Narn e-Dant Gondolin
by Elvellon Ringsbane
Chapter
VII: Flight
Aearlinn started up from her seat beside the fountain, suddenly aware
that the sounds of battle had drawn much nearer. Not only to the North,
from whence came the greatest clamor, but also now to west and east
arose the noise of bitter struggling: the clash of steel upon steel and
the cries of Elves and orcs, borne to her amid the falling rumble of
stone and the roar of fire. The air about her was stifling and the heat
had grown tenfold. Above, the night sky was utterly obscured by a dense
pall of foul smoke lit from beneath by an angry red glow – the city was
burning.
Bitterly Aearlinn berated herself for sitting idle so long. This was no
time for memories! She should have been aiding her people, if not
fighting then among the women and children, or binding the wounds of
the stricken. Skill she had in healing, and she was not afraid to
venture even to the edges of the battle to tend the wounded warriors.
Her own husband might well be among those who had fallen. But no - she
must not dwell on thoughts of fear, but decide now what was to be done.
From the fountain at the centre of the small garden in which she stood,
four paths led out into the city. To her right hand the road by which
she had entered led away east and north, toward her home nigh to the
Great Market. Another ran southeast, a third northwest, and the last
ran southwest, toward the homes of the folk of the Fountain and the
dwelling of Tuor and Idril. This road Aearlinn now took, and her light
elven feet sped over the smooth white stones. She purposed to seek the
hall of the Fountain, for she was of old of that kin, ere she had wed
with Magor, and he had bidden her take refuge as far to the south as
she might.
But as she went, the sound of battle grew ever behind her and upon
either hand, and suddenly there arose a baying of harsh voices upon the
path before her. Ere she could halt her steps or turn aside, a company
of orcs swept round a bend in the road and were upon her. With a shout
the foremost goblin caught sight of her and leaped forward, his clawed
hand grasping for her cloak.
Aearlinn had not the time to be afraid, nor could she flee the press of
goblins that now hemmed her round. Quicker than sight her right hand
flew to her side. With a flash of blue fire that rent the murky air,
her dagger leapt from its scabbard and the orc fell back with a howl,
his hand hewed off at the wrist. The others now hesitated, eyeing the
glittering blade in Aearlinn’s hand. They had not expected such a swift
and deadly response from a mere she-elf – most of the maidens they had
encountered so far screamed in terror and tried to flee, falling easily
to their scimitars. But their leader, maimed as he was, still possessed
the keen wickedness that had made him a captain among the foul soldiers
of Morgoth. With a hideous smile he pointed the end of his bloodstained
blade at the Elf. “This one’s for the pits.”
The pits of Angband.
At these words, an overwhelming dread and despair fell on Aearlinn. She
was not to be killed, but taken alive as a captive to Morgoth. She knew
of the terrors of that Ainu’s hall, for when memories of the past
descended like a black shroud upon her husband, often she had begged
him to speak to her of what troubled him, and so ease his mind. Thus
Magor had revealed to her many things about his days of torment that he
told no other.
Now she stood alone, and Magor and his strength were far away. Perhaps
he was already dead, lying amidst the heaps of slain before the
shattered walls of Gondolin. None would escape; all would be lost.
Yet even as grief threatened to overwhelm her, a sudden fierce
determination was kindled in her heart at the thought of her beloved
husband. If he was dead, then what had she to fear from death? Would it
not only send her all the swifter to meet him beyond the sea? And if he
yet lived… Fire flashed from Aearlinn’s eyes as she clenched the hilt
of the dagger in her right hand. At the thought of Magor made captive
again, chained and in fresh torment beneath the whips of the Balrogs,
all fear fled from Aearlinn, to be replaced by an almost reckless fury.
The orcs had advanced with renewed courage, and now one sprang forward,
aiming at her a sweep of its scimitar calculated not to harm her, but
to knock her senseless. But at the last moment Aearlinn leapt sideways
and forward, right into the midst of the astonished goblins. Several
fell over one another as they scrambled backwards in surprise, while
the others tried in vain to snare the nimble Elf. Like a breath of wind
she danced before them, and their claws slipped from the silken fabric
of her cloak or were hewn off by the bitter edge of her weapon.
The orcish captain cursed and shouted at his bungling troops, and
lunging forward, seized Aearlinn by the scabbard at her left hip. But
she loosed the clasp that bound it to her waist and sprang away,
leaving only the sheath in his grasp. As she fled, an orc loomed up
suddenly out of the darkness in front of her. She gasped and plunged
her dagger into its chest, but could not withdraw the blade, for it
stuck fast in the iron breastplate. Abandoning the sword she ran on,
stumbling blindly through the darkened streets, her feet moving with
desperate haste as she sought to outstrip her pursuers.
