The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Hidden Kingdom

At the limit of their endurance and pain, the survivors of Nargothrond are delivered.  They vow to integrate into their new home, but will they ever feel safe again?

*I couldn't resist writing a segment on Gondolin so this is very non canon.  I did a lot of research on Gondolin, the city, the people and the houses, to try to bring them to life.  We also deal with some of the emotional fallout of the Battle of Tumhalad and the Sack of Nargothrond while keeping connected with the struggle in the south to save the sun and moon.

There are and will be a few Tolkien canon items about elves that I'm going to stray from.

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49)  The Hidden Kingdom – Year of the Sun 495 Narquelië (October)

Morelen

The riders were stunned by the sudden appearance of someone familiar.  Yes, it was him from the bar on the Isle of Balar.  Voronwë the Mariner stood before them, clean now, hair slicked back and wearing bright silk robes.  Gone was the ragged, demoralized sailor who sat sullenly at a dark table, drinking his misery away.  He extended his hand.  “High King Turgon of Gondolin welcomes you, friends, who were the sworn riders of his brother, High King Fingon.  Come, the way to the Hidden Kingdom is open to you,” he said, pulling Líreno up.  He waved his hand and the illusion that was placed on the face of the mountain evaporated, revealing a massive ravine where a gate of wood blocked the path.  It was essentially a wooden arch held up by pillars, painted in earthen colors.  “This is the Orfalch Echor, the hidden ravine. Come, follow me.  We heard of the destruction of Nargothrond and we grieve with you.  Though more than a few advocated that we leave you to your fate, King Turgon could not turn a blind eye to those who served his father and brother faithfully. And the King thought you would like a familiar face.”

Notaldo sent Ehtyarder back to bring the rest of the refugees forward and The Gate of Wood opened upward at the wave of Voronwë’s hand.  Noldorin warriors in black scale armor came to attention as their leader approached.  “I am Elemmakil of the Dark Guard.  We welcome our brethren to the Hidden Kingdom but please be swift.  We do not wish to risk exposure,” he said warmly but with a clear command.  He was tall and powerfully built, black hair spilling down around his black helm that glistened in the weak sunlight as rain fell steadily down.

A few minutes later, the refugees came rushing up, cries and sobs of relief sounding out from the group and they passed through the Gate of Wood, which then vanished back into an illusion.  “Impressive,” Morelen said of the glyphs.  “Neither I nor my father have the power to do that.”  Then, something hit her.  What did Glaurung say about her father?  What did he mean by that?  How could he even know who Fëatur was?  It bothered her but perhaps it was just a taunt.  Even so, why didn’t he just incinerate them, then and there?  It made no sense.

Líreno rode beside Telerien, nodding with a weak smile.  “We made it.  Thank Ulmo, we made it.”

Elemmakil led them upwards through the ravine to the Gate of Stone, half a league from the Gate of Wood, where more soldiers of the Dark Guard awaited in their black armor and gray cloaks.  He waved at a lantern above the stone gate and then pushed lightly upon the gate to open it.  Beyond, the guards provided them with food and water to refresh themselves for which they were beyond grateful.  Food was running low after the two-week journey.

Past the Stone Gate was the Gate of Bronze, a solid wall of bronze with three copper topped towers.  The garrison here was large, made up entirely of Sindarin Elves from Nevrast who wore copper-colored armor, which glowed like a dull fire, and wielded red-bladed axes.  They were warmer and friendlier than the Noldor at the previous portals, giving Caladiel warm waves and greetings.  “It’s good to see some of our own!” one called out.  “Welcome to Gondolin!”  It was something that they needed to hear and she smiled for the first time since before the battle.

“The Three will never believe what has happened to us here in the north,” she told Morelen.  “I can’t believe it myself.”

“While there is conflict there, I envy the sense of peace and security that they have in the south. The fury and death that we face here cannot be easily understood,” Morelen answered sadly.  “I’m sorry that I did not properly prepare you for this.”

“You told me enough. I knew what I was getting into,” Caladiel answered with a solemn nod.  “Well…knowing and experiencing it are two different things.  The dragon was…was horrifying.  My dreams will never be free of him.”

They soon reached the highest point of the ravine before it would slope downhill.  The Gate of Withren Iron sat before them, a thick wall of metal with four towers overlooking the path.  Metallic bas reliefs of flowering trees lined the front of the walls and a sculpture of Thorondor, the King of Eagles, sat above the gate itself, threatening foes and welcoming friends into the kingdom.  The Iron Guard stood watch here, clad in dark gray mail armor with blue cloaks.  The group passed through and began the trek downhill along paths of grass and flowers, resting occasionally.  Smiling and even laughter began to return to the refugees, but Morelen thought that she would never feel safe again.

Next, they approached the Gate of Silver, a low wall made entirely of white marble that was polished and coated to appear almost silver.  The parapet was a trellis of silver that spanned between five marble globes.  The center globe was silver with the sculpture of Telperion atop it, crafted of silver and malachite, its branches spreading out to provide shade.  The gate itself was wrought of silver in three panels, shaped to appear like the moon. The gate’s surface was covered in mosaics of the heavens, crafted in mother of pearl to give an iridescent quality. One mosaic prominently featured Tilion the Maia, atop the Moon, holding his bow.  Beds of white roses grew at the base of the wall that was guarded by archers clad in silver armor with white cloaks and white crests on their helms.

Beyond that came the Gate of Gold, similar in appearance to the Gate of Silver, however the wall was made of yellow marble, and the globes and parapet were of red gold.  There were six globes, and in the midst upon a golden pyramid was set an sculpture of Laurelin, with flowers wrought of topaz in long clusters upon chains of gold. The gate itself was decorated with many-rayed discs of gold, in likenesses of the sun, set amid devices of garnet, topaz and yellow diamonds.  One prominent image was of the Maia Arien, clad only in flame with eyes ablaze as she guided the Sun, her hands holding reins.  Beyond the gate was a court where three hundred archers were arrayed with longbows and gilded mail.  Tall golden plumes rose from their helmets, while their great round shields were as red as flames.

