The Last Scion of Tevildo by Lindariel

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The Battle of Flame and Shadow

The forecourt of Angband, the summer of 456.  Trouble comes to Melkoré's very doorstep, heralding a great change for the littlest Tevildion.  Warning: This chapter has canon battle violence and character death.

This chapter builds by permission on a friend's guest drabble, available on this site at https://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/node/3472/single?page=0.

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Rútaura jerked awake. He was used to being awakened by the comings and goings of the orki, but no noise the orki had ever made caused the white blazes on his black ears to twitch like these blasts. The shivering vibrations clove the air like a stooping eagle and made him want to do something, but he had no idea what. He sprang to his feet, ears pricked, tail stiff, pupils dilated despite the sun high overhead, not even checking to see whether any of the orki were near enough to be threatening.

His makeshift lair between two rocks leaning up against the fortress wall gave him an excellent view of the mustering ground outside Angamandi. He had found many such hiding spots in the six moons he had spent living in Melkoré's forecourt, and he never slept in the same one twice in a row. Rútaura was doing his best to take Sorontári's advice: be quick, be quiet, and survive. Keeping away from the orki by night was half his labor, and the other half was keeping fed by day. But the forecourt was often busy, crowded with the comings and goings of not just orki but plenty of bigger, scarier things. Some creatures, particularly the huge creeping ones, stank even more than this blasted, sulphurous plain. Fortunately, although most of the larger creatures seemed to avoid the daylight, Rútaura had been able to remember enough of his dam's teachings to successfully hunt smaller prey. This morning it had been naught but a scrawny vole, but some days it was a rat or even, once, a weasel. Still, his belly had been full enough for sleep until the air had been cleft by the sound that had awakened him.

After a moment he spotted movement, far enough away not to be threatening yet. He stood his ground for a moment, watching a two-legged figure like the orki, only taller and straighter, moving toward him. It had a shiny, stiff skin like many of the orki, but cool and blue-white instead of red and black, and it reflected light like water in a pool. Rútaura slunk off to a safe distance as the figure walked up to the door of the fortress, pounding upon it with a fist and shouting.

Come forth, thou coward lurking lord

to fight with thine own hand and sword!

Thou wielder of hosts of slaves and thrall,

pit-dweller, shielded by strong walls,

thou foe of gods and elven-race,

come forth and show thy craven face!

Come forth thou coward king, and fight with thine own hand! Den-dweller, wielder of thralls, liar and lurker, foe of gods and Elves, come for I would see thy craven face!

Its voice was like the horn: high, sweet, musical, and colder than ice. Rútaura heard lights welling in the sound of it too, great splashes of gold and silver, warm as his dam's fur, cool as mountain cave springs. What was this being?

Something stirred in the depths of the earth, answering in a sepulchral voice. The ground shook as it moved, each earthquake louder than the one before it, until the great door opened upon the Uprising in Might.

Afterwards Rútaura could never remember much about the progress of the battle. He spent as much time bounding from hiding place to hiding place as he did watching the struggle. But it was as if a tiny being made of white flame assailed the embodiment of a shadowed mountain, the flame too bright to look upon, the shadow like a hole in the world. The ground shook with every impact of the Uprising in Might's giant hammer, and every anguished sound he made when the bright being wounded him with its blade like a star made Rútaura's ear blazes vibrate. He saw the orki hiding behind the flaps of their black tents pitched around the forecourt, squinting against the daylight; like himself, they seemed fearful to watch yet unable to turn away from the battle. He lost count of the times they screeched and wailed at each fresh wound done to the mountain by the flame.

The sun westered as the flame and the shadow strove against one another, moving hither and thither across the plain. The shadow strove ever to turn its back to the sun, but the flame was more agile and would not permit it. For a moment Rútaura saw the mountain force the flame to face the sun, and he winced in sympathy for the pain of looking into the sun. But then a shadow that did not come from the mountain moved across the flame. Rútaura looked up and saw an Eagle circling above the battle, shading the flame from the brightness of the westering sun. Was the bright being also a friend of Eagles?

