORY! FORTH AND TO ARMS, FOR THE NIGHT IS PASSING!”

And such power was in his voice in that hour that all those of the Eldar who heard him, took to heart and were filled with new vigour, and they echoed,

“The night is passing! Forth, kinsmen! The day has come!”

“The night is passing!”

“The day has come!”

Laurefindil knew little of what came over him afterwards. He became aware of a new power within himself; and using it felt more like coming into his own than discovering something alien. This compulsion was very different from the frenzy that had driven him to the gates of Angamando. His men followed his every command, and his fury fed their battle-rage as well; they all came forth as one, and waded through the Orcs like the thrust of an Elvish blade. Precise and fast, they drew away from the walls and back towards the banner of the High King. Laurefindil kept his gaze on that banner all along, although for a time it seemed to him that it kept drifting further and further away on the tides of battle. The dead lay in mounds and he often had to step over them, or turn them with his foot as he progressed. Blood, both black and red, soaked through his garments, painted his face, coloured his hair and filled his boots; blood was dripping from his blade; blood blinded his eyes as he marched on, a tireless instrument of killing. His men followed, back to back, shoulder to shoulder, every movement becoming slow and laborious through a thick, pathless forest of flesh and steel. Looking back, he could no longer see where the line of his own soldiers ended, or where Tyelcano stood. With every step, he was getting ready for death; with every strike, he expected his blade to be stopped and ropes to tighten around his limbs, holding him captive. And yet such things never came. Blindly, he fought against the descending darkness, thick and all-compassing as madness itself.

Slowly, the rain of Orc-strikes thinned around him, then ceased entirely.

I must be dead, he thought—but then, suddenly, the banner of the High King was raised right next to him, and he slammed into the great upraised shields with the royal blazons of the House of Finwë; and he was pulled behind the shield-wall.

“Take him!” said the High King’s voice. “Take him and look! Shall he live?”

All strength left him at once and he fell to his knees. His chest felt tight, as if his heart was being squeezed by a Troll-hand, and his thundering heartbeat reverberated in his skull. His throat hurt as if he had swallowed something hot, and his legs started shaking violently, as if they would never be able to carry him again.

“Unscathed, Majesty,” said another, young voice, “mostly, at least.”

“Is that so? I can scarcely believe it!”

“Angamando,” said Laurefindil weakly. He could hear his own voice as if through a tunnel. “Gwindor. In Angamando. We broke the gate, and then…”

“Aye, we saw that,” said Findekáno’s voice.

“There was another gate,” Laurefindil went on. His head was still pounding, and the words came with great difficulty. “It closed. Gwindor was late. Tyel—he dragged me out while the bars were coming down, but Gwindor…”

“That cannot be helped now. Not until we break through.”

“Tyel will think of something,” said Laurefindil brightly. The darkness was lifting before his eyes. “He is right behind me… should be here now…”

For a full minute, he could hear nothing else than the wheezing of arrows as they kept hitting the shields.

“…he was hit in the head quite hard, was he not, Majesty?” said the voice of Húrin Thalion carefully.

There was a thud as Findekáno dismounted in front of him, then the rustle of clothing as he knelt beside him in the dust, and squeezed his mail-clad shoulder a little too hard.

“You have come alone, Laurefindil,” he said softly. “You are the only one who passed this terrible test; it was a great deed, and it shall be remembered.”

His breath hitched and it all came back to him at once: the smoke and the dust, the blood and the sweat, the sounds and the smells, the whizzing of arrows, the strikes of the stolen morningstar as they stirred the ashes of the Anfauglith. Findekáno’s figure was impossibly clean and unsullied as he looked him in the eye, holding his battered face between his palms.

“That cannot be,” said Laurefindil slowly, incredulously. “I… they were right behind me…”

“You waded through almost a mile,” said the High King. “It should be sung of.”

“But Tyel…”

“I know. I shall miss him too.”

Laurefindil felt his fists close and his pulse quicken. He was suddenly aware of his body again, as if it was a new and alien thing, as if he could wield it like a weapon. He stood; and throwing his broken lance to the ground, he draw his sword.

“No Orc shall stand in front of me ere the battle is won or I am slain,” he said, and his voice was low, dangerous.

And the High King put on his great gilded helmet beside him again.

