Narn e-Dant Gondolin
by Elvellon Ringsbane
Chapter
VI: Quench the Lamp for Dawn Has Come
Then a fire drake was loosed upon the men of the Stricken Anvil, and
Magor, despite his valor, was driven far from Rog. He grieved at this
for he loved that lord more than his life, and longed to die at his
side. But now Magor stood alone in the midst of his foes. His helm was
gone, and his long raven hair streamed out in the bitter wind. About
him Tumladen burned, and away upon the hill of Amon Gwareth, the north
part of Gondolin was in flames. His own death was nigh, that he knew;
yet he grieved not for himself, but for his brethren and the city where
he had found love and peace. For no man goes to war and thinks to live,
but everyone who marches forth with true devotion to his cause is
prepared to die, and if death pass him by, it is a gift unlooked for -
the grace of the Valar or the will of Ilúvatar.
So Magor thought now as he looked across the ashy plain where once had
grown abundant life, and now there swarmed there orcs innumerable and
Balrogs wielding a flaming death. And it seemed to him that he stood
upon an island in the midst of a rising sea, and all about him the dark
waves foamed with blood. For a moment more his strength would hold them
off, but soon like a dark tide borne upon a roaring wind, they would
engulf him. Already the orcs pressed round him, their eyes like hot
coals regarding him with malice, their scimitars hungry for his blood,
and none of his house remained nigh to ward off the blows of death.
Magor raised his shield, and lifting his great mace he looked upon
his foes, and smiled. "For Turgon, Rog, and Gondolin!" Then he leapt
forward.
Seven times Magor sprang at the orcs that ringed him round, and each
time they gave way before the shining edge of his great mace. All the
ground about him was piled with his foes, and their corpses made a ring
as a wall about him, but the ground beneath his feet was torn and
trampled. Yet ever they came on again, drawing the circle closer about
the lone warrior. Then suddenly a great yammering arose, and behold!
The orcs drew back somewhat. Magor turned, and saw leaping through the
ranks of the goblins a Balrog. In its right hand it grasped a flaming
sword, and in its left it wielded a whip of living fire.
Magor braced his feet upon the ruined earth and raised his shield, and
there was no fear in his dark eyes, only a calm resignation. The Balrog
swept up, and what little grass remained withered before the heat of
its coming. It halted before Magor and raised its whip. But even as the
flaming thongs hissed through the air, Magor leapt lightly aside and
springing suddenly under the monster's guard, drew the bitter edge of
his mace across the demon's thigh. So great was that creature's heat
that the iron glowed red as if new-forged, and hastily Magor dragged
the blade through the dirt to cool it. With a roar of pain the Balrog
whirled around, but Magor had already leapt away again.
So the dance went on, Magor springing in and out, and the Balrog
seeking in vain to snare the nimble Elf. Many wounds he scored upon the
demon, but Magor grew weary, for he had already fought long and hard,
and was wounded, albeit lightly, and his breath was labored by the heat
and stench. Thus as he sprang away he stumbled, and ere he could rise,
the Balrog was upon him. Its flaming sword rose and fell like a bolt of
lightning, smiting Magor's great shield and cleaving it asunder. Like a
vast furnace was the heat of that descending blade, and Magor felt his
arm break beneath the blow. Letting fall the useless halves of his
shield he rolled away, leaping to his feet, the fingers of his right
hand wrapped about the handle of his mace in a death grip as he faced
his enemy.
The demon paused and seemed almost to smile as he looked upon the
maimed Elf that faced him with rage and defiance burning in his eyes.
Then with a terrible suddenness it raised its whip and sent the hot
thongs curling toward Magor. The Elf leaped back, and the whip passed
like a breath of sulfur inches from his face. Again the Balrog swung
its whip, and this time Magor was not swift enough. The burning thongs
hissed through the air and wrapped about his forearm, hand, and mace.
The wrench of its withdrawal sliced a burning rent through his
vambrace, scoring his arm and hand with a pain nigh unbearable, and
tearing the mace from his grasp. Magor cried out and pressed his arm
against his chest, watching helplessly as his weapon spun away and fell
among the black press of goblins. But it did not fall alone, for it
came down upon the head of an orc, and thus avenged its master.
Now the Balrog raised its sword, and Magor could do nought but
steel himself for what was to come. Drawing a deep breath he drew
himself up to his full height, and fearlessly his eyes met those of his
enemy. As he stood there alone upon the field of Tumladen, tall and
unconquered despite his pain, a sudden vision came to him of Aearlinn. "Bear
this, the weapon thou madest for me, into battle, for I cannot go
though now I wish that I could, for I would not be parted from thee."
His right arm he still held pressed against his chest, and now he
inched it downward and his groping fingers brushed the hilt of
Aearlinn's dagger and closed upon it.
The Balrog sprang forward and bent over him, but even as it did so,
Magor raised his burned right arm and with all his strength drove the
silver dirk to the hilt into the creature's chest.
With a scream of rage and pain the Balrog let fall its sword and
clawed in vain at the hilt of the knife. The Elven steel burned that
demon's own unholy fire and the torment of its touch seemed to spread
outward from the wound through every limb. Then like a great tower
whose foundations have been stricken by an earthquake, the Balrog
swayed and fell, crashing forward in ruin. Magor had fallen to his
knees, and now flung himself upon the scorched and broken ground. With
his final strength he clutched at the shield of a fallen companion that
lay nigh, and dragged it over himself. Then the tower of fire and smoke
descended upon him, and all was plunged into darkness. But even as the
heat and stench overwhelmed him, he saw, or thought he saw, a growing
light like to a rising star, but in the Western sky. A cool breeze as
from the sea kissed his face and upon it was borne in song the sweet
voices of Elvenhome...
Quench the lamp for dawn has come
The shadows flee from Arien
Come home, O lonely wounded one
Return to Elven Tirion.
No ship thou needest, for behold!
Thy spirit light the wind may hold
Thy feet shall tread no pathways cold
Across the Grinding Ice of old.
Turn thy face from mortal woe
No more in ceaseless wandering go
Let seas forgetful sundering flow
Between thee and the lands ye know.
Follow the stars of Elbereth
Across the sea’s unmeasured breath
The joys immortal that thou left
Await beyond the doors of death.
