Lorgan by Tomour

Chapter 1

Third chapter of Tuor Dreams of Gondolin.

Read Chapter 1

Chapter 3 Lorgan

In the early summer of Tuor’s sixteenth year, when all were gathered round dinner fires, Annael made an announcement.  "We are setting out, to pass through the mountains and then travel south to the mouths of the River Sirion."  Everyone began talking at once, except Tuor who stood at the announcement, then stepped back to the wall, his arms crossed listening and looking at his feet.  Later his foster-father came to him.  "I know you wished we would seek Gondolin."  

“Why did you not tell me ahead of time?” Tour demanded.

Annael smiled, “Ah, Tuor. I’ve kept nothing from you. I only decided today to set the day of departure and make this announcement.” But Tuor remained sullen. 

Within the week the gray elves set out in several well organized troops.  Tuor walked along dourly as they made their way swiftly onto the plains north of Dor-Lomin.  They sought the cover of darkness, leaving just past the gray of evening twilight.  They walked without torch or lamp.  Their ancient eyes adjusted to the starlight unlike any human. 

Four hours out from Androth scouts whistled warning of a threat from the north.  

Quickly, Annael gave the signal to turn south, but it was too late. A force of Orcs had shadowed them and now rushed up from the southwest.  Caught between the two, and outnumbered, Annael saw their only hope of survival now was to scatter like bats into the cloak of night. He called and in an instant the whole community dissolved into various, pre-selected clumps going in any direction open to them. Tuor joined a group of fighters who ran parallel with Annael's cluster.

 Annael's group wheeled to face an attack, and away from Tuor.   Seeing this, anger rose and turned him to attack those orcs. His companions turned with him. Their first strike was unexpected and they easily broke the orc's ranks.  As his enemies regrouped, Tuor thought of his father at the battle of Unnumbered Tears defending the escape of Turgon. He spoke to the stars above, “If I am to die let me be remembered in song, fighting for the liberation of my master and people.” He dropped his traveling pack and cried out “For Annael!”  

 Each stroke of his sword gave even more power to his will. He stood his ground blocking blows and chopping tirelessly.  The groans and croaks of his enemies  hardened him. The Easterlings seemed to hold back as vile orcs fell bleeding to the ground. Then he realized they were not trying to kill him but pace themselves, so as to take him captive.  For most of an hour Tuor stood his ground, but the enemy was legion. One by one his companions fell, even Amdir.

 Finally, as he wearied and slowed, they struck him with pummeling blows till he dropped to his knees. They bound him in ropes like a wild bull; a prize for their master. Since he had stood so tall and fierce they assumed he was the elven king.  They taunted him “You rule only the dead now” as they pulled him to his feet and forced him to march.  Mostly, Tuor kept his eyes on the earth, carefully watching the ground ahead of his feet, trying not to smile, knowing in his heart that Annael had escaped. The orcs took this as despair and growled in glee.

Pain and weariness seeped into his limbs. As he trudged along Tuor looked up to get his bearings and noticed dogs trotting along with the troop. Lanky and rough were these short-faced beasts. Still, they looked at him with curiosity wondering at this new creature. He had never faced dogs before and did not know if they were like wild animals or vicious orcs.  One came close to sniff him. He growled at it glaring with his eyes to say "I am no victim.” It growled back but then turned away and Tuor felt as though this was the start of a conversation.  

The Orc guard nearest him tugged Tuor’s ropes and asked in broken Sindarin, “You dogs fear?”  Tuor only lowered his head again and the Orcs laughed in victory and spite.  

Through the dark, they kept in a rough march right up to the mead-hall of Lorgan the Easterling. The orcs were forced to release their prisoner and weight outside the hall, growling.  Lorgan ruled only men and women, or enslaved them.  The elves he could not trust as slaves and simply killed those he could.  But Tuor was a prize.

Tuor was brought by men with drawn swords into the long lodge, its central hall fetid with smoke and sweat.  He looked at the worn wooden floor and wondered if his mother had ever walked these boards.  