Rútaura felt the world around him come to a standstill as the strange bright being suddenly fell backward into one of the great gashes the Uprising in Might had ripped into the earth. The orki screeches faded before a sucking wind that rushed past his ears as if a storm approached. The Uprising in Might shuddered as a shadow fell upon his shadow, and he waved hammer and shield to ward off the Eagle diving at his head.

In that instant an impulse drove Rútaura to the edge of the pit, to look into the being's eyes. The being blinked back up at him; the pain glazing its eyes cleared, and Rútaura saw they shone as bright as the three stars the Uprising in Might wore on its head. "Flee!" it gasped, "Take the message of my fate to Sorontar! Flee! Before he returns!"

Overcome with emotions he did not understand, Rútaura turned and bolted from the pit. Behind him he heard the sound of metal crunching as the bright being groaned, followed immediately by a wet sort of sound. Horror and pity blinded Rútaura then, and he doubled his speed. The being choked. The Uprising in Might screamed again, louder and more outraged than ever before, to the accompaniment of what sounded like rushing water. Rútaura thought the very mountains must be falling, and he was afraid to look back. He ran so heedlessly that he did not even notice when Sorontári alit right in front of him, and he collided with her leg. He bounced off, gathered himself, and leapt away in surprise only to hear her address him.

"Wait, child! Will you fly again with me and leave this place forever?"

As quickly as the words passed her beak, Rútaura bounded back toward her. "Oh yes, please!" he squeaked. "But this time I want to see where we are going."

"Very well, child. Climb up to my shoulders and ride at my neck," agreed the Eagle. She set her tail to the ground and Rútaura climbed right up her spine. "But I will not be able to snatch you if you fall, so you must hold on carefully."

The Eagle leaned forward, raising her wings. Rútaura felt the tension of great muscles shifting beneath him, as if Sorontári were about to spring onto prey. Then they left the ground, and Rútaura's stomach lurched as the hollow feeling of flying overwhelmed his entire body. For a moment he shut his eyes, choking as the sudden wind drove the evil fumes of the volcanoes into his face and flinching as he heard the shrieks of another Eagle on the wind. But he was determined not to miss his first opportunity to see how the world looked when you were flying, and so he forced his eyes open.

Sorontári was approaching the pit where the bright warrior had fallen. The Uprising in Might had picked him up and snapped his spine, bending his body nearly double before flinging it back down. He lay half-in, half-out of the pit, face to the sky atop a puddle of black smoking liquid. Rútaura was taken by surprise and lurched to one side of Sorontári's neck as she dived to gather the broken warrior into her claws, sword and shield and all. He sought to anchor himself beneath the top layer of her neck feathers. Sorontári's head jerked. "Your claws are larger now, and you are stronger, Mighty Lion. Settle yourself carefully, for this will be a very long ride."

This time Sorontári's spring was even greater as she rose into the air with her burden. Rútaura almost forgot about his lurching stomach as he craned his neck to take one last look at the place he had survived for six moons. In the red light of sunset he saw the Uprising in Might standing amid the slag, the ash-heaps, and the sharp rough-grained rocks pounded into pits by his attempts to smash the bright being; hammer and shield discarded at his feet, Melkoré was holding his arms over his face which dripped more of that black smoking liquid as an Eagle cried and stooped to claw at him again. Rútaura saw the orki venturing from their black tents, hissing to one another. He saw the three volcanoes belching smoke overhead, the dark door gaping open at their base, and all the miserable little holes in which he had been forced to hide. Angamandi! He would never forget that view.

 

Not even Rútaura's delight in flying was enough to give him clear memories of most of that trip. Sorontári flew at first over endless scorched plains riven with great serpentine furrows between tumbled hillocks of bleaching bones. The red sun shone in Rútaura's right eye until it set into roils of purple and black cloud. His vision shifted and he saw dark mountains ahead in the night, but it seemed to take hours to reach them.

Sorontári set down on a clearing high in the hills, gently depositing the body of the bright warrior onto the mossy sward. "Well done, Mighty Lion, you have survived," she said, "now come down and rest."

