Narn e-Dant Gondolin
by Elvellon Ringsbane
Chapter
III: Farewell We Call to Hearth and Hall
Magor stared at the gates that stood before him, solid and unyielding
in the wavering light – a mighty work of iron and stone, but would it
endure this night? He drew a breath. The air was hot and bitter with
the smoke of the burning of Tumladen that drifted in ever-denser clouds
across the battlements. Upon the walls above, the folk of the Swallow
and the Heavenly Arch stood arrayed, their great bows singing, but to
no avail. Magor could hear the clank of metal, the snapping of shafts
as they turned harmlessly upon the hides of the iron serpents.
Inwardly, Magor was restless, but his outward stance was composed, if
tense. By long practice, his desire to leap from behind the gates and
charge across the plain to crush the advancing foe was held fast by his
will, which commanded him to remain still and endure. He had not long
to wait. With a hissing like a new-forged blade plunged suddenly into
cold water, but a thousand times more loud and terrible, the fire of
the serpents drove against the waters of Amon Gwareth. There came a
roaring and scraping – the great gates creaked and groaned. Then in a
storm of smoke and dust and fire, they burst asunder and crashed in
ruin, dragging down the towers upon either hand.
Heat flowed in through the breach.
A creature of steel and fire, like a vast serpent, lay where once the
gates of Gondolin had stood. Its gaping jaws streamed fire, and from
its belly now poured forth a host of orcs.
Magor’s eyes blazed with the light of battle. He leapt forward even as
Rog shouted “Na vaeth! (To Battle!)”, and swung his great mace. Its
silver edge gleamed red in the baleful light, then black, as its great
sweeping course felled orcs like summer wheat before the reaper’s
scythe. Arrows like an autumn storm rained down from above, whining and
snapping, felling both orcs and Elves. Above the roar and clash of
steel he heard the mighty voice of Bornang: “Si gerithon acharn
nín!”
Yes. Now was the hour for revenge.
When Magor had gone, Aearlinn went quickly to their bedchamber and
kneeling, unlocked the iron chest that stood against the wall. It was
skillfully made and adorned with cunning work in silver, a tribute to
Magor’s love of his craft, for he put all his heart into everything he
made. But now Aearlinn paused not to admire his handiwork. Swiftly she
drew forth a bundle wrapped in dark green cloth and unwrapping it, held
up a finely crafted Elven dagger.
From pommel to tip it measured near two feet in length, and well might
Aearlinn defend herself therewith. Grasping the hilt of dark polished
wood crowned with an iron pommel, she drew forth the blade from its
grey scabbard tipped and throated with silver. The blade rang with a
cold clear music and glinted in the firelight. Leaf-shaped it was, with
runes engraved in a swirl upon it, curving up to meet the iron crossbar
that protected the hands. This too was engraved with runes upon the
right side. But about the edges of the blade there flickered a blue
light.
Long ago had Magor crafted it, and it was of all his works the one he
took greatest pride in. Light and swift it was, and not even the webs
of terror in the mountains of Beleriand could stand against its stroke.
He took it not to battle, though well could it have stood the task,
preferring to use plainer weapons – and leave something strong for
Aearlinn’s use. Now she kissed that blade, and sheathing it, laid it
upon the bed. Hastily then she donned an over tunic of black, supple
leather such as she wore when aiding her husband at the forge, for she
was skilled in the crafting of jewelry. It was sleeveless, and laced
upon both sides, falling just beyond the knee. Her dress itself only
just covered the tops of her tall boots, and for this reason she had
chosen it. It would not do to trip over her own hem.
Aearlinn completed her preparations, plaiting her long, thick hair into
a single braid and strapping the dagger about her slender waist.
Entering the pantry off the main room, she quickly packed a supply of
dried meat and fruit, bread and a pouch of healing herbs, placing all
in a sturdy leathern bag which she then slung across her shoulder.
Filling two skins with clear water and one with wine, she added them to
her pack along with a roll of white cloth for bandages.
At the doorway to the main room she paused, gazing one last time at
the home she loved. So many memories dwelt here! But all was growing
dark now. Stooping, she put out the fire in the hearth. The embers
glowed briefly, then died. Wrapping herself in a long grey cloak,
Aearlinn stepped over the threshold, closing the door noiselessly
behind her.
Clad thus in gray and sable, she passed through the streets like a
silent shadow, making her way south toward the Square of the Fountain.
Behind her, she could hear the noise of battle, and a great heat and
stench assailed her. Pressing her cloak over her mouth and nose to make
breathing more bearable, she went on. Suddenly there came a great
rumbling crash and the ground trembled beneath her feet. Aearlinn
stopped and turned, and lo! A vast cloud of fire and smoke shot
heavenward from the place where stood the Northern Gates. Gondolin was
breached. And in that moment, Aearlinn knew she would never look upon
her home again.
