Rise Like the Break of Dawn by Elwin Fortuna

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Barad Eithel was, first and foremost, a guarded fortress, so secure that armies could break upon it like the waves of the Sea and not overcome it. Small for the numbers it housed, it was set well back into the Ered Wethrin, and over the long years, tunnels and great earthworks had been carried out to make the city larger for those who dwelt there.

Despite its starkness, it was beautiful too - shining towers of white limestone rising to a dizzying height above the plain that was once part of Ard-Galen, the High King's palace glittering and gleaming with gold from the mountains, catching the light of the Sun. It wasn't Tirion, deliberately designed not to look like any city of the Noldor in Aman, rather something new for the new world they lived in, but it was radiant, and it was, above all else, home.

Lalwen looked out the small window to the wide plain below. There was no movement on it, though once she thought she saw a flash in the far north, a glitter as of armour. But it could just as easily be a trick of the light, or indeed, perhaps, allies coming to join them ere battle began, so she said nothing of it, and turned to Fingon.

"There must be a plan," she said, and he frowned, looking worried, burdened with care. Fingon's eyes were closed, and he was leaning his head back against the chair he sat in, as if almost too weary to think.

"I have not been able to give thought to it, aunt," he said after a moment, opening his eyes and raising his head. "I sent away south all who would go, all the children, all their mothers, years ago when the danger seemed imminent, but my fears did not materialise." He gave her an attempt at a smile, weary as it was. "Besides, surely you will be as safe here as anywhere. If Barad Eithel is to fall, it will only be because all who would defend her are dead."

Lalwen shook her head. "But that's exactly my point. If Barad Eithel is to fall, then what would you have me, and others like me, do, fight like rats in a cage until we are all dead ourselves? We will, if it must be, but let there be a better answer than that!"

Fingon closed his eyes again, with a sigh. "What would my father have done? He would have had an answer for you. I do not know that I have one."

"Oh, Findekáno, don't - " she said, and made her way over to him, sitting down on the wide arm of the chair and laying her hand on his head. He opened his eyes again briefly, giving her another faint attempt at a smile.

"Less than a day from battle, and I feel I can barely move for exhaustion," he said.

"You've not slept well in weeks," she said, gently stroking his hair. "I hear you pacing, sometimes, up and down the hall, the same way you did during the worst of the Bragollach."

"After we heard about Aegnor and Angrod," Fingon said, "I thought I'd never sleep again. Then - Father - and I only wanted to sleep, to dream of all that I'd lost." He opened his eyes, sitting up a little. "I wonder if after tomorrow's battle, I'll sleep? Victory, and I'll be celebrating by Maedhros' side, both of us wrapped in Irmo's embrace, or defeat, and we'll be paying a visit to Irmo's darker brother?" He looked up at her, and the faint attempt at a smile was stronger now. "Either way, we'll have rest. If you think I look tired, aunt, you should see Maedhros."

Lalwen smiled. "I did see him in the spring, the same as you, Findekáno. And you're right, he did look tired, at least when he arrived." She arched an eyebrow.

Fingon looked up at her, smiling back, and then gave a quick gasp, and sat up straight. "I've thought of it! Maedhros and I spoke of the tunnels and the mines in the hills once, long ago. There is a pathway through them, from tunnel to mine, to another mine on the other side of the Ered Wethrin." His eyes were wide open now, and he looked much more awake. "The miners bring silver ore through the mountain rather than around it. It would be a dangerous path for you, but it is a way of escape, if you need it."

"Do you still keep your maps in the bottom drawer?" Lalwen said, making her way over to the large desk on the other side of the room. Fingon nodded, and she opened it, pulling out a disorganised array of vellum scrolls. "Findekáno, for pity's sake, will you never learn the art of labelling?"

He smiled wryly. "At some point before the end of Arda itself, probably. The one you want is the third from the left, I think."

Lalwen opened the scroll out on the desk, and Fingon got up from his chair and came over. The late afternoon sun drifted in through the window, lighting up the scroll brightly. "Just there," Fingon said, laying a hand on the map. "At the foot of the hill, behind the forgeworks, where the tunnels lead into the mines. And then," he turned to another part of the scroll, "once in the mines, you take the upward paths, see, as here?" He pointed to a particular set of drawings.

"It looks straightforward enough," Lalwen said. "If it comes to it, is there anything in particular I should keep from the hands of the Enemy?"

Fingon turned to another drawer in the desk and opened it, pulling out a white case. "This," he said, and opened the case. A green jewel lay within, catching the light and scattering it about the room. "Maedhros gave it to me."

"I know it," Lalwen said. "It was of Feanor's making, supposed to have the power to make a barren desert into a green land."

"I tried to use it, after the Bragollach," Fingon said with a sigh, closing the case. "It only worked a little, but I think the fault was in me rather than the gem. I was not in a particularly fruitful frame of mind at the time."

Lalwen nodded. "Nor was anyone. You could cut the air in two, the fear and despair hung so heavy in those years." She smiled at him. "But you - this great enterprise we are now engaged on - gave us hope again."

"May it not fail," Fingon said. "I have such hope, but also foreboding, and I cannot pick out what may be foresight and what is just nerves. It is as though I hear our Doom in my ears again and again, that we should shed tears unnumbered."

"Oh, Findekáno," she breathed, and put an arm around him, drawing him close. "Have we not?"

He returned the hug and gave a little huff of a sarcastic laugh. "We have shed enough tears for any Doom, still I fear the cup is not yet drunk down to the bitterest of its dregs, and darker fates await us all." He shook his head then, and moved back, raising his head to look out the window. "And yet, the sun shines, bright Midsummer, and all the darkness in the North cannot take her light away. And even in the night, stars shine over us. So I will not say the day is done, the battle lost, before it's fought."