Rútaura could not imagine why he felt so sore after doing nothing but holding onto a flying Eagle for hours, but he was near exhaustion. He slid off the Eagle's shoulder and landed in some kind of prickly bush, squalled like a kitling, then righted himself on the ground. He trotted over to the body, smelling the cool blood and the black ichor besmirching it. "What kind of animal is this, Sorontári?" he asked after filling his nose with the unfamiliar scents.

"This is no animal," she replied. "It is an Elf. Do you know that part of the Lore? 'Eldest of all, the Elf-children'?"

Considering for a moment, "no," concluded Rútaura. "My dam did not teach me that. Where do they come in the Lore?"

"At the very beginning," she answered.

First name the four, the free peoples:

Eldest of all, the elf-children;
Dwarf the delver, dark are his houses;
Ent the earthborn, old as mountains;
Man the mortal, master of horses.

"Are the orki in the Lore also? For this Elf walked on two feet like the orki."

"No, child," she said with a sound Rútaura thought might be a sigh. "The orki were made by Melkoré in mockery of Elves, and they are not counted in the Lore. The Elves were born to create, but the orki were made to destroy."

"I do not understand," Rútaura said. "Was this Elf not trying to destroy the Uprising in Might?"

"Yes, this Elf's people call him simply Morgoth, the Enemy, for he hates and fears Elves and has killed many of them."

Sorontári broke off speaking and looked to the sky. Rútaura followed her gaze and saw another Eagle circling toward their location. It landed neatly, silently, and walked toward Sorontári who walked toward it. Their necks bent and they touched beaks, then both their bodies rippled with what Rútaura was now sure was sighing.

"I am called Sorontár," the second Eagle said, fixing Rútaura with a piercing glance. Rútaura's eyes widened in understanding; this was Sorontári's mate, the second Eagle, the one who had attacked Morgoth while Sorontári was escaping with Rútaura and the body of the Elf.

Rútaura, remembering his long-disused yet properly taught manners, gave his best bow to this new Eagle. His dam would have approved, and so did his creaky muscles. He bowed again, stretching deeply. "I am called Rútaura," he said in reply, "and I am hungry."

Sorontár looked at him blankly for a moment and then said "oh yes, of course you are." He and Sorontári exchanged a long look in which Rútaura thought there were many words, and then he flew away.

"He will bring back something for us all to eat," said Sorontári, "and then we will rest until daybreak."

"What happens then?"

"When one of the free peoples dies, their kin enclose the body in earth or stone. We will take the body of this Elf to his son, and there you will find a new and more pleasant place to live."

Rútaura fell silent, considering his newly revealed future. He hoped there would be no orki. Yawning, he curled up on the ground as far from the dead Elf as he felt comfortable going and began grooming himself. The night air was warmer here than he was used to, and the moss springy, which made him sleepy. Maybe if he could just get his front paws tidy....

He jerked awake to the scent of fresh blood, leaping up to look for the source. It was still dark. Sorontár had returned with a very large dead creature, and the two Eagles were beginning to pick at it. It had four legs, a thick body, coarse hair, a long rounded muzzle, big teeth, and two horns curling back from its face. Sorontári finished pulling a leg off the carcass and flung it nearer to him with a toss of her head. "Eat, Mighty Lion. There is plenty, and it is fresh." Rútaura pounced on the meat with an appetite honed by weeks of undereating. The meat was sweeter than any he had ever killed for himself. He wondered what creature it was, then thought of nothing else until he was so full he could barely drag himself away from the remains of the leg. He located a big cushion of moss, turned around on it three times, curled up in a ball, and fell asleep with his tail between his ears.

When Rútaura woke it was day. The two Eagles were busily pushing the bare bones of last night's meal over the side of the cliff. He stood up, stretching his entire body several times in the pale sunlight, then vanished behind the nearest rock. When he emerged, Sorontári looked over at him and said "ready to fly again, Mighty Lion?"

"Yes, please," he said. "I like seeing the ground from up there."