As she ran, a sudden flash of silver caught her glance, and to her joy
and wonder she saw a company of the men of the Wing approaching, and
Idril, Princess of Gondolin, wielding a sword at their head. With a cry
of gladness she pressed forward, and in a moment had reached them and
was surrounded by a ring of warriors. She knew she could not remain
with them, for they must go forward into the danger from which she had
lately come, and rescue others like her who yet wandered in fear and
confusion. But ere they parted the daughter of Turgon revealed to her
the one path that still led to freedom and escape.
When Aearlinn heard from Idril of the secret way, her heart leapt in
sudden hope. But even as she blessed the princesses’ foresight and
prepared to seek out the passage, she thought suddenly of Magor, and
her heart was torn. Greatly she desired to take the secret way, and win
out of the slaughter and terror of the night, yet she did not wish to
leave her husband, who might yet be living. Yet she knew that even if
he lived, he would not consent to leave while one stone of Gondolin
still remained upon another to defend. And what purpose would her death
serve, even if she should fall with him? Nay. She had another duty to
Gondolin, to preserve the name of that place in memory and song, and
keep alive the line of the Gondolindrim. She must honor Magor’s last
command, and seek escape.
Aearlinn now hastened through the southern streets, passing the
dwellings of the folk of the Fountain, where she had lived in the first
days of Gondolin. Swiftly she drew nigh the southern walls, and stepped
into the courtyard before the house of Tuor and Idril. There she
stopped suddenly, aghast.
Before her, dark against the white flagstones, lay the bodies of slain
Elves. Some wore the blue and silver livery of the House of the Wing,
but most were clad in the sable harness of the folk of Maeglin. About
them swords and axes were strewn, some lying just beyond the still
hands of the fallen, others still clutched in the dead grip of the ones
who had wielded them. But every blade was stained, not with the black
blood of the goblins, but with the red blood of Elves.
Aearlinn choked back a sob. What evil had possessed the Gondolindrim,
that they should turn upon each other in this dark hour when the need
for unity was dire? And in a sudden flash of understanding, Aearlinn
knew at last: Gondolin had been betrayed. Few there were who did not
know of the desires of Maeglin, but still he had served Gondolin with
valor for many years. That he would stoop to such base deeds as
treachery and the slaying of his own kin to attain his ends, alas! Who
could have foreseen it? For the heart of the son of Eöl was dark
and
his thoughts cunningly concealed.
Who but Idril? If her foresight had been heeded, all this had been
averted. But too confidant in their strength were the Gondolindrim, and
now all was lost. No, not all. For though she could not prevent the
terrors of this night, still Idril had provided in her wisdom a ray of
hope. The Secret Way.
Drawing a deep breath, Aearlinn began to thread her way swiftly among
the fallen bodies, toward the entrance to the house on the far side of
the courtyard. Beneath her sight passed the fair, motionless faces of
her kin, for though she did not want to look down, she was forced to
give heed to the slaughter at her feet lest she stumble over a corpse.
She had nearly gained the door when the body right before her feet
stirred suddenly and gave a low moan. Aearlinn drew up with a gasp of
fright; the Elf was alive!
His black livery was stained crimson, and by his side lay a shield
bearing no device upon its sable surface; an Elf of the House of the
Mole.
A moment Aearlinn stood in indecision, and glanced back over her
shoulder at the city behind. Dark smoke billowed against the crimson
sky, and ever louder came the roars of the enemy, borne upon the bitter
wind. Time grew short. Yet she could not leave one of her people to
die, even one of the folk of Maeglin, if there was any hope of his
salvation. Who could judge the motives of the heart? Maybe this man had
not fought willingly against his kin.
Having made up her mind, Aearlinn moved now with swift resolution.
Kneeling beside the battered body, she carefully eased the Elf from his
side onto his back, and looked into his face. His features were fair
and noble, though pale now and scored by grief and pain. His long dark
hair was matted with blood, and an angry red line traced its way across
his face from brow to chin. Doubtless it was this wound that had
rendered him unconscious.
Unstopping one of her flasks, Aearlinn drew out a length of white cloth
and soaking it with water, gently bathed the cut. At the touch of her
hands, the Elf stirred and his eyes flickered open. Surprise turned to
wonder as he beheld the fair features of an Elven maid bending over
him, and felt the cool touch of the cloth upon his brow. He tried to
rise, but sank back with a gasp of pain.