“This is incredible,” Líreno told everyone.  “You hear about the gates in the legends but to see it…  I cannot do it justice with any description.”

Elemmakil chuckled. “Just wait until you see the Gate of Steel.”

“It’s good and fortuitous that you came when you did, my friends, and it is good to see you again,” Voronwë told them.  “I came with a man named Tuor a few months ago.  There will be a council meeting soon,” he added, “for we brought word from Ulmo that the city should be abandoned.  There is talk that these very gates should be shut for good now.  If you had arrived much later, there might be no entry.”

The warning brought a chill to Morelen’s spine.  She remembered the warning given to King Orodreth and Lord Mormegil not too long ago. “I recall that Tuor met with Gelmir and Arminas as you told us on Balar.”

“Indeed, he did,” Voronwë answered.  “But Tuor could not find the hidden realm and went west through Nevrast, coming to the great sea where he found the raiment and arms left for him by Ulmo.  It was there that I met him…I had been shipwrecked after another attempt to sail west.  Merciful Ulmo brought me to shore and told us to deliver the warning to King Turgon.”

“I understand now how you were on Balar,” she said, her voice full of sympathy.  “I am now the ragged, despondent survivor who has little hope.”

“You gave me hope when I had none.  I wish to impart some back to you in this magical realm,” he said reassuringly.  “I came home and was healed as you had hoped for me.”

She remained skeptical about ever feeling safe again.  “That remains to be seen, but I am glad that you found healing.  I was truly worried for you.”

He smiled kindly.  “You shall see soon.  Come, we are nearing the Gate of Steel.”

As they rode down, the portal was like a great steel fence across the Orfalch Echor.  The fence had seven great needle-like pillars of steel and between these pillars there were seven crossbars of steel and forty-nine vertical rods with heads like broad blades of spears.  In the center, above the midmost pillar, was raised a mighty image of the king-helm of Turgon, the Crown of the Hidden Kingdom, set about with diamonds.

Elemmakil struck the gate and, rather than opening, the Warden of the Great Gate, Ecthelion, rode from the north tower on a white horse with an esquire and a company of riders from both towers.  The gate opened inward on either side of the pillar of the Crown.  A host of the army of Gondolin were stationed on either side, that consisted of representatives from each of the guards of the Seven Gates, including members of Elemmakil’s own Dark Guard.  The captains and chieftains of each Guard sat upon white and gray horses, arrayed in brilliant armor with colorful crests atop their helms.

Ecthelion was extremely tall and heavily muscled with a chiseled jaw and prominent cheekbones, a seeming Ainur in elf form.  His armor, known as Rilennon, was of brilliant silver scales with a silver cloak and his surcoat bore the sigil of a silver fountain on a field of blue.  His silver helm, Elmirthol, had a diamond of adamant atop a spike at the crown and a clear blue laen visor.  He was beyond imposing with the look of eagles, hair as black as night with eyes of light gray, almost silver.  Voronwë and Elemmakil bowed to him and the riders followed suit.  Elemmakil gestured to the lord.  “People of Nargothrond, this is Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain, one of our eleven great houses of Gondolin.  My lord, this is Lord Notaldo of Nargothrond.  He is the highest-ranking survivor of the realm of Orodreth, and these are his people.”

Ecthelion tilted his head down in greeting.  “You are of the riders of Fingon, are you not?  I remember you from the Nirnaeth and tales of your valor have given us hope in this endless war.  We welcome you to Gondolin.  Tragic news of the sack of Nargothrond came to us from the eagles and we have been expecting you.  You will find the Gondolindrim welcoming to you, our brethren.  We have homes set aside for you as well.  Come and rest and be healed.  There will be time later for how you can make our city your home.”

The great steel gate parted, and they rode out of the ravine and into the Vale of Tumladen and all mouths fell open.  Green grass filled the vale with flowers of pink, gold, white and lavender and the scent on the breeze was fresh and pure.  In the center of the open field was the great circular hill of Amon Gwareth where the white city rose.  “This is nearly a duplicate of the city of Tirion in Valinor,” Notaldo said in wonder. “And very much like Kirnak in the south.”  A great cry rose from the refugees, many of whom sank to their knees, weeping openly. Caladiel sobbed, the agony of the past two weeks pouring out of her, but Morelen remained stoic.  Safety was an illusion.

They rode along the plain towards the city of white walls, and silver and gold towers.  People of the city watched them approach from along the parapets, waving white cloths.  Along the path, a massive fountain sprayed cool, clear water into the air, casting a delicate, iridescent mist above them.

Ecthelion gestured to the spouting water.  “This is the Eithel Nínui, the fountain created by the falling tears of Lúthien Tinúviel when she and Beren flew overhead on the backs of the eagles.  It is sacred among our people, and it has miraculous healing properties.”  He held out a large jar and filled it with water.  “This will be for you later.  We will meet with the King and his daughter, and you will be healed.  I cannot adequately express the sorrow that I feel for your loss and the horror of the battle that you just fought.  You have battle experience that we do not, and we will rely on your expertise to bolster our abilities.”

“We would be honored,” Notaldo said.  “And we cannot thank you enough for opening your city and your hearts to us.  I can assure you that we will become productive members of your houses.”