“The day has come,” he said, “and till the dawn we fight!”

“Till the dawn!” Laurefindil echoed.

“Till the dawn!” Cried the shield-bearers, the swordsmen and the guards.

“Till the dawn!” echoed those who stood nearby; and soon enough the entire host of the High King picked up the cry. Weapons were raised, and once more the host of the West came forth, almost to the very walls of Angband, until they were repelled again.

The retreat was slower this time, and bloodier, and the fallen too numerous to count. Laurefindil’s world was compressed into smells, sounds and movements, and the never-ending dance of strike and counterstrike, of slashing and stabbing, of great, arching cuts and small darts.

He did not count, and could not even estimate how many times dawn had come beyond the dust and Moringotto’s perpetual gloom before news came that the rearguard fell, and the Lord Haldir of the Edain was carried off the battlefield upon raised shields. Even Findekáno was coated in battle-gore by then, and the golden ribbons weaved into his hair were drenched with blood. He spoke the command to retreat in a grim voice, and Laurefindil wondered what happened to the army in the East and the Seven Sons.

They should have been here by now, he thought, they should have lit the great pyre at the Rivil, and stormed the Orcs from the North-East.

And yet it seemed that they had met the same fate as Tyelcano; and none remained to even tell the tale of what befell them.

All the next dawn brought were blood and tears; and even more questions without answers. Step by step, the High King’s army was retreating back into the open plains, weaker and more exhausted by the minute; and when Laurefindil looked far ahead, he could already see the dark ring of a new Orc-army closing the circle around them.

“We are surrounded,” said Gildor. “This might be the appropriate moment for the Enemy to bring out the dragons, and suchlike.”

“And swiftly: for I am getting bored!” said Findekáno darkly. “Well—there is little else for us to do but fight. And never despair! I know not what befell our allies, but I know this: Nelyafinwë gave me his word that he would come, and come he shall, even if all the armies of Angamando and all the fiery demons and monsters of Moringotto stand between us. Remember the Flames, Inglorion! Remember the dragon, and the siege! Did he not come, at the moment after the last, when we thought that the world was ending? Did he not come?”

“Aye, Majesty, he did come,” said Gildor, but his eyes were hollow.

There were simply too many Orcs. They swarmed around them like a sea of death, rippling waves towering over them, drunk on blood and ready to kill. And Laurefindil was tired; so tired, tired beyond any word his language had for it.

“Retreat! Retreat!” Inglorion cried, but there was nowhere to retreat. The Orcs closed up around them, their closeness even more suffocating then the reek of blood and death. It seemed that for each enemy they stroke down, three others came to them at once. There was something new in the air, a black, heavy despair; it heartened the Orcs, and drowned them in grief.

Laurefindil fell to his knees as a dart pierced his right shoulder, numbing his fighting hand almost instantly. He dropped his sword, left hand fumbling aimlessly to retrieve his dagger, despair eating at his soul. How would he even fight? He can barely lift his hand now…

“The King! Guard the King!” Gildor cried, and Laurefindil struggled to his feet to shield Findekáno with his own battered body, if need be—but the next moment, a fierce cry went up behind him, and a long lance pierced the Orc right before him, ripping through mail and flesh and bone. His back hit something firm and solid, and slippery with blood…

A shield.

“Fin!”

Strong hands grabbed him from behind, pulling him back, back behind the shield wall and into the embrace of familiar arms.

“Where is your helmet, you blundering idiot?! You great oaf! You utter imbecile! You—”

“That is quite enough, Ecthelion,” said the voice of his King, “I shall deal with him later.”

Laurefindil glanced around with almost childlike wonder. He found himself inside a wide circle of shields, made by both King’s guards. Gildor stared at the newcomers incredulously, Antalossë with awe and Húrin with great joy and satisfaction; and Findekáno and Turukáno, the two brothers stood in the middle of the fortified circle, and faced each other for the first time in centuries.

Turukáno appeared to have fought even more fiercely than his brother; he was thickly coated in Orc-blood and gore from the tips of his boots to the visor of his helmet, which he had now raised. In one hand, he held Glamdring the longsword, and in his other hand a jagged dark mess that Laurefindil recognised as whatever remained of Master Rog’s one-handed mace.

