Tashdel recalled that when she was a child, her mother would tell her stories: Some were stories about heroes of old, about the slaying of dragons or monstrous wolves where great renown was won. About mighty kings and queens draped in gold and precious gems or even of the strong Fathers of Men, who became fast friends with the Elves.
But there were also stories of another kind. Of sorrow and grief. Of the horror of battle and the blood and the slaughter. The ruin of beautiful things and the downfall of majesty.
When her mother told her these stories, Tashdel would stop her before the end, for they would frighten her and she would not wish to know how the tale finished. Though that had been when she was very young, it was the same feeling she had at that moment. As if she were a child again, scared of the darkness in front of her. She knew broadly how the tale went, this was true, for she had been told of the Fall of Gondolin before, yet never had she heard it in such vivid detail, from one who had fought in that dreadful battle.
She looked to Belegos who had stopped again. He was still fingering his knife. Tashdel wondered if it was the same knife of which he had took from the dead elf, but she did not ask. She did not say a word. Her fear that she had felt before vanished upon studying him, for now no longer was he the brooding, menacing warrior in front of her, but instead he seemed to her frail, diminished somehow, and she pitied him. Only now did she understand the weight of these memories that he told her of. It was as if the recounting of his story had taken all of his strength from him and he sat looking into the now long dead embers.
His hood half covered his face, yet on his cheek, for an instant, something glistened and then it was gone.
She did not say a word.
*****
In the stench and heat of the battle, the throng of bodies that swayed this way and that, Belegos watched as the first orc ran onto the spear of the Fountain Guard in front of him. It impaled itself and checked to find the long shaft protruding from its belly. The guard wrenched it free and thrust again, this time at its breast. The steel tip pierced mail, leather and flesh to bury itself deep within the orc. The cry from its maw stopped abruptly and Belegos saw that it looked almost surprised. Once again the guard pulled free and the orc dropped down, dead.
Immediately another foe ran to take the dead one’s place. It wielded a great scimitar of black iron. Parrying the guard’s spear thrust aside, the orc buffeted his shield with heavy, fearsome blows. Belegos saw the guard buckle under the force and fall to his knee. With all the strength of his arm, Belegos reached over the elf in front of him, and as the orc brought his arms up for his strike, buried his sword deep into the orc’s ribs. It howled in pain as Belegos twisted the blade, and fell, lifeless on the ground.
The Fountain Guard, shaken by his experience, turned for a moment, his helmed-head nodding in thanks to Belegos as he reached down for his spear.
The spearmen held their line well and for a while it seemed as if the orcs were but a ceaseless ocean wave that dashed itself on rocks of steel. Bodies piled higher as one by one, the elves, as weary as they were, slashed and chopped and thrust away at their enemies. A spark of hope even lit inside Belegos. He knew too well that the city was lost, but the more time they could buy for Tuor and his followers, all the better it would be.
As that thought rushed through his mind, it was quashed. To his right, the spearman next to the Fountain Guard had stumbled on some dead orc, and Belegos watched as a great, heavy war hammer was brought down on top of him, crushing helm and head.
There was no cry, no protest from the spearman, only a mercifully swift death that sent his spirit across the sea.
Leaping across the bodies of the slain, Belegos took his place in the front rank and found himself facing a huge, black orc. It wore no armour on its chest lest it were the countless scars and cuts that covered its slick, black skin. It snarled at Belegos and spat as it brought the great hammer swinging round in a long side-swipe. Belegos crouched low, only just in time, and felt a rush of air as the hammer’s head narrowly missed his own. As quick as he could, he found his feet and thrust his sword into the orc and kicked it away to die screaming. Everywhere arms or blades reached for him, it seemed. A barbarous, cruel spear lunged at him. He saw it and dodged out of the way, grabbed the shaft, span and cleaved the head from the orc that wielded it so that it hit the floor with a wet thud.
A large, iron, spiked mace flew at him out of the chaos. Belegos parried it but the force of the blow was enough to knock him off balance and he was kicked to the floor by a heavily armoured boot. His sword flew from his hand and was lost under the feet of elves and orcs. The boot came down again, this time on top of his chest. The weight of it was almost too much for Belegos, and it was all he could do not to cry out. When he looked up to see long, pale arms readying to crush him with the same mace that had hit him before, Belegos thought to himself, "I never was the best swordsman. That was Aranto.". He wondered where Aranto was now, if he was still alive, for he could not see him.