The gates of the city were open as people cheered from the walls.  A tall Noldor stood there in elegant robes of silver and blue, the colors of the House of Fingolfin.  His hair was black as his brother’s was and the resemblance was clear.  This was High King Turgon.  He was regal, wearing a laurel crown of branches, intertwined with silver and gold.  Like his brother, his eyes shone with an inner light, his chin strong with chiseled features.  But unlike Fingon, he was more slender and his face radiated deep wisdom and learning, a man of more scholarly pursuits compared to his warrior brother.  On his right stood an ebony-haired elf, Maeglin, his nephew.  Standing by his left side was a tall woman with silver blonde hair, his daughter, Idril. Maeglin was thin and sinewy, like a knife in elven form.  His eyes were intense, darting around as if he were always looking for something and he wore form-fitting robes designed to impress.  Idril was all that the legends of Gondolin said that she was.  Beautiful as a delicate flower, a light radiating from her face and behind her eyes.  Her robes were voluminous and also of silver and blue with brilliant silver shoes on her feet, while she wore a mithril jewel of an eagle, mounted with a mint green sapphire, the Elessar.  Her posture and expression made it clear that she had the wisdom of her father.

The riders from Nargothrond dismounted and went before Turgon, kneeling in respect.  “High King,” Notaldo said, his face turned down. “We are beyond grateful for your mercy. We surely would have perished had you not extended your invitation.  We are forever in your debt.  And Princess Idril, I am honored to see you again for I remember you from the crossing of the Helcaraxë.  I am deeply sorry about your mother.  High King, please accept the fealty of the survivors of Nargothrond and accept the Riders of Fingon as your own.  We live to serve you now.”

Turgon extended his hand in friendship.  “Rise, friends of my brother.  I recall you from our meeting during the Nirnaeth and I have heard much about your exploits and your bravery.  I am also sorry for what you have endured, and we welcome you with open arms,” he said, his arms spread wide.  Then, he searched around the gathering.  “I do not see your brave captain…Tintallo here.  Is he…?”

“Fallen, my King,” Notaldo finished.  “He fell against the dragon, Glaurung, in battle, always brave, always fierce.  We feel his loss deeply.”

The King blew out a long breath.  “I see. Along with the loss of the kingdom and King Orodreth, this is grave news.  Tintallo was well respected in our realm for his skill and valor.  But there will be time to discuss this later.  I wish to invite you into the city.  We have prepared a ceremony to welcome you and to heal your minds and souls.  I see how troubled you are by what happened and we are committed to helping you.”

He led them through the wide, paved street of the city, past marble fountains that were sculpted to resemble all manner of creatures from rabbits and cats to dolphins and whales. Fragrant pines lined the avenues, swaying in the cool, gentle breeze.  This was as close to Valinor as one could get to in Middle Earth.  The road circled the magical city, ever climbing to the Tower of the King, a tall, thin, elegant structure that seemed to rise to the heavens.  Its white marble walls shimmered under the sunlight as the clouds parted, giving it an unearthly radiance.  The black and white tile in the foyer led to a lift that took the leaders of the riders to the top as healers attended to the other survivors in the King’s Square, serving them food and drink and filling the park with song and dance to ease their pains.

The top of the tower seemed to reach into the sky and Turgon, Maeglin and Idril ushered them into a chamber that was luxuriously decorated with soft, plush seats, intricately woven rugs and tapestries of life in Gondolin, along with incense and oil burners that emitted light, pleasant scents of sandalwood and rose petals.  Fountains poured clear water into marble basins where flower petals floated.  “Please, make yourselves at ease,” the King told them kindly.  “You may remove your armor and place it in the next room.  I will have the armorers attend to it and make repairs.  The same for your weapons.”  He strode back to the lift.  “I fear that I must leave you for now as we are preparing for a council meeting tomorrow where we will discuss closing the gates.  You have heard that Tuor bore us tidings from mighty Ulmo that the forces of Morgoth are searching for us and the fall of Nargothrond confirms this, I fear. But rest for now and I leave you in the capable hands of my nephew and my daughter.  Be healed in the Hidden Realm,” he said warmly and took the lift back down.

“You are in the grand chambers of the King,” Maeglin told them.  “This is a great honor,” he said as other maids entered the room.  “My King bids you to unburden yourselves and be at ease.”  He smiled at Idril who did not smile back.  He gestured to the changing rooms and they went next door.  There was a warm mist in the room with benches of cedar.  Notaldo and the others removed their armor and laid the pieces to the side, glad to be rid of the weight.

“You don’t know how itchy I was,” Morelen complained, scratching her body.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if I had fleas.”

They placed their garments in a bin for washing but some of the items were so bloodstained that it was doubtful that they could be restored.  Each then stepped into a stream of water that smelled of camphor and then reentered the chamber, feeling clean and refreshed.  The jar that Ecthelion filled from the fountain sat on an elegant end table that was crafted of rich, dark woods and carved with images of flowers and clouds around the sun.  A flower arrangement burst from a white and blue ceramic vase in an arrangement of Aeglos, Elanor and Niphredil, white, icelike spikes rising above golden and silver flowers that were woven with tiny orange Mallos blossoms and Mallorn leaves for an array of colors and scents.

Maeglin ushered Morelen to his table while the others spread out about the room.  She wasn’t ashamed of her form, but he gave her a look that gave her pause.  And the way that he looked at Idril before…  But who was she to comment on the Royal Family of Gondolin.  She had to tread carefully.  She wasn’t going to let a bad feeling get them thrown out of their last refuge.  Idril lit a lamp that began to vent a blue-colored smoke that wafted to the ceiling and spread to the walls, giving a scent of lemons, cinnamon and frankincense for a lively, citrusy feel.  He gestured to a padded table, and she lay down as he fanned the fumes onto her face and she felt lighter, calmer, almost giddy.  Idril boiled the water from the jar, adding some mixture to it and the flame beneath glowed blue and green, popping and crackling.  She looked up into Maeglin’s eyes, and he seemed a little blurry and she blinked, feeling almost as if she were floating.  He had her roll over and he poured fragrant oil onto her back, rubbing it in with warm hands.  She felt dizzy, thinking that she might never have felt something like this again.  Their lives would just be mayhem and death if Turgon had not accepted them.