“Well met, brother,” said Turukáno. “You may not have expected me; but I have come.”

He dropped the mace, and stepped forward to offer a warrior’s greeting; but Findekáno dropped sword, dagger, longbow and helmet, and embraced him as tightly as mail allowed.

“Of course I expected you,” he said. Smiling, he laid his head on his brother’s shoulder, paying little heed to how half his face was smeared with blood and dust. “And so did I trust you to turn up just when things would start getting interesting.”

“Not the word I would choose,” said Turukáno. “Still—if we get to the lower hills before Eithel Sirion in one piece, we may have a chance to separate the Orc-troops. We need to regroup.”

“So we shall.” Findekáno took a deep breath. “Back to back, if we have to… or throat to throat as others would say.” He looked his brother boldly in the eye. “Írissë is dead, is she not?”

“There shall be time for this,” said Turukáno slowly.

“Or there won’t be. Is her son with you?”

“I am here, Majesty,” spoke a voice from behind Laurefindil’s back. “Lómion is my name: this is how my mother called me.”

“Well met, kinsman,” said Findekáno. “I shall have much to tell you, and you to me as well, no doubt. Until then, I will have you know that those who remained of your Father’s house now serve the Warden of the East; and many a weapon they have wrought for us in the forges of the Himring. And so prevails the mail made by your own hand, somewhere under the dirt of battle! Tyelcano had gifted it to me, and I wear it with honour. He could not suffer to be more glamorously clad on the battlefield than myself.”

“I am glad,” said Lómion, then he glanced around. “But is he not with you, as we have hoped?”

A light went out in Findekáno’s eyes. “Fallen,” he said.

Turukáno looked stricken.

“Alas,” he said, “this is an hour for revenge. Perhaps such is our only choice: to stand and fight, and salvage what we can. Too long have we stood divided; this must end now. All who survive this battle shall be welcome in my City, be they a servant of the High Crown, the Edain, the Dwarves or the Star.”

And so the armies of Gondolin and Hithlum regrouped, and the two kings said their farewells, grim and solemn; and Laurefindil remained with Turukáno, and let Ecthelion shield him from the worst of the battle. Deep inside, he knew that he was gravely wounded, and he needed to look out for himself, but all deeds seemed done to no avail. The battle raged on, new Orcs kept coming, and their troops drifted further and further out into the plains while the circle of their enemies kept tightening around them.

But then, at the last moment of the blackest hour, when the darkness of Moringotto shrouded the Anfauglith and dawn would not come at all, when the trumpets of the Eldar gave only small, pitiful sounds and their commands could no longer pierce the heavy air, a new cry went up in the East; and it shook both armies to their foundations, so fierce and strong it was. And it seemed to Laurefindil that the dark walls of Moringotto and the grieving hills themselves echoed back the cry,

“To death!”

“Death!”

“Death!”

Drums were sounded, deep in the earth, deeper than the roots of the mountains.

Dwarven drums.

“Death!”

Lances were shining like suns and stars with their own light, many echoing steps stirring up the dust of the Anfauglith once more.

“Death!”

Riders were coming, closing in, Orc ranks were swept away, Trolls fell.

“Death!”

The Star of Fëanáro was raised on the Eastern horizon, the great banner afire with crimson and gold: the colours of the Himring.

“Death!”

Far across the plain, the vanguard of the Seven Sons stepped onto the battlefield. Along the great front, other banners were raised for the Dwarves, the Easterling tribes, the Gap, Himlad, Thargelion, Ossiriand.

“Death!”

The vanguard gave way; and forth came a single rider, clad in piercing white, the Star of his house golden on his shield, bearing Narsil the longsword in his single, left hand; and the Orcs fled from him upon sight.

“Death!”

Nelyafinwë had come.

✶ ✶ ✶

---

Chapter End Notes

A note on "Laurefindil's men": I do not mean to imply that the entire House of the Golden Flower was slaughtered; "Laurefindil's men" here are, simply, the ones that were put under his command for the duration of the battle. Since technically all citizens of Gondolin serve the same King, I imagined that their positions in battle would be determined by their preference in weapons/fighting styles and their degree of experience. And commands, of course.

Also, sorry for any glaring mistakes in warfare I may have committed. I did some research, but battles are not my special interest:)