As the orc was about to bring down his mace, one of his own slammed into him and for a moment unsteadied him. His foot still remained firmly planted on Belegos, yet that had bought him a second, and with it, Belegos pulled the knife he had taken earlier from his belt and stabbed it up to the hilt into the fleshy calf of the orc. The blade protruded from the other side of the leg, and because of the pain, the orc lifted its foot from atop of Belegos. That was all he needed. In one swift motion, the elf jumped up, ripping the knife free, and as the orc recoiled in pain and shock, Belegos lashed out at its throat.
The orc made a gurgling sound as it dropped its weapon and clutched at the wide wound that now poured forth sticky, black blood. In a fit of rage, Belegos grabbed its arms and pulled them down so that the blood could run unhindered. The orc’s eyes widened in fear and desperation as Belegos head-butted him, hard. The slash in its throat only tore open wider as its head snapped back. Belegos dropped its arms and it slumped to the floor.
*****
An age passed, or so it seemed to Belegos. He had found another sword and had been hewing away at his foe. The battle-calm had descended upon him and he was acutely aware of what was happening around him. He was parrying blows or striking out, and his blades danced around him. Any that came near him fell to either his sword or his knife. Engrossed in combat, he did not heed the shouts.
Further along, a wedge had been driven in by the orcs, the line had broken and slaughter had ensued. Deeming the battle lost, calls to retreat had been taken up, but the retreat swiftly turned into a rout. Any sense of order melted away, yet Belegos saw none of it and heard nothing. An arm reached out and grabbed his shoulder and he pivoted to meet it, yet it was no orc. "We must go!" Shouted Aranto. A large cut oozed blood down his face, and his usually golden-hair was matted and filthy. Belegos took a moment to look around him, taking in the situation. He nodded and set off at once, following the thinning crowd of elves.
As they ran, Belegos thought to himself that there must be no more a hundred elves left and all of them weaved their way through the streets and alleyways to find the secret passage. It had been well known enough during the battle where this passage was. Many folk had marked Tuor and his house make their way to the entrance and rumour had spread amongst the City.
Belegos, with Aranto and Vëon, turned out of a narrow street into another, smaller square but quickly Belegos pulled them into the shadows between two buildings. Across the square was a column of folk, mostly women and children who were being shepherded along by a number of orcs bearing whips which lashed out all too often. They had become slaves of Morgoth and were being driven to their thraldom. "Wait for them to pass," whispered Belegos. The others nodded in silence but all of them felt shame, and guilt. There was naught they could have done, for they were only three, and the orcs were too many.
The end of the column was passing and Vëon let out a stifled cry, for at the rear, being forced on by their tormentors were Túrelië and Almië, his wife and daughter. Before Aranto and Belegos had descried what he had seen, Vëon shot toward the column. Belegos heard him shout, but if there were words in the cry, he could not make them out. As if possessed, Vëon ran brandishing his sword, his arms held out wide. Such a fury was on him that the orc holding the whip behind Túrelië quailed and screeched in fear, but not for long. Vëon was upon it, and in a flash of his blade, struck the orc between its shoulder and neck so that it buried itself deep within its chest. Vëon did not remove it, but instead ran toward his family, tears streaming down his face.
He was less than 10 paces from them. Both of them had turned to see him, though instead of relief and happiness, their faces were that of fear and terror. A moment of doubt crossed Vëon as he saw them, then he stumbled and fell. He tried to get back up but found his legs would not move, for around them was coiled a fiery thong and it burned him.
Dragging him backwards along the hard ground, the Balrog stood like a great, fiery menace. Sparks issued forth from its nostrils and it was wreathed in smoke. In its other hand blazed a sword of fire, lighting the darkness about it, yet Vëon had no sword, no weapon of any kind. There he lay, prostrate on the ground, a grim look in his eyes, for he had no other wish than to reach his family. But again they were being herded away like cattle! More orcs had appeared and panic overtook Vëon and he could hear his name being shouted in the darkness, cries of, "Father! Father!".
He cursed himself for his rashness and readied himself for his death-blow, for it seemed to him hopeless. Yet it was the Balrog who now doubted, if only for a second, for between them stepped Aranto, his golden-hair blazing in the fire-light so that it shone forth, and in his hand he held his sword and pointed it defiantly at the demon. "Begone thou foul thrall of Melkor! Thou hast lingered on this earth too long, for in the name of Turgon, King of Gondolin, I will send thee forth to the void if it be in my power!" he cried.
Belegos looked on, aghast in horror and routed in indecision. Did he aid Aranto, or attempt to free Túrelië and Almië? Vëon was still on the floor, bound by flames, writhing to get free.
This choice, it seemed, was his.
