Stricken dumb by terror and indecision, Belegos had to make his choice. He had three: To rush back to the ever-moving column of prisoners in an attempt to free Túrelië and Almië, but the orcs there were now many, to untangle Vëon from his fiery bonds, or to stand with Aranto against the demon that bared down upon him. Every second that passed seemed like an age and the weight of his responsibility pressed down upon him. He knew not what to do. His senses were overwhelmed; the smell of blood assaulted his nostrils, the sounds of screams and Almië’s increasingly distant wailing rent his ears, his eyes stung from the smoke that he tasted on his tongue, and his hands were numb from exhaustion and fear. As he stood there, trembling, the felt detached from the world around him as if it were behind some hazy screen, that he were simply an observer of the horrors afflicting his life, his city and his friends. He knew not what to do.
Of a sudden, he was jolted back to the present, for there was a flash of light, and another. He turned to see where it was from and beheld the Balrog raining terrible blows upon Aranto. Every time their swords met the square lit around them as if they fought amongst a great lightning storm and the noise was of a thunder-clap. He watched as his brother-in-arms, dwarfed by his nemesis, fought defiantly and he wept, yet he did not know it. Seeing the battle, Belegos’ mind made its own decision.
As swiftly as he could, he ran to Vëon who was struggling to free himself and he hacked at the thong with his sword. The bonds severed with a snap and Belegos, unaware of the flames that scorched his hands, wrenched at the coils that had wrapped themselves around his friend. When they fell loosely to the floor, their sorcerous-fire slowly darkening, Belegos dragged his friend to his feet, yet he struggled, for the fire had wounded Vëon greatly and he was weak and barely conscious. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but only, “Almië… Family…” came out and he collapsed from the effort into Belegos’ arms.
It was the hardest choice that Belegos ever made. There had been nothing for it. He judged that to save his friend, he must get him out of the city or else they would all die there. Ahead of him was a dark street which looked empty. Dragging Vëon with all of the effort he could muster, he made for the square’s exit. The slaves had been taken away. He had not seen them turn the corner and become lost to them, but he sensed that they were beyond his aid. In despair and shame, he cast a final glance back at Aranto, still battling for mastery with his enemy. It was the last he saw of him, yet to this day, his most vivid memory.
Up ahead the street was quiet and glowed a fearsome orange from the lower-floors of some of the houses that were ablaze. As Belegos drew level with one house, its front window shattered sending forth small shards of glass which showered him. He threw his arm up to defend his face too late. He gritted his teeth from the pain as some of the glass cut the left side of his face and neck. He could feel little trickles of blood run from the wounds, but he ignored them. He had to focus on pulling Vëon’s weight through the city, or he feared he would collapse and go no further.
As he resolved himself to go on, he heard a shout close-by but could not see from whom it had come. Again it rang out, a shout for help. A girls voice it was, but from where? He looked about frantically and he saw her, in an upstairs window of a burning house. She was blackened. Smoke billowed from the room she was in and she was scared. “Help me!” She shouted again. “Please help!” Belegos cursed the day and let go of Vëon so that he lay unmoving in the middle of the street.
Running to the house, he kicked the door as hard as he could manage so that it violently burst inwards, yet Belegos was almost knocked from his feet, for the draft of the flames inside was fierce. Without thinking, he plunged into the house and found himself within an inferno. Flames licked the walls around him, and the heat was nigh unbearable. As quickly as he could, but half-blinded and choked from smoke, he found his way up the stairs and into the room he guessed the young elf was seeking refuge. Sure enough she was there, the tell-tale tracks of tears on her sooty face. Without saying a word he reached out for the girl and set off with her under his arm, as if he were carrying a rolled-up rug. He made it out of the house faster than he had come in and as he stepped back out into the street, he heard something in the house behind him fall and crash as it was consumed by the fire.
He set the girl on her feet next to the form of Vëon and dropped to his knee, looking at her. She was sobbing. He thought that she could not have been more than five years old. With a grubby hand, almost as black as her face, Belegos tried to wipe the tears and soot from her cheeks and smooth back her hair. “She would have been pretty,” he thought. He smiled kindly at her. “What is your name?” He asked softly.
Between her gasps for air, the girl managed a weak reply, “Eli… Eliriael.”
“That is a beautiful name,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “Can I call you Eli?” She nodded, her sobs slowly abating. “Well, Eli. I am Belegos and this poor fellow is my friend, Vëon,” he told her, gesturing to the elf lying on the floor. She said nothing, but stared at him with big, round eyes that glistened with tears in the darkness. “We need to leave, Eli, and I know a way out. My friend here needs help. You must stay with us, for it is not safe in the City.” She nodded again. “Good,” he said, and picked up Vëon underneath the arms.
The flight to the Hidden Passage seemed to Belegos to take a lifetime, yet he counted themselves as lucky, for they had seen no orcs, or worse, on their way. Ahead of them now was a great slab that had been removed from the floor. It had covered the steps down into the passage that led underneath the City and out into Tumladen and an irregular stream of refugees, mainly women and the injured, spilled into the dark and down the stairs. Belegos turned to the girl beside him, “There it is Eli, the way out of Gondolin. Go there now and be free of this place, I will follow you.” Yet she did not move. “Go Eli!” He told her again, “There is no time!”