Aearlinn now saw that a great rent had been made in his armour and his
side was deeply scored. “Lie still,” she commanded, then with quick
fingers she undid his breastplate and laid it aside. She examined the
wound then washed and dressed it, binding it with a length of cloth.
The man had remained silent throughout her ministrations, only
stiffening a bit when she probed the gash, but now he spoke. “Who are
you, and why do you aid me?”
“I am Aearlinn, wife of Magor of the Nost e-Dam Rûth, and I aid
you because you are wounded, and an Elf of Gondolin.”
The man laughed bitterly. “An Elf of Gondolin! I slew an Elf of
Gondolin! I am a kinslayer and accursed.”
Aearlinn looked about her at the corpse-strewn stone. “How came this to
occur?”
“Lord Maeglin tried to slay the child Eärendil. We had no part in
that, but then Tuor came and cast Maeglin from the walls. In rage some
of the Mole-folk drew against him, and the men of the Wing attacked us
to defend their lord. I would have drawn away, but was assailed, and I
slew the Elf that struck me. Would that I had died first!”
Aearlinn ceased her tending and looked at him sternly. “Nay. You
fought only in defense of your lord and for your own life. Though the
deed was evil, your guilt is less. Greatest was that of Maeglin, and he
has been repaid. Do not thus torment yourself, but drink this, then
come and I will help you stand, if you can.”
The man looked at her in silence for a few moments, then took the flask
she held out to him and drank. It was a rich wine, and he felt strength
and vigor flow through his stiff limbs at the draught. Then with some
little aid from Aearlinn, he raised himself to his feet. He stood for a
moment, swaying, his hand still upon her arm, then steadied himself and
looked about. The smoke above the city was denser, and the cries of the
enemy nearer, and from the north came the sounds of battle and war.
The Elf’s face paled, but his eyes flashed cold fire. “They have come!”
he cried. “The city is lost, and I have not yet struck a single blow in
her defense, save against those I should have aided.” Then suddenly he
seemed to remember Aearlinn, and turned to her. “Where will you go? For
the enemy will soon be here.”
“I go to the Secret Way.”
“The Way of Escape?” he asked uncertainly. “Surely the foe will have
found it out, and long is the way thereto…”
“Nay,” said Aearlinn. “I speak not of the Orfalch Echor, but of
Idril’s Secret Way, which she had delved against the coming of this
hour. It leads from her house, beneath the walls until it issues at
last out upon the plain, far still from the mountains’ feet, but far
also from the city. It may be that those who take it will win even from
this slaughter. Hope lies that way…will you not come with me? For you
are wounded…”
The man listened in sudden hope and wonder as she told of that way,
but now he shook his head and said; “I cannot go, not while Gondolin
stands and my brothers fight to defend her.” He bent down, ignoring the
burning pain that shot through his side, and picked up his battered
shield and a great axe, its shining edge already stained with blood.
His breastplate, which Aearlinn had removed, was shattered beyond
repair, but he still wore a hauberk of fine black chain, and needed
nothing more.
Armed once more, he turned to Aearlinn and deep gratitude was in his
eyes. “Le hannon (Thank you),” he said simply, then to her wonder he
saluted her with grave respect, as he would a captain. “Farewell, noble
lady. I go now to fight, and regain, maybe, the honor I have lost. May
you win from this night of terror, and live to see Arien rise in
splendor above a land of peace.” Then he bowed and turning away, began
to walk slowly but with head held high, toward the sound of battle.
Aearlinn called after him; “Wait! I know not thy name…”
He paused and turned back to her, and Aearlinn caught her breath,
for standing there, his back to the red glow of war, clad thus in sable
mail with his dark hair spilling over his broad shoulders and a light
of battle in his eyes, he might have been Magor. “I am called Dagnir,”
he answered. (That is, “Slayer”.)
“May Eru guide your feet,” said Aearlinn, then he turned again and did
not look back.
Aearlinn watched him until he was swallowed up in the drifting
smoke, then turned and hurried toward the house of Idril. At the
doorway she paused, and looked back. Through the open door she could
see the white tower of the King, red-hued against the black sky, still
lovely amid the desecration, and at the sight all the memories of her
life in that fair city swept through Aearlinn’s mind. A kindled arrow
shot suddenly above the heights of the pinnacle of Turgon, burning for
an instant like a red star amid the fumes ere it fell.
“Namárië…”
Aearlinn whispered, and turning from all that she loved, she passed
beneath the high arch of Tuor's house and plunged into the darkness
beyond.