Morelen couldn’t deny that this felt incredible and that she wanted to feel safe again.  She wanted to pretend that she was back in Nargothrond and that this was all of horrible nightmare.  She wanted to open her eyes and see the caverns and go the conservatory to sing and dance, and she wanted to see Silmani there, smiling with her lyre and flute, ready to perform.  She wanted to weep…or maybe laugh but the aromatic fumes lifted her spirits in a way she thought she would never feel again.

Maeglin rolled her over again.  “The King has given you all this great honor.  We all knew your names since before the Nirnaeth.  The riders of my uncle, Fingon, are part of our mythos. Your exploits give us fuel to resist Morgoth.”

She smiled, feeling almost drunk.  “Why thank you.  I feel…I feel…so much better,” she said, unable to find more adequate words.  She giggled like a girl.  Maeglin smiled back down at her, working on her shoulders and down her body.  She closed her eyes, trying to let a sense of peace return to her.  As he moved down his hand brushed along her chest and her eyes popped open.  Did he just…? He looked over, staring at Idril, not seeming to pay attention to his ward.  She thought she should say something, but she didn’t want to offend, and his hand went all the way up her thigh.  She yelped and sat up, looking around and Notaldo and the others seemed to be out cold, the first true rest that they had in weeks.

“Ummm, Prince Maeglin?” she asked and he snapped back to her, seemingly surprised.

His mouth hung open as he made eye contact.  “Oh, what? Did I…do something?”

She shook her head slowly, “No, no, it was an accident.  Don’t worry about it.”

Idril came over and pointed to Notaldo.  “Why don’t you finish with him, Maeglin.  I’ll take over here,” she said patiently but practically pushed him away, her face red. “I’m sorry, Lady Morelen, it was an accident,” she apologized as Maeglin stared at her from the other table.  This was…odd.  “Please do not think that my family is careless or treats our guests poorly. We will take care of my uncle’s friends who have served the free peoples so well.  Rest in the welcoming arms of Gondolin.”  She fanned more of the comforting fumes over Morelen’s face, and the world felt dreamy, calm and peaceful.  She had a brief thought that she wanted to know more about this odd dynamic in Turgon’s House.  In their escape from Nargothrond, knowledge was power.  And it was Líreno’s paranoia…no, foresight that allowed so many to survive.  She wondered about the family drama that seemed to be playing out here.  Would it be important to their survival?  Was it any of her business?  Still, it would bug her, and it must have shown on her face.

Idril rubbed warm, fragrant oil into her face and the scrubbed lightly with a rough cloth. “You have a lot of…blood and sweat in your skin.  I’ll clean that out for you.”

“We fought the whole day and then fled for more than two weeks,” Morelen said, almost emotionless. “I saw him fall…Orodreth.  I…I tried to save him, I did.”  Sorrow built back into her heart and she began to tremble as she saw the scene of him swamped by orcs as Túrin fled.  “I tried to pull him onto Lindarion…my horse but…but I wasn’t strong enough.  They…they got him.  I see it. I can still see it.  They slew him,” she said emphatically, grasping Idril’s arm.  “Don’t you understand?  I wasn’t strong enough.”

Idril shushed her gently. “We Gondolindrim have only fought one major battle since the founding of the city.  I cannot imagine what you have been through.  Please trust me.  I want to heal your mind, body and spirit of that pain.  We can do that for you.  Please trust me.”

Morelen narrowed her eyes and then nodded, relaxing, laying back down.  “Please help me,” she said and then choked up.  The dam that held her pain was crumbling.  The faces of everyone that she had failed danced before her. “It’s my fault.  Please help me.  I…I can’t…I can’t,” she started and then dug her nails into her neck.

“Shhhh, shhhh, stop,” Idril cooed as she held Morelen’s wrists and pulled them away from her neck. “Trust me, please,” she said and poured some of the water from the Eithel Nínui that now looked like a hearty tea. Idril squeezed some lemon juice into the drink and handed it to Morelen.

As she swallowed the brew it was like lightning shooting through her veins.  She inhaled sharply, her eyes shooting open wide.  For a moment it felt as if she were looking down on herself from the ceiling.  “I…that was…I feel good.  I feel renewed.  I was so tired.  I was consumed by…by my failings.  So many but I feel…thank you,” she stammered, her breathing calming.

“This is just the beginning of your healing, Lady Morelen.  This horror will be with you, shape who you are but it will not define you. Be patient with us and we will help you,” Idril said kindly, cupping her chin.  “Come, relax in the baths.  We believe in care for all of our people, especially those who protect us.  Your reputation as great elven warriors is known here.”

They walked to another room that was paneled in cedar and full of camphor scented steam.  Idril handed her a towel to sit on and then she hung her own robe on a peg outside the steam room before sliding into the tub, sloshing the water around.  “This one is just for ladies,” she said.  “There’s one for both next door, but I wanted to speak with you alone.  You fight and you are a leader amongst our people as a woman…what is that like?  We have only a handful of women who are in the ranks of the houses here.”

Morelen told her of her upbringing in the south along with tales about the Court of Ardor.  Then, about her journey and commitment to the Noldor in the north all the way to the disaster at Tumhalad.  In her mind she could see each failure, each fallen friend or king but it didn’t haunt her at the moment.  “I don’t feel as if I am the right one to lead.  I hurt people more than I help.”

Idril shook her head. “No, that’s not true,” she said in a melodious voice, that of a singer.  “My father and I have seen you, through the Palantír.  We watched you approach the hidden entrance.  We watched the major battles.  You fought courageously at every turn.  I would not have lasted a moment through what you faced, Morelen.  These are…impossible odds.  I fear that only the Valar can save us now.  And I am so sorry for Nargothrond and for King Orodreth.  The fall of your kingdom pushed us to have this council meeting. At first, we felt that we could ride it out in the hidden vale, but I fear that this is just an illusion.”

“I cannot say for certain, but we felt the same way in Nargothrond…that we could ride it out. Mistakes were made.  Security was just an illusion for us.  Listen to your feelings, Idril.”

