Narn e-Dant Gondolin
by Elvellon Ringsbane
Chapter
X: The Pass of Eagles
It was nearing nightfall when the company set out again and began to
ascend the mountains. With each step the way grew more rugged; trees
and grass were left behind, and the soft beauty of Tumladen's plain
gave way to harsh and barren stones. But upon the left hand of the path
there still ran a stream of silver, its swift waters tumbling down from
the cold heights above to meet the grasslands stretched out below.
Aearlinn trod the rough ground in silence, her healer’s bag slung
at her back, her arm supporting a wounded man. Ahead the column strung
out along the ever-narrowing path, keen-eyed Galdor in the fore, Tuor
holding the centre, and the civilians and wounded ranged between. Last
of all came Glorfindel the Golden, and those of the warriors who were
yet unhurt.
They came at last to a bend in the path, where the way turned
suddenly about a shoulder of the hills. Then all that great host halted
and looked back. And lo! The mists that had cloaked the plain were
gone, and the wide sward of Tumladen glowed fair and untroubled in the
last rays of the westering sun. But even as they gazed, far off a stab
of red fire shot up against the darkened North and upon the clear air
was borne a faint rumble as of distant thunder. The last tower of
Gondolin had fallen.
Silently Aearlinn watched the fall of the last tower, her face hard
as if carven from stone, a mask to hide her shattered heart. But she
did not weep, for all her tears were spent. One last time her gaze
rested upon the white walls of the city where her life had blossomed -
and withered into dust. Then the sun sank behind the peaks of the
Encircling Mountains, and night descended like a black shroud, veiling
Gondolin from sight.
A final whispered "Farewell..." escaped her lips, then she turned away
and with bowed head passed beyond the shoulder of the hills. The last
host of Gondolin moved on. Behind them was life and love destroyed,
before them only darkness and uncertainty. And above them the bitter
heights of the mountains loomed, their dark crests like jagged teeth
against the deepening night.
The path stretched on before them into the darkness, rugged and
narrow, for they were now come to the place where the gulf of Thorn
Sîr
ran deep upon the left hand of the road. Snow began to fall. Aearlinn
lifted her face as the first cold flakes came whirling down, dim white
specks in the blackness that encompassed them. Like minute stars they
brushed her tear-stained cheeks, settled upon the bent shoulders of the
trudging elves, tumbled down into the black chasm that gaped upon their
left. Rising from the shadows far below could be heard the rushing
voice of the river in its narrow bed as it hurried over the sharp
stones. Upon the right the frowning cliffs towered up into the night
until they broke into jagged peaks far above, where Thorondor, Lord of
Eagles, had his eyrie. And all about them the wind howled, bitter cold,
driving the dancing snowflakes into their eyes, tearing at their
cloaks, thrusting against the weary travelers as if seeking to force
them over the cliffs into the dark abyss.
Aearlinn tugged at the edges of her billowing cloak, pulling it closer
about her, and peered ahead into the gloom. The snow stung her eyes,
but she could make out the line of the path by the occasional flash of
armour. Due to the narrowness of the way, the company had strung out
into a straggling line that covered well nigh a mile. Even now Lord
Galdor, at the fore, was approaching the source of Thorn Sîr and
the
end of the most dangerous part of the journey, but the rearguard of
Glorfindel had scarcely begun to traverse the treacherous way between
cliff wall and chasm.
Suddenly out of the darkness came a savage yell, and at the same
instant Galdor spun round and shouted, "Yrch (Orcs)! Ambush!”
“It was Tuor's thought that they had fallen in with one of
Morgoth's ranging companies, and he feared no more than a sharp brush
in the dark, yet he sent the women and sick around him rearward and
joined his men to Galdor's, and there was an affray upon the perilous
path. But now rocks fell from above, and things looked ill, for they
did grievous hurt.”* Then into the sound of battle and the screams of
women and children came a distant roar, borne up from the rear upon the
cold wind: the voice of a Balrog. Battle had fallen upon Glorfindel's
folk also. The Gondolindrim were trapped.
The column had come to a standstill, and women and wounded crowed
together in terror as the fighting raged. All about them the bitter
wind wailed, filled with the echoing screams of terror and death. From
her position among the gravely wounded, Aearlinn glanced up into the
whirling snow. Dimly she could make out dark, squat figures crouched
upon the cliff-tops far above, hurling down boulders or leaping upon
the warriors that held the front and rear. Oh, Eru - would not the
Valar send aid now? Were not the Eldar come verily to the uttermost end
of need?
As if in answer to her unspoken prayer, vast winged shapes swooped
down upon the enemy. The Eagles! The Eagles! Aearlinn clutched at the
arm of the man she was supporting, half-dragging him onward as the
column began once again to press forward. The way to freedom was
clear...if only they could escape those that followed...
But suddenly a scream arose, and the winter chill melted away. A
wave of heat smote Aearlinn and she turned in horror. By some evil
skill, the Balrog had leapt past the rearguard and now stood among the
wounded. Its whip curled and snapped, and sparks flew up into the night
as an elf-maiden vanished with a scream into the darkness of the abyss.
The demon's eyes glowed like deep-set coals with malice and amusement,
and a sudden blind fury sprang into Aearlinn's heart.
Again the whip was raised, this time against one that Aearlinn knew -
Míranar of the Golden Flower. The fiery thongs scored fabric and
flesh,
but Míranar did not go down - not yet. With a strangled cry
Aearlinn
flung herself forward against the elven woman in a desperate attempt to
thrust her from the path of the flaming whip...
But the stroke never fell.
With a flash of gold Glorfindel sprang forward. From rock to rock
he drove the Balrog, his damascened blade rending that evil hide. The
Balrog raised its fiery whip for a stroke, but Glorfindel’s sword swept
out and hewed the arm off at the elbow, and the whip and the hand that
held it vanished into darkness. Then the Balrog roared in pain and
fear, and clutched the Elf about the throat, and the two grappled upon
the precipice.
Aearlinn raised her eyes, her face showing mingled fear and wonder
as she beheld the battle upon the heights of Cristhorn. No greater
valour had she ever beheld than in this golden lord. In the gloom he
shone verily as a ray of Arien, and his light burned stronger even than
the fire of the Balrog. Even as she watched, Glorfindel drew a dirk and
thrust it up to the hilt into the demon's belly. With a terrible shriek
the Balrog loosed its hold. Lo! The monster was falling - falling into
the darkness from whence it had come! But it did not fall alone. For
even as it toppled into the abyss, it’s flailing hand snared a tress of
the Elf's long golden hair. Like a roaring wind the Balrog hurtled
past, clutching in its claws an ember of gold.
No greater valour, nor a more glorious end.
“In afterdays the Eldar did say when
they saw good fighting at great odds of power against a fury of evil:
‘Alas! ‘Tis Glorfindel and the Balrog,’ and their hearts were sore for
that fair one of the Noldor. Then Thorondor bore up the body of
Glorfindel from the abyss of Thorn Sîr, and because of their
love,
despite their haste and their fear of the advent of new foes, Tuor let
raise a great stone-cairn over Glorfindel just there beyond the
perilous way by the precipice of Eagle-stream. Thorondor did not let
any harm come thereto, but yellow flowers fared thither and blew ever
about that mound in those unkindly places; but the folk of the Golden
Flower wept at its building and might not dry their tears.”*
*JRRT