"Today the view will be somewhat more pleasant," she assured him, "and the trip will be shorter. Now climb up!"

Rútaura mounted up her tail to her neck and dug in as before. He tried to be more careful with his claws this time. From up there he watched as Sorontár gently gathered up his burden of dead Elf and took off. Sorontári leapt into the air to fly beside him, and today Rútaura was hardly even bothered by the hollow feeling in his stomach.

This morning the sun was obliquely in his left eye, and he had a fine view of where they were going. The air was more clear than he had ever seen, and there was no fume to it. He breathed deeply of the sweet, cold air, looking out and down with great interest as they flew across a great plain enclosed with rounded mountains. After a while the ground grew green with many tall trees, but the Eagles kept on flying toward higher mountains in the distance. The tops of these mountains were neither bare nor smoky; they were sharp and white on top. Not long after they began flying over the whitesharp mountains, Sorontár veered off to the right. Sorontári kept to her previous course, and soon she began to descend.

Beneath them Rútaura saw a large clear area surrounded with whitesharp mountains. On a low mountain in its midst was a series of smaller rocks, narrow and tall; some of the low ones seemed to be spouting water. Many shone white in the morning. As they moved lower Rútaura saw people moving among the smaller rocks and congregating in green areas. Their faces looked up, and he could hear their voices calling fair and clear. He heard light in the sound of them. Were these the Elves, the sons of the dead Elf?

Sorontári landed in the middle of the small rocks, on a gentle rise of land surrounded by green grass and splotches of bright colors. Two people approached them from opposite sides of the rise; they were red and white with some of the same kind of shiny skin on their torsos as the dead Elf had, only theirs was yellow, not white. "I must speak with the King," she declared, and they bowed low to her before running away.

"Now, Mighty Lion," she said quietly, "this is Gondolin, largest and fairest of all the cities in this land. Here live many Elves, and their king is son to that Elf we have brought out of Angamandi. You may get down and run away now to see this new place, or you may stay with me as I speak with the King. But decide quickly, because Turukáno Aran will not keep me waiting long. Yonder he comes now," she said.

Hurrying toward them was a white and yellow Elf. Behind him streamed dozens of other Elves in all colors. Rútaura took the opportunity to slide down the Eagle's back. He landed on a plot of grass, crouched, and looked about warily for a moment. No one seemed to have noticed him in the shuffle. But just as he was gathering himself to dash toward the nearest tree, a blue and yellow Elf moved from the shadow it to intercept him. "Alatulya, yaulë!" he sang out. "How important you must be that the Queen of Eagles should bear you!" Again Rútaura heard light in the sound, stronger and clearer than ever. He stopped in his tracks, lashing his tail as he watched the Elf approach slowly. "Ahh, you are but a kitten!" the Elf continued. "Come with me and I will find you some milk to drink."

Rútaura looked back at the approaching crowd. The Elf in front, the one in white, drew himself up before the Eagle and bowed deeply. Rútaura hesitated. He had not eaten since the middle of the night, and here it was midday. Maybe it was time to strike out on his own, explore all the new scents, and see what this new home of his had to offer. Arching his back, he sidled up to the nearby Elf sideways and purred loudly. Bending down, the Elf laughed, and the sound of it showered like silver stars through the clear air. Rútaura inhaled the scent of a living Elf, deciding on the spot that he wanted to be friends with someone who smelled and sounded like that. He gathered himself and sprang onto the Elf's shoulder, settling into the tumble of yellow hair at its neck as the Elf stood up.

"Welcome to Gondolin, little one," laughed the Elf. "My name is Glorfindel, and we shall be friends."

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Chapter End Notes

orki (Qenya) -- orcs

Alatulya, yaulë! (Quenya) -- approximately, "hello, kitty!"

The words spoken by Fingolfin are quoted from The Nature of Middle-earth, ed. Carl F. Hostetter (2021), Part I, Section XXIII, "A Fragment from the Grey Annals." They were written by Tolkien, as were the words of the Lore of Living Creatures from The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, also quoted herein.