The Princess nodded, thinking.  “I shall and thank you.  We hope to learn from the experience of your people.  Contained here in Tumladen, I fear that we lose…perspective.”

Morelen felt that their rapport was good and curiosity was getting the better of her.  “Princess, if I may be so bold, but I noticed something odd between you and your cousin.”

Idril tried to smile and then chuckled darkly.  “Oh, you noticed.  That’s very perceptive of you.  Yes…I believe that he…he wants to be with me, but he is my first cousin which prevents it…even if I wanted to be with him.  But he…but he gives me a…,” she was about to say and then stopped.  “I apologize, Lady Morelen, you are someone who is easy to talk to and I should not have said anything about this.”

Morelen inhaled sharply and sat forward.  “It’s quite all right, Idril.  You have shown us nothing but grace and hospitality.  We wish to be good guests.  You can tell me anything.”

Idril glanced around, seemingly nervous.  “I am glad to hear that.  I am sorry, Lady Morelen, I fear that Maeglin’s action may not have been accidental, but it is truly speculation on my part.  I receive an ill feeling from him and have spurned his advances for years now, but my father will not hear of it.  He is the son of his sister, Aredhel, and so is my cousin.  My aunt was poisoned by her…husband, Eöl, who was put to death, so my father has a soft spot for Maeglin.  He says that it’s just the playfulness of youth,” she said quickly and then looked down into the water.  “Oh, listen to me prattle on.  I’m sorry, I don’t normally speak like this.  It’s just been something that has been on my mind.  I hope our treatment of you is nothing less than perfect.”

Morelen grasped Idril’s hands.  “It has been perfect.  And thank you for trusting me.  I have spent much of my life running from the monsters of Morgoth and you have brought me peace.  I am very afraid that it will not last, but I feel it now.  I was truly prepared to charge Glaurung and die with honor.  I could not understand why Fingolfin did what he did, but I understand now.  The weight has been too much for me.  What Maeglin did was nothing.  I’ve already forgotten it.”

The Princess blushed, giving an awkward look.  “Thank you. I am…at a loss of how to approach this. Please let me be responsible for your care.  Gondolin is a place of healing and magic, and we want that to be your experience.”

Caladiel slipped between the silver curtains and slid into the tub.  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, inhaling the fragrance on the water. “I needed some company.”  She bowed her head.  “Princess, I am Caladiel, from the south of Middle Earth. I served The Three of Ty-Ar-Rana and now I serve your father, King Turgon.  Morelen is like…my older sister.”  The pain from losing Tintallo seemed to have dulled, and the young elf seemed calmer, more relaxed.  

Caladiel described the south and the struggle there and Morelen went on to talk about the Dagor Bragollach and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, two of the most profound horrors that she had survived, and it didn’t feel so raw anymore.  The mere mention of Fingolfin and Fingon would choke her up in the past. Caladiel gasped.  “I…I had no idea of the savagery and murder.  The horror of the dragon and the balrogs are…are…we are blessed that we do not face that in the south.”

Idril spoke of losing her mother in the crossing of the Helcaraxë.  She had fallen into the freezing water and Elenwë dove in after her, but both became trapped under the ice.  Turgon followed but could only save Idril.  The Princess choked up for a moment, wiping her eyes.  “I can still see her, you know, drifting lifeless under the ice.  All of the healing in the world cannot take that from me.  She died for me, you know,” Idril said, sniffling.  She forced a smile.  “Enough of that.  I will make you all sad again and that would ruin all that I have done.”  She went on with the founding of the kingdom in the hidden vale and the return of Aredhel and her murder by Eöl.  “There were rumors that Eöl forced himself on her or enchanted her in some way.  I know not what will ultimately happen from that tragedy, but I fear that it will not end well.”

Morelen snorted.  “That seems to be the battle cry of our company…’it will not end well.’  I understand what it is like to feel adrift on the threads of fate.  The more that I try to exert control, the less of it that I am left with.”

“That is always the case, isn’t it,” Idril answered with a resigned shrug.  “We ladies are just leaves on the wind, at the mercy of decisions that are made for us and forces beyond our control,” she said sadly.  “Well, we will take what solace that we can and what control that we are allowed.”  She rose and took a pitcher of some fruit juice.  “Here, I think that you will enjoy this,” she said, pouring glasses.  “Our brewmaster creates some fabulous drinks here.”  She raised her glass and the others followed, draining theirs in one long gulp.

It had a sweet taste of apples and blueberries with slight bite of alcohol, and it was heaven, going down smoothly and giving them a lightheaded feeling.  “So, what about this council meeting?” Morelen asked, curious about what could happen in her new home.

Idril explained that the arrival of Tuor was like a lightning bolt with the message that he and Voronwë delivered from Ulmo.  Quiet debate simmered for a few months before the issue exploded with the fall of Nargothrond.  “Tuor is growing in the heart of the King, and he is quickly becoming like another son. Somehow, I fear that my father ultimately wanted a boy,” she said with her thumb on her lips.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s nonsense,” Morelen countered but there seemed to be some truth in Idril’s words. There seemed to be some parallels between Turgon and Orodreth; both only had a daughter as the heir and both became enamored of a visiting man, who became like a son.  It was a chilling thought now that she was hypervigilant over any threat to their safety.

“That is kind of you to say,” the Princess said warmly.  “I am sure that you will be invited to the council as you will have much information about the fate of Nargothrond.”

Come what may, it was a moment of peace in a sea of endless war.  Morelen tried to picture the fallen, the disaster at Tumhalad and the horror of Glaurung but the images were hazy, distant, replaced by the warm embrace of the steaming water and the scent of cedar, pine and rose petals.  It was truly magical.