“I lost mother, and father. Please, I don’t want to lose you too.” She pleaded with him and tears began to well in her eyes again. Belegos nodded his head solemnly and drew in a deep breath. He could see up ahead that a company of the Glorfindel’s House of the Golden Flower were hastily assembling at the entrance to the passage. “Come then, let us be quick!” He said. With every last ounce of strength he had left within him, he dragged Vëon to the tunnel.
There were perhaps fifty or sixty of The Golden Flower gathered there, all of whom were covered in cuts and bruises, yet still able to fight. Belegos approached one of the captains and asked him, “Please, my friend, he needs aid. I cannot move him any further.” The sweat poured from his brow. Vëon was still dressed in his mail and leathers and the weight had become too much for Belegos. The captain studied the three of them for a moment, his eyes flicking from one to the other from behind his battered helm and he shook his head. “I can spare no-one to help you. You must get him out of the City yourself,” he said and began to turn away. Belegos felt waves of anger and despair pulse through him and he grabbed the captain’s arm, who briskly turned back to face him. “I have fought for long,” Belegos started, “And I do not have the will to drag him any further. He has been wounded by a Balrog, by the very flames of wickedness, and I do not know whether he will live, yet I will not leave him here for it would indeed be his death of a certainty.” Again the captain was silent. “It is as I said,” He replied, “yet… remain here a while.” And with that he set off away from his company and from Belegos, only to reappear moments later pushing a small wooden cart. He stopped alongside Vëon and told Belegos to grab his arms. Together they laid him in the barrow, his arms and legs spilling over the sides, but it was enough for Belegos to give the captain thanks and provide him with a hope that he would be able to rescue Vëon from the sack. The captain gave Belegos the slightest of nods. “I wish you luck. May the Valar be with you,” he told them, and strode back to his troops to re-join their paltry ranks.
Belegos took a quick look about him, but did not take too much of the scene in for it was not how he wished to remember his home, ravaged by flames and strewn with the bodies of the slain. He sighed, a great, long sigh that had all the cares of the world in it. “Come Eli, let us leave this place,” he said to her as he gripped the handles of the cart and began pushing it as carefully as he could down the steps into the passage.
It was dark down in the tunnel for most of the lamps had petered out or had been knocked from the walls by one of the many booms that had rocked the city. The ground was uneven in places and by the faint lights that still remained; traces of blood could be seen from time to time. It was unearthly quiet in that hole. Occasionally the three of them passed an injured elf who could go no further sitting against a wall, yet Belegos said nothing to them and pulled Eliriael closer to him when they walked by.
As they made their way further down the passage, it became evidently less finished, for now they were on a hard-packed dirt floor and the tunnel grew steadily smaller, both in height and width and Belegos began to struggle in some places to push the cart through. He was beginning to fear that he would have to again abandon the barrow and drag Vëon to the exit when it came upon them suddenly out of the darkness. Another set of roughly hewn steps. Belegos ascended them with difficulty, pulling the cart behind him with Eliriael at the rear. He could feel the breeze from above and it gave him more strength to reach the top, for he hated the uncertainty of the passage.
It was dark outside, for it was still night. The three elves made stepped out into the Plain of Tumladen and looked about them. They were not alone for all of the refugees of the City had gathered to watch Gondolin burn, and all of them wept. For far away, like a candle in the void, the once fair city blazed forth. There were no words to console the elves who witnessed the destruction, no comfort could be given to them.
Belegos did not know how long they stood there in sorrow. It could have been hours. Yet after a while the company of The Golden Flower that he had seen at the entrance to the tunnel emerged in the twilight. Their lord Glorfindel himself was amongst them, and was asking the gathered folk for the whereabouts of Tuor. An elf strode up to Belegos, and after a moment he realised it was the captain with him he had conversed earlier. “You made it, I see,” the captain said to them.
“What are we to do?” Belegos asked him.
“The way out of the City has been shut lest we are pursued. There will be no more to walk out of the tunnel. I believe that we are to make for the mountains,” the captain told them. There was more than a hint of sadness in his voice. Behind them, Glorfindel returned, his blade shimmering in the half-light and shouted some commands to his troops. The captain turned without a word and re-joined his brothers.
The thought of the mountain path ahead of them filled Belegos with despair. He had found it hard enough to get Vëon out of the city, let alone pull him along the difficult, unforgiving paths of the Echoriath. Yet he would not leave him. His mind wandered to Aranto and suddenly, as if a great flood-gate had been opened in his heart, tears burst forth and he fell to his knees. In the same moment, guilt, shame, sorrow and fear gripped him and he was helpless, like a child lost at sea, drowning.
He was sobbing, great tears falling to the ground like they were the very pearls of his soul and his face was in his hands when he felt one of them pulled away and there in front of him with her beautiful, big eyes was Eliriael. She gripped his hand tightly with both of hers and said to him, “Don’t cry, Belegos. We are safe now.” There was something in her voice that gave him comfort. He had to be strong for her now for though she did not know it, they were not out of danger yet. He imagined that it looked a sorry sight, one of the warriors of the Swallow being counselled by a girl so young and he composed himself.
“You are right, Eli,” he told her with all the compassion and reassurance he could muster, “You are right. We are safe now.”