When the Chief, Lorgan, demanded "What is your name?" Tuor looked up.  

Lorgan had dark hair like the elves, but thicker and not as long. His light skin, roughed  by the scrubbing of years and weather, made him look very old. His stocky jaw gave him the face of a well fed dog.  

Tuor spoke clearly, "Tuor, son of Huor, from the House of Hador, Foster-son of Annael the elf." 

At this Lorgan laughed with his raucous voice echoing from wooden walls. Lorgan said, "No longer, no more.” Then his eyes turned hard, rising and speaking formally to his men, “It is my pleasure, to take as slave, the son of two of the Lord’s most hated enemies, Edain and Elf." Then he nodded and smiled fatly, looking to Tuor "Now, under my foot is Hithlum and the whole House of Hador as well!" 

His voice turned to a growl, "Reward the orcs with the promised gold, and get him out of my sight.”  Tuor was locked in a wooden shed to heal or to die. He lay there three days.

Those days stretched into three years he remained a slave and beast of burden. He felt very alone. The other slaves saw him as alien and dangerous.  Yet, there was one small group that welcomed Tuor in and gave him solace, Lorgan’s pack of hunting dogs.  He let them roam the grounds as guards. To the unfamiliar they seemed fierce, bloodthirsty beasts. But they were well trained, and Tuor found them to be good companions. They seemed to accept him as one of them. Of medium build and short, golden fur they cared only for food, and sifting their relations with others.  They thrilled to be called upon or attended to for any reason. Sometimes he saved a small scrap of meat. He took care to always share first with the alpha, a female named Ripper. 

Tuor admired their virtues: loyal, tough and obedient on the outside; joyful and free on the inside.  He loved that they always were ready to run, ready to fight and ready to play. In idle times he taught them to fetch sticks and rubbed their thick heads. When they went out on the hunt, Tuor listened to their barks and howls till they vanished into the silent valley. Then he waited their return. 

One evening, Tuor was told to bunch sticks and leaves into a great pile for a bonfire. Lorgan sat nearby. After watching Tuor’s labor for a while he growled.  "Some fools say there are kind gods who live beyond the sea."  

Tuor, continued his work in silence. Lorgan demanded, “Do you believe such damn stupidity?" Tuor stopped his work, but said nothing, looking down.  He had wondered.  All that he really knew of the Valar only came from stories told by elves.  

Lorgan stood up, frustrated by Tuor’s dumbness.  "It matters not.  Know the truth, there is only one Lord!" 

Tuor nodded hoping to return to his work.  

Lorgan narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms across his broad chest.  

"Yavana, Elbereth, they are mere dreams, incorporeal as birds.  But The Lord of All lives! He dwells here with us as the mightiest power in Middle Earth.  He summons armies, brings men and Orc together as one, crushes elves and rebels into the dust, and rewards those who are loyal to him!" Tuor was stunned to hear of the Power of Terror and Hate spoken of in terms of awe or hope.

"So" Lorgan accused,  ”you have never beheld the awesome Morgoth walking the dust and ice.  Well, then, I am your God. I am the only power that matters to you, I am the beginning and the end, and don't you forget it!" 

With this Lorgan stepped up and punched him. Tuor dropped to his knees.  Lorgan grunted, "All who ever cared about you have abandoned your sorry hide to rot in my hands." He spit on Tuor. "Despair of the elves, slave. Curse the fates, and die."

But, Tuor did not die, nor despair. Instead, he endured pains and taunts with watchful patience. Blows and insults rolled over him like water over a ducks’s back.  In fact, Tuor thought of water dammed; how it yielded, flowed back, quietly pooling, and grew in strength until a way out could be found. He remembered talking with Annael one summer day.  They stood by an alder tree listening to the sound of a creek.  Annael was holding a smooth river stone turning it in the sunlight. He said, "Water is soft and yielding, yet it is more powerful than any stone, given time." 

 

Tuor bowed his head, and kept it so in Lorgan's presence, quiet as still waters.  

He waited for something or someone to open a way and carry him out of this valley through the hidden gate.