Their quarters were easily as luxurious as they were in Nargothrond, cozy cabins that were furnished in the refined style of the kingdom, elegant but not ostentatious.  Elves were nothing if not incredible woodworkers. Tables and chairs were crafted without nails, they were so finely cut.  Intricate carvings were handmade on the surfaces of the wood, depicting the heavens, the vale, and elven culture.  Woven tapestries adorned the walls, showing the arrival of the elves in Tumladen and the building of the city.  One had the image of Arien and the Sun, opposite of Tilion and the Moon.  Those tapestries gave Morelen pause, reminding her of the battle in the south and The Court of Ardor’s mad quest.  She touched the forms of Arien and Tilion, a woman with shining eyes, clad only in flame and a man with a powerful bow, illuminated in silver.  These were the Maiar that she would fight to defend.  She wondered if they were even aware of the danger that they were in.

“Thinking about the south?” Notaldo asked her.  There hadn’t been much time for any real communication between them since they rode from Nargothrond.

She nodded while not taking her eyes off of the tapestries.  “Yes, I long for the peace of the south and I miss Silmani.  I hope she is doing well with The Three.  They will no doubt be worried and I wish we could send them some word of our survival.  I fear that King Turgon will lock the city down in tomorrow’s council meeting.  If that happens, I wonder if we will ever be able to get word out.”

He held up a parchment. “We received an official invitation to attend and speak tomorrow.  I’m glad that our word will count for something and we will make our concerns known. Given that, we should do our best to integrate into Gondolin.  This is our home now,” he said cautiously, weighing his words.

“Good,” she said, now looking at him.  “I think I’ve made friends with Idril.  She shared somethings about the council and their family…dynamics,” she added and then told him about the conversation.  She opened a closet in the bedroom to find robes and other clothing neatly hung and folded for them.  She held a green dress over her form.  “I’m impressed.  These are in our sizes.  Our hosts have left nothing to chance.”  Old habit would have her then tease him with different outfits, luring him to bed, but she just didn’t feel it.  Though feeling refreshed and healed from the deep emotional scars of war, she also felt numb. Perhaps it would go away in time.

On the evening of the council meeting, heralds came to escort them to the Place of the Fountain, where the King’s Tower and Royal Palace stood.  Morelen wore a luxurious robe of silver and sky blue with a silver eight-pointed star woven on the breast with Notaldo in a similar robe. They met Líreno, Ehtyarder, Caladiel and Tyalro on the way with their own escorts as they walked down the Alley of Roses.  In turn, they were joined by Fendomë and Aegnor, two smiths who had worked with Celebrimbor in Nargothrond, opting to go north with the chance of finding Gondolin, while the great smith and grandson of Fëanor opted to go south to the Havens of Sirion.  The two smiths hoped to collaborate with Enerdhil, the greatest smith of this kingdom and a former apprentice of Fëanor’s.

The wide boulevard was lined with green hedges that were flowering with bright roses, white, golden, pink, silver, green, blue and, of course, red.  Morelen touched one.  “May I?” she asked their escorts and they nodded.  She smiled and picked one that was metallic silver.  “How is this possible?” she asked as she pinned the flower to her robe and the cut stem on the bush grew back instantly into another flower.  She gasped and her escorts smiled knowingly.  Caladiel took a golden rose and did the same.

They strode past the House of the Heavenly Arch where Egalmoth, head of the house, joined them.  He was clad in deep blue robes that were patterned like stars, twinkling silver gems woven into the fabric.  He was rumored to be the greatest archer of the realm and had the powerful physique of a warrior under the dark hair of a Noldorin lord.  The house itself was the height of elven architecture, smooth white walls with ceramic tiles for the roof in sea blue, making the structure appear to be the ocean from above.  Egalmoth nodded pleasantly to them.  “Greetings, riders of Fingon,” he said with a smile and introduced himself with a flowing bow.  “We have heard of your exploits even in the Hidden Realm and, I must say that I’ve been impressed.”

“Thank you,” Notaldo answered with a bow of his own.  “We shall never forget the hospitality of your people, Egalmoth,” he added.

“We welcome you indeed. I believe that your arrival is a boon for Gondolin.  And, if you don’t mind, I would like to petition that your riders be incorporated into the House of the Heavenly Arch.  I believe that our love of archery will complement each other.  That is, if you don’t mind,” he said as an offering.

“Not so fast,” a voice sounded from behind, along with swift footsteps catching up.  It was another Noldorin lord, dressed in gray robes with a deep gray cloak.  “Lord Egalmoth would steal you for the House of the Heavenly Arch when your life would be so much better in the House of the Swallow.  We are also great archers, and I am the swifter shot if Egalmoth is only slightly more accurate,” the lord said and then bowed low.  “Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow, at your service.”

They came upon the King’s Square that overlooked the Place of the Well that began at the Arch of Ingwë. Morelen was reminded of Ty-Ar-Rana and Gavan, the city abandoned by the Vanyar on their march west through Middle Earth.  Great oaks and poplar trees filled the Place of the Well as leaves and flowers floated down onto the magnificent park that was ringed by fountains, arches and elegant gazebos for couples and families to enjoy.  The Square was ringed by lifelike statues of the great among the Eldar; Finwë, Fingolfin, Elenwë, Argon, Fingon and Aredhel.  The statues were so well crafted it seemed as if the eyes were following people and the smiles real and spontaneous.  Morelen stared at the sculpture of Fingon, half expecting him to laugh and challenge them all to a game of Coron Mittarion.  It made her heart ache but only a little this time.

Just beyond was the Road of Pomps that led to the Place of the Gods where great silver and gold sculptures of the Valar stood, looking into the open temple that led to a bridge to the Royal Palace.  A giant golden lily on the pond symbolized their patron, Ulmo.  All the while the sun shone down, warming the chilly boulevard as they climbed the marble steps into the Square, a wide park that was filled with Ivy and Wisteria with ponds that were fed by fountains of marble, shaped in many exotic forms.  The highlight of the square were two massive sculptures of trees, crafted by Turgon himself, shaped like the Two Trees of Valinor, these being called Glingal and Belthil, giving off a light of their own.  It was simply magnificent.

