The fire had petered out a while ago, but neither Belegos nor Tashdel could remember when. The embers glowed deep orange in the pile of ash that was between them and the smell of smoke was strong in their nostrils.
For a while, Belegos was silent, his hood covering most of his face which Tashdel thought made him look almost sinister, for in the dark he had none of the graceful, learned teacher about him. Instead, for the first time, she saw the warrior and the past battles that had turned him into the looming shadow hunched over in the dark before her.
As was the way with the words of the Elves, when Belegos had been recounting his story, the events as he spoke them had unfolded before the eyes of Tashdel. She could feel the fear of the folk of Gondolin, hear the cries of despair from the ladies and children alike, and see the terror that swept across the Plain of Tumladen. The more she dwelt on those thoughts, the more they threatened to overwhelm her. She realised that she felt almost claustrophobic, that the trees around them had crept closer now the firelight had died. Still Belegos did not move or make any sound.
The full weight of Belegos’ past fell on Tashdel like a great, heavy curtain that smothered hope and drowned light. She was about to cry out, eager to stir her companion to some sort of action when he pulled his knife from his belt and began to turn it in his hands. She swallowed her fear, bringing herself back to the present and concentrated on the blade that flickered in the starlight. She dared not speak.
*****
Smoke enveloped them. All around the flames licked at their cloaks and feet. The clamour and reek of battle drowned all else and the stench of death was thick in the air. The City was lost. It was all but overrun, yet there were a few that fought on. These few stood in the Market Square. Remnants of the Houses had gathered there for a last, ditch defence in order to stem the flow of the countless orcs and Balrogs and demons that now swept through the streets. News had reached them that Tuor had gathered to him survivors; women, children and the injured, and were escaping the City through a secret way. It had fallen to the Elves in the Square to become the rearguard, for with Tuor was Idril, his wife and Eärendil half-elven, their son. The faces of the elves in the square were grim and exhausted. The fear in their eyes had come and gone and all was left was a sorrowful finality, a determination to give their lives for the survivors of the sack of the City.
Belegos’ limbs ached. His leather and mail had countless gashes and tears and blood seeped out of cuts both deep and shallow so that he felt even wearier. Still by his side stood his friends Vëon and Aranto, both as tired as Belegos, though perhaps Aranto had fewer wounds than his fellows. They had a brief respite whilst the orcs slowly pushed forward to the square, and the elves scavenged fresh weapons and arrows from the fallen.
In his mind, Belegos replayed the events that had passed before him in a blur, for it seemed as if this whole nightmare had played out in an instant, yet his body told him he had been fighting for hours. He recalled watching, horror-stricken, as the Order of the Hammer had made their final sally out into the field. He remembered watching as they were cut down to the last. That noble house destroyed all of a sudden. Had he wept for them? He did not know. He remembered little.
He looked to his blade to see the edge had been notched countless times and was almost useless. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw it on the ground with a clatter and searched the dead for another sword.
There were so many. So many had fallen. It seemed to Belegos as if all of the people of the City now lay at his feet, lifeless. “Mandos will weep this night,” he thought to himself. Yet he would not. Not now.
Kicking over the body of a large orc whose arm was a few paces further away and whose neck had been severed almost completely, Belegos found that it had been covering the body of a slain elf. One of the Fountain it seemed to him, by the blood stained colours that he wore. Still clutched in his hand was a long, curved knife, expertly crafted. Belegos reached down, took the knife and slid it into his belt. A pang of guilt washed over him, but this warrior would not need his blade now and he continued to look for a more suitable weapon.
Whilst he had been searching for a sword, Vëon had been gathering arrows and Aranto had found some water for them. They were all parched, the smoke causing them a raging thirst. As Belegos returned, Aranto handed him the skin with a nod and a smile. Even now he was smiling. Belegos took a long draught from the skin and handed it to Vëon who had made a pile of arrows in front of his feet. He took it without a word. It was eerily quiet. The sound of battle could be heard in a far off part of the City, but the square for the moment was in false respite. “This could not have come at a worse time,” said Aranto, the smile still on his lips. The others shot him a look of confusion. “Just as I was to marry! Me! How the Valar are cruel!” All of a sudden, there was a noise that shocked Belegos and made him turn. It was a laugh. Vëon’s laugh. It was as unexpected as it was hearty.
“You? Marry?” He asked. He clapped Aranto of the back. “My friend, now I understand! Morgoth has come himself to stop such a disaster from happening! For surely, the hearts of all the maids would have burst should this thing have come to pass? And even one of the Vala could not abide such a travesty!”
“Who was she?” Asked Belegos, as surprised by Aranto’s words still as by Vëon’s laughter.
“She is…” Started Aranto, but his voice trailed off. “It matters not. It seems I shall not see the next rising of the sun, lest it be through some window of Mandos’ hall.”
He flashed another smile.
The remnants of the Houses gathered together in their respective groups. Swallow stood beside Tree, who stood with Flower.
The clamour had drawn closer, and all of the elves arrayed themselves in ranks. Being the archers of Gondolin, the Swallows stood at the front, ready to fire a volley into the enemy. The smoke grew thicker. They could not see more than fifty paces ahead of them. Injured, fleeing elves appeared in the distance. Their pursuers could not be seen, but all heard the shrieks and howls of goblins.
Belegos stared ahead of him, unblinking. The smoke stung his eyes, but he dared not close them. He heard those behind him shift uneasily, nervous chinks of shifting armour.
Ever so slowly, shapes emerged through the smoke. First one, then a few, then a throng appeared to Belegos’ front. He saw the gleam of the biting edges of their cruel steel. He could see their yellowed fangs bared wide. A large orc wielding a huge, crude double-handed axe soaked in blood screamed at the elves. He was running right at Belegos, his weapon held high in the air, ready to carry out its fatal crushing blow.
The orc never made it to Belegos, for he fell down dead thirty paces from the elven ranks, a dirty, swan-feathered shaft piercing its forehead.
Belegos did not think. He did not feel. He pulled another arrow from his quiver. It found its target at twenty paces from him. Another orc fell, this time at ten paces.The spearmen who had readied themselves behind the archers stepped through the front rank. Belegos felt himself shoved away so an elf of The Fountain could get by.
As Belegos dropped his bow and drew his borrowed sword, the spearmen lowered their long ash shafts. As one, they let out a cry of “Gondolin! Gondolin!” as the wave of orcs crashed into their wall of blades. Belegos was buffeted by the sheer force of the impact, but with all of his might, shoved his weight forward into the throng.
The battle had been joined.
