Upon the Branching Years by IgnobleBard

The Fall

What it says on the tin.

“I must get to the Tree!” Legolas cried, pulling on his pants and boots, throwing his shirt haphazardly over his head.

“What’s happening?” Glorfindel said. “He grabbed him painfully by the shoulders. “What do you know?”

Legolas groaned, his eyes filled with horrified tears. “Morgoth attacks! Gondolin is compromised. Please, I must go!”

But Glorfindel only gripped him tighter. “How do you know this? How?” He shook him roughly.

Legolas could not meet his eyes. “Ulmo told me. Ulmo sent me here. I was not allowed to tell anyone. I was told events must play out as they will. Don your armor and call your men. There is no time!”

Glorfindel released him, a look of stunned betrayal on his face. “This is what you’ve been hiding, all this time. We could have prepared. We could have…”

“Not for this,” Legolas said. “Never for this. Call your men, now!”

The armory at the Tree was chaos. The knights were putting on armor or being helped into it, grabbing weapons, falling into line. Legolas armored up with the rest and hefted his heavy club with his good arm. He would not swing with his still healing fighting arm until he had to. A few moments after Legolas had readied himself Galdor strode in, formidable in his temper.

“Everyone fall in. Follow me to the gates. We fight with the Hammer of Wrath. Remember, if we fall, the city is breached.”

The forces of the Tree strode forth to battle. Rog’s men were already at the gates and in their formation when they arrived. A host of Orcs and Balrogs, with Gothmog leading their charge, was surging across the plain like a tempest through the branches of a great oak. Immense serpents and fire drakes advanced with them, writhing obscenely across ground quaking beneath their massive bodies, but they did not unleash their fire - not yet.

The history of the battle Legolas had read was utterly inadequate in its account of this hellish scene. He and the knights of the Tree used their slings, dropping orcs from a distance, the onslaught barely making a notch in their numbers as they drove forward. Arrows struck from the walls above as the men of the Heavenly Arch and Swallow rained their volleys upon the enemy, their arrows felling many orcs though they could not pierce the Balrogs nor the armored scales of the worms. When the distance closed the knights of the Tree fell upon the orcs with their spiked clubs but the forces of Melkor broke through their lines, as well as those of Rog, and stormed the gate.

No foe Legolas had ever faced made him feel the weight of despair he experienced at the sight of these monstrous, sinuous serpents of metal, birthing multitudes of orcs from their iron bellies. Yet the courage of Galdor inspired him and he laid about with his club, fighting with the ferocity Erestor and the others had drilled into him on days when he thought himself too weary to strike another blow.

In the chaos, the knights of the Hammer of Wrath began to fall in ever greater numbers but the remaining knights doubled their efforts and fought on tirelessly. The image of Rog in all his valorous fury was a sight burned into Legolas’ mind and heart in that moment. When it became clear the battle for the gate was lost, Galdor ordered a retreat and they entered city streets befouled by Melkor’s unholy hordes, its houses and gardens aflame.

They fell back to the Square of the Folkwell, watching helplessly as the great trees there went up like torches under the breath of a fire drake. Smoke and ash filled the air, choking and hot, but Galdor regrouped their reduced numbers and they fought on. Tuor came running out of the smoke, carrying a wounded Ecthelion, pursued by a host of enemies. Galdor and the knights of the Tree attacked these pursuers, killing many. They couldn’t hold the enemy at bay long and were slowly forced to give ground, retreating to the King’s Square.

For hours the battle raged until, with the last of the remaining men, barricades were erected to give them breathing room while the city fell around them. Glorfindel arrived at the last after a narrow escape from the Great Market. He turned a grim eye to Legolas who gave him a helpless, pleading look. Turgon, distraught and realizing the hopelessness of the battle threw his crown at the roots of Glingal with a dreadful cry.

“Go now! I am no longer your king.”

