Ashen Tears by Erurainon

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Chapter 8

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The girl lay face-up in the dirt drenched in blood. Her hair had been the color of chestnut and her eyes a pale green. He had killed her. Maeglin knew this … His hands were too sticky to be clean. The thought left him brooding on the pavement. He was high up on the battlements where the women and children had gathered. She had clung to her mother as the band of Orcs came and screamed at him … “Traitor … Traitor … Traitor!” What else could he do? His father’s black blade lay at her side now like the hand of death. The hilt clattered against the cobblestones and grime when it fell. The hollow echo still rang in his ears- a dead sound in a dead place. The towers crumbled to the earth like toy-blocks. The roar of the drakes shook the very earth and broke open the great gate. A black tide burst through the West like a cloud forked with lightning. There could be no escape- Only retribution … And freedom. A careless smile uprooted any remorse he might have held …. Let the children burn! A new age would come. The fortress would be rebuild, and the stage of war recast. No longer need the Eldar cringe and hide … They had a new king- A new God, and he … Maeglin Eöl’s son would stand at his side. They would bow to him and grant him gifts of gold and land. All the West would sing his praise and call him savior. Yea, Gondolin was a petty price to pay. The dark elf jeered down at the corpse.

“You call me traitor,” he sneered kicking the damp thing. It was no longer a girl afterall- only a hunk of rotting meat.

“You think you have the answers,” he sniveled licking his lips … Imagining Idril in her place. “Come on … Get up if you are so high and mighty. Get up! Get up!”

But the corpse just lay there deaf and mute to all pain. The heel of his boot knocked her skull hard and a few teeth broke free. He spat on her, lifted his black sword, and pushed the dead thing off the edge … The battlements ended in a great cliff- The same dreadful leap Eöl was made to take. The dead thing that had been a girl plummeted down … down through the swirling smoke and frigid air. A plume of dust and rubble spilled from on high … And the body was out of sight. There was only dirt, guts, and brick where she had laid … and groveled … and died.

For a long while, he crouched at the edge … The folds of his dark cloak fanned in a fiery breeze. Then the aching came, hard and deep … A baleful feeling in his chest he could not push away. A raindrop fell like ice on his cheek and made him wince like a hunter caught in his own trap. The hot tears gushed through the mask he called his face. His hands curled round thin air … And he peered down into nothingness. Only one leap … And all the pain could go away. Who could blame him? But then he heard her …

Two shadows crept along the weary rock. Both wavered at the top-step and melted into dismay reaching the landing. The floor was littered with shards of glass and metal. Dozens of pale corpses lay in heaps like chattel … And beyond loomed the drop.

“They’re all dead,” he mumbled in utter apathy turning his head. His feet took him to the steps where he had them pinned between himself and the edge.

“Not how you expected it to end,” he sighed lifting an eye-brow. Idril limply stood like a broken doll, her eyes windows of defeat. Earendil crouched at his mother’s feet, his face burning brighter than the day-star. The look there spoke volumes … Liar … Fiend!

“You don’t believe me,” he groaned shaking his head. “Step back kid and let me approach your mother. We have unfinished … Business to attend to.”

“No,” the boy cried brandishing his wooden sword like a knight. “I won’t let you.”

“You won’t let me,” the dark elf snickered snatching up the toy and tossing it down the steps. The clattering of the wood against the marble descent brought tears to the child’s blue eyes. But he held his ground unflinching in the face of death.

“Move boy,” the night growled with Maeglin’s lips. “Go or I’ll cut your throat!”

But the boy merely bowed his head before the black blade and knelt silently brooking defeat with grace.

The panic in Idril’s face only grew. She could not retreat or step between her child and the blade. They were alone. A pale hand … His hand reached out for Earendil and held his collar. The child teetered breathless above the earth flailing like a caged thing. Idril had no choice. She flung herself against Maeglin and tore at his face with her nails. Earendil’s jaws snapped, and the dark elf could feel his sword-hand yield. His grip waned and the child toppled to the ground. The black sword rose in anger and low …. The blade of an ax flew from the topmost step of the landing. A grey shape arose there towering over the nave like Oromë the bold. Maeglin knew that blade and knew the lord that carried it. A terror more horrid then death ran through the dark elf, and he knew ….

“Dramborleg,” the man cried hacking at his foe like the lord he was. “Dramborleg! Dramborleg!”