-----

The last of the wounded were got within the walls of Barad Eithel on the fifth day of the battle. Many of them were Edain, grievously hurt, some at the point of death.

Lalwen asked everyone who was conscious for news, trying to determine how well things were going. The reports were mixed, but on the whole the news was poor, and Lalwen gathered everyone remaining in the citadel, some three hundred, mainly Elf-women, and a few of the Race of Men, some of them old or crippled, some of them young boys who had served as pages or squires in the city but were not old enough to fight.

"We stand now near to the end, for good or ill, I feel," she said, raising her voice to be heard above the crowd. "If the field is lost, there is a way out, but it is not an easy road. We cannot carry anyone through the mines, so those who come with us must be able to walk for several hours at a stretch. I would not leave anyone behind if I could but this is war, and there is little hope to be found either way."

One of the eldest of the Edain stood forward and Lalwen nodded to him to speak. "Lady, we will remain, and guard your safe passage so far as we may. And if we cannot get out, then we shall sell our lives dear and keep your escape secret from the Enemy. Only take our children -" he gestured to the dozen or so boys standing nearby "- so that they may bring news to our families and guard our women and children in the days to come." The collection of old men around him nodded along with him, and at the end of his words, raised a shout.

Lalwen gave him a grave, steady look. "I thank you for your honour and courage, and promise that if I am able, the tale of your sacrifice shall be told from East to West, even to the court of the Valar if it may be so." She turned to look at the gathered Elves, and gave a quick glance at the group of Edain boys who stood resolute at the front of the crowd. "Now go, prepare, all of you. You may take only what you can carry on your back, and we will have a long and difficult journey ahead." She raised her chin, determined. "Bring your warmest garments. Summer will not last forever."

-----

It was dry and dusty in the mines but Lalwen was grateful for this - dry air was better by far than damp air, inside a mine. They had left behind a raging storm outside, enough to quell even the fiercest Balrog for a time. The men of Barad Eithel stood a chance of a few days to recover and perhaps rescue other survivors before they were invaded, but the battle was most assuredly lost.

From the highest tower window, Lalwen had witnessed Fingon's death, white lightning springing up from him to pierce even the dark clouds above. It was even then that the clouds broke and the rain began over Barad Eithel. Lalwen had fallen to her knees, then, tears burning in her eyes. Off in the distance, the sun still shone in the East, from the fens of Sirion to the heights of Dorthonion, and Lalwen could see smoke and banners everywhere, for a moment, until the grey mists swept over the citadel, and all was lost in the fog.

That was a grim day, and a worse night. With the sunset the rain had truly intensified, pounding down like the tramp of booted feet, startling her time and again from sleep. It was with weariness sometime near dawn that she finally gave up, and made her way down to the appointed meeting-place, her pack on her back unaccustomedly heavy. She was also wearing heavy garments, too warm for the season, too warm for the mines, but they must be borne.

Not long after the break of day, what little could be seen of it, her company entered the mines. They were tied together in twenty-four groups of ten and one group of eight, all wearing their warmest winter clothing and bearing heavy packs. For a long time, no one spoke except Lalwen, giving orders and instructions, finding the safest route upward from one mine into the next.

Hours underground, and a muffled boom came from behind them, the Edain who remained behind acting under her orders and destroying the entrance to the mines so they could not be followed. A wave of dust passed over them, and then, thick silence. Even the echoes of their footsteps were dull and heavy.

The mines were well-built; straight and firm paths in the dark, lit by the occasional Feanorian lantern. As they went, Lalwen gave orders for the last group to take the lamps from their holders and bring them along, passing them forward so that they were evenly distributed among the groups. The lamps were small but bright, and had covers over them which could be easily snapped shut.

They climbed for ages what was a fairly gentle slope, winding upward into the heart of the Ered Wethrin. Great carts had been wheeled through this passage for years and the floor was smooth to the point of being slippery in places, covered in soft, powdery dust that flew upward at the slightest provocation. Soon Lalwen could hear coughing from the groups behind her, and passed down instructions to breathe through cloth if possible. The dry air and the dust was making them all thirsty, but they had little in the way of water with them.

And yet the journey was mainly uneventful. They stopped after a undefinable length of time to rest briefly, lining up against the smooth stone walls and leaning against them rather than sit down. Because there was no queen in Barad Eithel, the secret of lembas bread rested with Lalwen, and although she did not have much, having given nearly all to the troops before battle, she had preserved some, and given enough for each group to its leader. A small ration was passed out at this point, and everyone ate in silence, murmuring softly only of practical things, for a few minutes, not daring to think of what was happening beyond the mountain itself. Even the usually-high spirits of the Edain boys were subdued and quiet now, fearing what would be happening to their loved ones on the battlefield and in the city.

When they marched onward in the dust and the silent warmth, Lalwen felt, just for an instant, a cold chill racing down her spine, an echo of loss and sorrow spilling over her. A faint memory of Fingon's words, days before, shouted from the battlements and answered by the assembled hosts, swept through her. Outside, it was sunset of the day after the battle's end; a world forever changed and lost. No more could there be victory, only survival.

The smell of rain and wet earth at last, after so long underground, was refreshing beyond words. Lalwen halted the group and called out, "We've made it through!" She dropped her voice a little, letting the words pass down the line of those who followed so that all received the message. "And yet, the danger we face has only begun. We cannot stay long here on this side of the mountains, only this night. With the dawn, however foul, however fair, we move on."

Turning, she ventured out of the mines and onto the green grass of the forest that grew this side of the Ered Wethrin. It was a grey evening, dark clouds covering the sky and only a little light shone through in the West. Misty rain drifted down all around her, gathering on her clothes and in her hair. But after the long dust of the journey, she took in a deep breath and sighed. For a moment, they could rest.