Galdor picked up the crown and held it out to him but Turgon refused. “This punishment is my due, but my people, my courageous knights, my loyal Lords do not deserve this fate. You must follow Tuor now. Save yourselves and as many others as you can. Go!” He turned and entered his tower, a shattered man, followed by his loyal personal guard.

“We cannot stay here,” Galdor said. “We must gather the people and make for the Way of Escape.”

“No,” Tuor said. “There is another way, a secret way made at Idril’s behest. It leads to the Eagle’s cleft. Whoever you are able to find, take that way from my House.”

“But that will take us over the widest part of Tumladen,” Erestor said. “We will be seen and cut down.”

“Tuor is right. It is the only way,” Legolas said.

A debate began as the Lords and knights began to talk over each other. Glorfindel cut through their voices with a shout. They all stopped and turned to him in surprise.

“Listen to Legolas,” he said shortly, his eyes hard.

Before anyone had time to answer, the barricades crumbled and Gothmog, flanked by a contingent of orcs, strode into the square. “Which of you dare face me?” he challenged.

Ecthelion, who had recovered his strength, stepped forward, sword in hand. Yet before he could attack, Gothmog struck him a mighty blow from his flaming whip, curling it around Ecthelion’s sword arm, melting through his vambrace. He cried out in anguish but rushed the Balrog, striking him with the spike of his helmet. The others fought their way past the barricades in sheer desperation as Ecthelion and Gothmog disappeared with a splash into the massive fountain of the king.

Tuor led them to his house where Idril, bearing a bloody sword, was directing survivors down the stair leading to the secret tunnel out of the city. When she saw Tuor she ran to him and they embraced. She explained that she had sent Eärendil ahead of them with the last of their soldiers. Then together they began gathering the stream of traumatized, frightened Elves and directing them to the stairs. The house was in flaming ruins and Legolas turned for a last look at the city. To the east were the crumbling towers of the Tree and Heavenly Arch. To the north the steam of the city’s ruined fountains rose in thick mists, blotting out the dim lights of of the festival lamps, to the west he saw a fire drake sending sheets of flame into the fighters defending the broken wall to the last man. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, startled when Galdor touched his arm.

“Come, Legolas. Down the tunnel. Our battle is not over yet. We must get these people to safety.”

He and Galdor went down into the tunnel, urging people to keep going as fiery heat from the surrounding conflagration above and dust within turned the escape route into a chaotic, choking nightmare. Rocks caved in from the force of the destruction above littered the floor while the dead created a dreadful gauntlet for the escapees to pass, their cries and weeping echoing piteously from the narrow walls as they struggled forward.

The way was long and difficult but eventually Legolas and Galdor stumbled out into a brushy ravine, turning to assist anyone who needed it as the refugees spilled, frenzied, from the tunnel. While everyone huddled together looking to their leaders for guidance, a debate arose as to which direction to go. One group decided to seek the Way of Escape but Tuor advised that, though longer, the Cristhorn was the safer because if they could make it through that way the Great Eagles would aid their flight.

The Lords of the Houses that still had men in their command followed Tuor. Galdor, Legolas, Erestor and a few others of the Tree took the vanguard and they led the way across the plain. A thick fog of smoke and steam settled over the land like a shroud, making it nearly impossible for the Elves to find their way in the dark.

Legolas continued forward until he was halted by a cry from Galdor.

“I’ve lost sight of you, lad. It’s dark as the pits of Angband out here. How will we find our way?”

“I know the way to the Cristhorn and Cirith Thoronath if you trust me to lead,” Legolas said.

“Then lead on, but keep steady so those following can see you.”

It was painfully slow with so many, but Legolas led them unerringly across the plain. Accustomed to navigating the darkness beneath the trees of Mirkwood he set the smoothest course he could manage over grass and hillock to ease the way of the women and the wounded. The mist covered their escape even to the peaks of the Eagle’s Cleft, where the feeble rays of the rising sun touched his heart with a tenuous hope.