Once … Twice … three times the blades clashed and parted. Sparks flew between them casting grim reflections on the dead floor. The dreadful place erupted only a few inches from where they stood- neck to neck at the heated test. Maeglin could feel his strength leave him like a wave. The face of the world reared brown and ugly before his eyes. The silver ax arched through the air … And the end came. Eternal night blacker than the depths of Angband took him. He raged against it … Gnawed his teeth against it … Grappled senselessly against the fall he knew must come. But it was nothing … And the nothing claimed him like it always does- hard and painful. The last thing he saw ere his sight left him was Idril looking down at him … And she was smiling. The place beneath him was creeping darkness. A girl was waiting there … An elf maid with chestnut hair and sad eyes. She was waiting for him …

The river ran red. There were bodies on the shore and pale faces in the water- grim faces silent and fair. He looked on, feeling the weight of those shallow depths. A leaf fell from on high and sent ripples through the warm water. A heavy fog lay all about that glade, and Ecthelion could feel his brow burn with rage and regret. He turned from the blood river and the broken places to find his folk marching gloomily through the pass. Gnarled birches and oaks lined the muddy way. There were pits by the side of the road and dark glens writhing with hidden shapes. Ecthelion could feel his heart sink within him deeper then the roots of the mountains. But he strode on, crossing the wide planks of the bridge, until he came to the other shore. No grass grew there, and above the treetops dragon-fire loomed. A figure was standing there arrayed all in male, his winged helm a token of bygone days in that hapless country. The elf captain knew him at once, but did not budge. The man ambled forward but did not speak. There was a haunted feeling in his step no words could define.

“He’s dead,” he stammered trying to find the right words to say. “Maeglin … He’s dead.”

“How do you know,” the elf lord mumbled wiping his forehead with his filthy sleeve. There were patches of dirt there from the road.

“I killed him,” the man admitted shaking a little, not knowing what to think. “He tried to kill them … Kill them both. He just … Just fell.”

“And what about them,” Ecthelion inquired, an Ernest look in his eyes. “Is Idril and Earendil fled?”

“I told them to,” Tuor sighed with Huor’s voice. “The rest …. I cannot say. I am not Eru.”

“Nor I,” the Lord of the Fountain grumbled shuffling ahead onto the highway. The columns of the archway glowered down at them from a few yards away. There were bowmen there, and they were all clad in black.

“You ready for this,” Ecthelion moaned gesturing to the enemy lying in wait. His hand trembled with the pain.

“Born ready,” the man curtly lied grasping his ax. The shaft was hewn of wood and bore runes of power. The elf lord nodded and braced himself for the charge. It was time.

The footmen leapt, their war-cry splitting the noisome air like a hurricane. The bow-strings were loosed, and arrows fell all about the oncoming troop. Ax met hard steel and woven male. Orcrest burnt blue and was stained to the hilt in dark blood. The black tide foundered and the Orcs broke and ran, yammering back into the shadows.

“Elbereth,” the elf captain cried cleaving a path through the pressing throng. “Elbereth Estel Nin!”

The archway drew nearer and nearer. Tuor bolted past and found his way into the Court of the Fountain. Clear waters rolled down from on high, and the basin below murmured with the voice of Ulmo. White flowers grew on the green grass, and there were benches there still warm from a night of merriment. Huor’s son gazed on, relief etched in his worn face. Ecthelion panted a few feet away, blood oozing from his sword-arm. An Orc blade had cloven through cloth and hauberk.

“Only a flesh wound,” the elf lord mumbled looking paler than usual. “Give me time … “

“No,” the man exclaimed rushing to his friend’s side. He let the elf lord lean on his shoulder and cling to his male-coat for support.

“Nothing escapes you Tuor,” the lord of the fountain laughed. The sound felt strange in that court. It seemed to echo off the stone walls and steps in a way that reminded Tuor of Nevrast.

Elf friend and elf lord stumbled together toward the cool waters. They could hear the others still bumbling out in the archway leaning against the columns. To Ecthelion they could have been worlds away. He felt his head grow heavy like a lead weight and his eyes shut by themselves. His lips met clean water, and he drank greedily forgetting the agony. Orcrest hung limply in his hand. He opened his eyes to find he was drinking from his friend’s helm. Tuor had removed his prized helm and had filled it with the contents of the basin. The elf captain couldn’t help but smile. Eldwin would have approved. He wanted to tell her how right she had been all along about this noble man. He wanted to look her in the eye and drink in her love like the knight he was. A numbing feeling ran through his chest, and for a brief instant he was back with her in the garden whispering about Idril and this man of Dor Lomen. For an instant, he was beside her with his head pressed against the soft linen of her dress and breathing in her ethereal sent. Huor’s son frowned down at his friend and just nodded.

“You’re thinking about her,” he affirmed furrowing his brow. “I’m sure she is thinking of you …”

“I know,” the elf lord gasped staring up at the sky. Daylight had won through the storm-clouds. A new wind was turning. “If I don’t make it out of here … Please tell her … Tell her that I never truly lived until the day we met. Tell her that I’ve always loved her and that I always will …. No matter where I’m going after … after this. You … You must …”

“Easy now,” the man hummed in a soothing voice putting down the helm. He thought he saw Maeglin’s reflection in the cold metal. The thought made his skin crawl.