The nobles and the heads of the Eleven Houses of Gondolin had gathered in the square to discuss and debate the matter that Tuor had brought before the kingdom.  The young man stood on the throng, appearing more than a little impatient.  Things were different for humans, short lived and always in a hurry.  Elves took the long view of things.  Morelen scratched her head.  Perhaps that was not always an effective way to approach the world.  The Eldar…the Caliquendi saw the world in centuries, sometimes millennia.  In Valinor, very little changed and nothing grew old.  Now, the world was accelerating.  Morelen was only a few hundred years old, still considered very young for an adult elf.  In under 40 years since the Dagor Bragollach, the everything around them was unrecognizable.

Turgon stood with Maeglin and Idril, amid the heads of the houses and the other nobles of the realm. He saw Egalmoth, Duilin and the faction from Nargothrond and ushered them over.  “Join us, please,” he said loudly.  “I’m glad you accepted the invitation.  This is an important matter for the kingdom, and we hope that you can shed some light on the situation beyond the encircling mountains.”  He gestured to Tuor and then clapped him on the back.  “Please give the council your story of the word of Ulmo.”

The young man inhaled deeply, looking out at the audience and then recited his search for Gondolin and his journey to Vinyamar, the abandoned city of Turgon on the shores of the Great Sea.  There, he found arms and armor, left for him by Ulmo and he brought forth the shield that Ulmo gave him that bore a swan on a field of blue.  There were gasps and murmurs in the crowd as this was the first time most of them had seen this or heard the tale.  “Then, during a powerful storm, Ulmo rose from the ocean, a great figure, clad in seaweed and shells, holding his mighty trident,” Tuor continued, “and he bade me to seek the Hidden Kingdom and deliver a warning that nothing stays hidden forever and that the Gondolindrim should abandon the city and seek refuge to the south and reestablish the kingdom there.  To safely journey here, the Lord of Waters gave me this,” he said and then donned a shimmering cloak and caused his form to fade into near ghostly nothingness.

Turgon nodded as Tuor removed the cloak.  “Your words are measured and most grave and cannot be ignored.  Lord Ulmo has been ever gracious to us.  However, this is a monumental decision, and we must entertain and debate all courses of action.  Now is the time that we will hear all of the facts at our disposal.  I wish to hear from the people of Nargothrond.  Lord Notaldo…riders of Fingon, please share your experiences and concerns with the council.”

Notaldo gave a short speech about the riders and the battles that they fought as Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Egalmoth and Duilin nodded their approval.  These were all great warriors who fought at the Nirnaeth.  He then spoke about the disaster at Tumhalad as the council murmured and eyes opened wide.  “Morgoth can no longer be contested in open battle.  For as many orcs as we slew, ten more replaced each one. It was as if the ocean were turned against us.  And Glaurung could not be stopped by any means that we had in our arsenal.” Morelen listened with pride at her husband’s words.  He had come a long way from the carefree jokester centuries ago.  But she did miss that part of him.

Voices of concern rose up from the council, and mouths and eyes showed horror as Turgon put his hands out to settle them down.  Morelen then raised her hand as she was bursting to add her experience.  The King pointed to her.  “Lady Morelen, please, speak your mind.”

She felt nervous at first but had to let her words out.  “I fought Glaurung…many centuries ago and I was terrified…still am.  From our first encounter, centuries ago, he has grown to monstrous size.  He has weak spots, but my last arrow barely made him blink.  The power of his fire was devastating.  Hundreds of our finest soldiers were no match for him and are now ash and bone on the field.  No number of spears, swords or arrows will stop him in open battle.  And the number of balrogs on the field was legion.  In no way should I be the one to decide or vote on this, but I fear that our only hope will lie in staying one step ahead of Morgoth until the Valar can be convinced to intervene.”

Turgon thought on her words for a moment.  “I knew that I saw something in the riders on the field all those years ago.  Please tell us what you think brought about the fall of Nargothrond.”

She was catching her stride now.  She never thought of herself as a public speaker or someone who could give intelligent input for a council, but she was determined to try.  “I will admit to being a fool,” she said to gasps.  “Túrin came to Nargothrond like a storm of fire. We hid successfully for many years, but this weighed heavily on morale.  We struck back from the shadows, creating fear in our enemies but we longed for the security of the Siege of Angband.  He offered us pride and strength again.  Nargothrond would be great.  And he showed that it could happen, so we built the bridge to conduct offensive action. We believed that we could stand, sword to sword, in the face of Morgoth’s power, fury and hate.  We threw away all caution and fell in lock step with anything that he said,” she said sadly and then took another deep breath.

“Even as the Battle of Tumhalad unfolded,” she said, “Líreno knew that something was amiss.  They had scouted the Woods of Nuath and saw a sizeable force there, led by Glaurung and we were in danger of being surrounded. Still, Túrin persisted in the notion that the day could be won if only we were fast enough even with Glaurung bearing down on us.  He had me convinced that the battle could still be won.  Then I saw Orodreth fall under waves of the enemy while Túrin took Gwindor and fled.  Just like I saw Fingon and Fingolfin fall,” she added, her voice choking for a moment before looking at Tuor with some suspicion.  “Be careful who you listen to,” she finished as the heads of the houses weighed her speech.

“These are grave words and thoughts,” Turgon answered.  “I will open the floor to others who can share their opinions,” he said as council members raised hands and spoke, one way or the other.  Debate raged for another hour before Turgon quieted the council. “Let us give all of this information some time to digest and we will reconvene soon.  But I feel that we will be justified now to shut the gates until further notice and I would put it to a vote.  All in favor?” he asked and nine of the house leaders raised hands, along with Tuor.  “All opposed?” came next and Maeglin of the House of the Mole and Salgant of the House of the Harp raised their hands.  Salgant seemed to be an odd one, overly primped with finely styled hair and an unusually chubby build for an elf.  His red and silver robes were beyond luxurious with overly intricate designs of geometric patterns woven into the fabric.  He looked to be more of a bard or merchant than the leader of a house.