It was then, he looked at the sword. Orcrest had burnt brightly since the black tide broke through into the city. But now … It was almost on fire with intensity. Something was coming … Something dark and menacing. The elf lord’s eyes crawled up to meet his, and for a long moment they just stood there but two wanderers in a dying world. The others beneath the archway screamed in horror and fled in all directions. Not one escaped the city. A rumbling deeper than the caverns of the earth shook the very foundations of Ecthelion’s hope. It couldn’t be …

“Gothmog,” his companion half-whispered. “He’s here …”

A hulking shadow towered over man and elf between the grey columns. In one hand, he bore a whip and in the other a sword made of flame. The whip cracked and a fear horrid to know flew through the man’s bones. He quailed hiding his face from the terror. There was no way out. Ecthelion writhed against the dark and approached the evil, his armored chest sparkling like silver through the oncoming gloom. All garments cast aside, he stood steadfast and unyielding, a knight of valor undimmed before the ending of the world … And the great night envied him, and struck hard with a hand that brooked no mercy. The two swords clashed and a tumult came to pass the likes of which no man will see again. The marble of the court burst asunder. Ash and dust rained down on the parched land like a gale … And still the battle wore on.

Far above the courtyard an elf made is watching. She is a lady with fair hair and eyes like pools of night. Her moist lips are pressed to the window, and she can feel the hot tears role down onto her pallid cheeks. Her lips move in prayer for him … Because he is her husband, and without him she is alone. A blinding flash of searing light erupts from the fountain below. He is standing … Wavering on the brink, his sword-arm a bleeding mess. Above him grows the shadow, consuming and malignant … And she knows this is the end. But low, even as he pitches into the crushing deep, the spike on his helm thrusts hard into the demon’s chest. The whip cracks and curls about the edge, and both topple headlong into the flowing water. She casts her fist against the window and lets the warm blood spill out. She calls out his name … Screaming at the top of her lungs- A harsh cry rigid with lament. But he does not hear, and there is only the silence and the court beyond. He is gone, and she is panting. He is gone, and Gondolin is dead. A flight of steps grins up at her from her high perch. One jump, and she need not fear … One jump, and she need not be alone. The thought burns her and sends her writhing to the drop. Her feet move … But they will not let her … Because he won’t let her. It is not her time. Her head sags against the wall, and she inches back to the window. But there is nothing left to see, only a ruined courtyard, and a man kneeling in the cold.

The book was torn. The pages were ripped in places and wrinkled like skin. But no blood came. There was only the dull smell of glue and dust. His fingers pressed hard against the leather binding, and he gazed intently at the letters she had made there. Only a little while, and she would be with him. Only a little while, and he would be home. Turgon could see her now standing brighter than all the stars of Varda’s field, and she was weeping. He reached out for her still clutching the book, but she wouldn’t budge. Her tears ran down onto his hands, and he could feel the ground beneath him quaver.

“Not yet,” she whispered lifting a finger to her pressed lips. ”Soon … “

“When,” he called ringing his hands in despair. “When … Elenwë … Elenwë!”

But she faded, and there was only the leap of death ahead … The courtyard lay below, and he could see his people crying up to him. Fools, he thought grinding his teeth. Fools the lot of them. Run … and live … But the crowd would not depart. They clung to the foot of the tower like children. He knew what they wanted. The yearning lived in their baleful faces. But he couldn’t give it to them. He would not descend from the tower, a defeated king. The Black Hand was coming to find him, and he would meet it head-on.

“Mighty is the victory of the Noldor,” he wailed raising his hands to the sky. But no sunlight came- Only thunder.

It was then, the dragon came. It was then, he knew the end had come. He was a large creature with eyes of malice and jaws of hell. All fled before his maw, and where he went doom followed. The beast burst through bars of iron and blades of steel like a gale. Hot red light flooded heaven and earth, and he could feel the foundations of the fortress slipping into the abyss. The cries ceased, and for a long while there was only deep rumbling like the purr of a tom-cat and then …

The booklet flew from his grasp. He vainly stretched forth his hand to catch the bundle of papers. But it was too late … There was only the emptiness ahead, and the long dark, gaping wide to take him. Wraiths danced there in the gloom. Friends and liegemen huddled about in the open places to greet him. He could see his sister peering out to catch him with her glance, and king Thingal with his crest of golden flowers. Orodreth and Fingolfin knelt side by side clad in green and grey. But only one face found him. Only one hand clasped his and wrenched him free from the world. She had come … And she was no longer weeping. Her cheeks were soft and wet, and her lips were firm beneath his own. All sorrow left him, and, Turgon could feel grass beneath his feet. The sky above was bright and blue and through the haze of gentle light, ageless peace loomed.

“So this is dying,” he said hardly recognizing his own voice.

“No,” she laughed embracing him like she had so many years before. “This … This is life.”