Turgon clapped his hands. “The vote is decided and I concur with the results.  The gates will be shut as of today and the guard on the gates will be maintained in this time of vigilance.  The final matter for the day will be how the forces of Nargothrond will be incorporated into the city.  I will entertain petitioners and then have input from the leaders of Nargothrond.”

Egalmoth and Duilin immediately raised their hands with each petitioning to bring the riders into their houses.  Glorfindel and Ecthelion also petitioned and arguments ensued, Turgon hearing the debate. Each house had excellent points with Notaldo desiring to keep the Telepta together and all of the riders if possible.

“Thank you for the input,” Turgon told the council.  “I will decree that the riders will join the House of the Fountain under Ecthelion, but I wish them to train with all petitioning houses so that their battle experience can be shared.  Having fought in every major engagement in Beleriand, they have a lot to offer us. The infantry of Nargothrond will be divided into the other three houses along with the Houses of the Pillar, the Tower of Snow and the Tree.”  He then raised his hands in blessing.  “May the Valar watch over us as we conclude this council meeting.”  He gestured to the riders.  “Everyone, please remain for we will have a lament for our lost brothers and sisters of Nargothrond, which Idril has prepared for us.”

Notaldo smiled at the riders.  “I am satisfied with this.  I know that this is not Nargothrond, but this is our new home, and we will serve this house with honor and valor,” he said as he clapped them on the backs, one by one.

Ecthelion approached them with a broad smile.  “I heard that,” he said, “and I am proud to have you in our house.  We are located in the south of the city just past the…House of the Harp,” he added with an odd inflexion when saying ‘house.’  One might get the impression that he lacked respect for Salgant.  “Please settle in and you may stop in at the house to be oriented to our customs and training.”  He shook each of their hands.  “I truly look forward to working with you and I want you to remain as a cohesive unit. We have very little cavalry, as you may gather and it would be good to have a very mobile unit.”

Duilin and Egalmoth wandered by next.  “Our loss is his gain,” Duilin said in jest about Ecthelion.  “You could not have done better though, and we look forward to testing our bows against yours.”  He looked over to Morelen.  “So, it’s true that you’ve shot Glaurung, huh?  I’ll bet that stung.”

She shrugged.  “The first time but this past time I think I just annoyed him.”

Egalmoth grinned. “Still, it’s more than any of us have done.  I heard you’ve fought a balrog too…Úruvaiwa.”

“It was…just before Gothmog and Lungorthin slew Fingon.”

They all nodded in silence, understanding the pain that the memory brought up.  Another elf approached them, wearing a smith’s smock over a heavily muscled body that was taut as a drum.  His face was grim beneath a mop of black hair and behind his eyes was a world of pain and suffering…and hate.  He made a curt bow, his hands fidgety.  “Welcome to the city,” he said plainly and without emotion. “I am Rog of the House of the Hammer of Wrath.  We look forward to learning how you kill the minions of Morgoth.  It is…all that we live for now.”

Ecthelion gestured to the elf.  “Rog and his entire house are escapees from Angband, tortured and humiliated at the hands of Morgoth and his evil.  We welcome them and their fury in battling the Dark Lord.”

Rog nodded.  “It is better to die than to fall into the hands of Morgoth as thralls.  All of Idril’s healing can only do so much for us.  Best you remember that,” he said, his face and eyes intense and vigilant. “I am sorry for those of Nargothrond who will suffer that fate.  There is little hope for them.”

Morelen felt a chill run down her spine as she had a vision of the citizens of Nargothrond being led in chains to Angband and there was a snippet of an image of Finduilas pinned to a tree by a spear, her eyes open and unblinking, her body battered and abused. Was it real?  If so, perhaps she was better off dead.

“All minions and spawn of Morgoth must burn and rot,” Notaldo said with uncharacteristic spite. “We will avenge those people.”

“I’ll not be taken alive,” Morelen said emphatically.  “The orcs that we captured said I would be used for breeding stock for better orcs. It would be better to die.”

Rog grunted sourly. “You are correct, my lady.  It was…horrific.  With Idril’s efforts I don’t feel it as much, but I still see it. I originally believed that elves would lay down their lives if…forced to do things against their will but Morgoth has his…ways.  It was how he created the orcs in times long past.  Between pain, fear and deception, you begin to want what he wants.  Evil never sleeps and it never tires.”  He sighed heavily though his jaw was still taut, his eyes darting around as if threats were everywhere.  “But enough of my sourness.  I apologize if I set you ill at ease.  It is my way now.  But lo! Idril is about to begin her lament for your people,” he said, lowering his head.  “It will be our way of honoring Nargothrond.”

On the stage, the Princess looked up to the sky as the sun set and stars first appeared.  She let flow her silver voice, ethereal, enchanting, as her maids vocalized in somber notes, providing a chorus to her lyrics.

“In gwidh ristennen, the bonds cut,

I fae narchannen, the spirit broken,

I lach Nargothrond ed, the flame of Nargothrond has,

Ardhon gwannen, left this world,

Nargothrond a Nargothrond, Nargothrond O Nargothrond,

Ú-renniathach, no more will you,

Galu nad lû e-govaned, thrive under heaven,”

Morelen wept in spite of her emotional numbness, but this was cathartic.  The pain of the last forty years weighed heavily on her spirit. The music was heavenly, inspired, no doubt, by the Ainur.  The tribute to the fallen Noldor and their friends was nothing less than perfect.  The riders held hands and then embraced, sad and bent but not broken.  She looked up at the Tower of the King and the palaces next door and thought of the city of Kirnak in Taaliraan.  The architecture and stonemasonry were identical.  It was a comforting feeling.  Perhaps yet another new life could be made here.  Perhaps they could one day be called Gondolindrim.

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

Organizations:

The Riders of Fingon –

Misë Company – Green

Telepta Company – Silver

Morna Company - Black