We were never meant to survive by lightofthetrees

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Chapter 1

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An eagle in the skies over Gondolin could mean only one thing: tidings from the outside world. Sometimes good, sometimes ill, but they always brought a change over the city. The eagles had brought word of the death of the High King at the hand of Morgoth, and had brought a wondrous tale of an impossible jewel stolen from the Enemy’s iron crown. 

What news do they carry today? Rog wondered as he made his early morning walk across the courtyard from his quarters to the forge, shading his eyes against the first rays of the sun reflecting off of the white stone of the Tower of the King. Would they bring hope or despair? 

He would find out soon enough. Surely whatever words were important enough to reach Gondolin would soon be shared among its Lords. There was little sense in worry or lengthy speculation. 

Rog busied himself with the daily tasks that had brought him comfort since the first fires flared to life in the forge of the House of the Hammer of Wrath. He donned his work apron and tied back his hair with a fabric band. He opened the wooden shutters on the windows and archways, bathing the workshop in pale light. He surveyed the progress the House’s apprentices had made the day before—some armor repairs for the city guard, and then the usual assortment of arrowheads, horseshoes, nails, and hinges—and decided that he would put Raumolíre and Baralin on delivery duty for the morning. 

He never imagined that he would one day be a Lord in a city of stone, but he found that, despite his lack of political experience, the role suited him.

Among his Avari kin, the swords and spears he crafted and the strength of his arms against Orcish raiders spoke louder than any claim to power. In Angband, he had amassed something of a following among the thralls because he would always lend an ear, a secret helping hand, or an extra morsel of food. Suddenly, he had found himself the leader of the largest group of escapees ever to flee the pits of Angband, taking up a smith’s hammer and seizing the opportunity granted by the rising of the Sun to seek freedom at last. 

Here, those who had survived the journey from Angband to the shores of Lake Mithrim made up most of the members of his House. They still looked to him, and he rewarded their loyalty with devotion of his own. Rog avoided the petty arguments that sometimes emerged amongst the other Lords, and he dedicated himself to making sure his people had what they needed—food, shelter, and meaningful work or weapons training to occupy their hands and minds. 

“Did you see the eagle, my lord?” Journeyman Tologon asked, breathless, entering the forge just as Rog stood from lighting the fire. He was nearly as tall as Rog himself, but was slender as his Lord was broad. He was the youngest of the senior smiths of the House of the Hammer, but his keen mind, steady hand, and cheerful nature would take him far, Rog thought. Cautious, silver-haired Gwethril followed after him, offering Rog her usual wave in greeting as she made her way to her workbench, but her good eye sparkled with interest at how he might answer. 

“Well, did you?” Tologon pressed. 

“Aye.” 

“What do you think has happened?” 

Rog shrugged and wiped his hands on his leather apron. “I expect the King will call a council if it is something important.” 

“Well, it has to be something important! Otherwise the eagle would not have come! You must tell us what His Majesty says!” 

“All right, young Tologon” Rog replied, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “If I am at liberty to share, I will.”

Tologon nodded his impatient satisfaction with that answer and settled at his own workstation, shuffling through several layers of design sketches before he found one to fully occupy his attention. 

Gwethril, too, appeared appeased, and began gathering materials for the beginnings of her newest project—a broadsword, Rog recalled. It would be a gift for her betrothed, a Noldo from the House of the Mole. Rog could not help a fond smile at the thought that they had asked him, as Lord of one of the great houses, to preside over the public declaration of their wedding vows. 

As the rest of the House’s smiths and apprentices arrived, they too were abuzz with interest in what tidings had been delivered. Eventually, though, the workshop settled into its regular rhythm. Rog issued his orders to Raumolíre and Baralin, cutting off an increasingly spirited argument between the two young elves about whether the eagles that served as messengers talked or used osanwë or carried scrolls in their talons. Metal was heated and shaped, the smell of charcoal and the sound of hammers filled the air. Soon enough, everything would change, but Rog intended to savor this routine morning for as long as he could.

--

Rog watched the flames under the kettle, comforted by their gentle flickering. He knew sleep would be difficult to find, this night. The decision by the Council had been unanimous: the forces of Gondolin would march to war.

War. The word sounded in his mind like the blast from a distant horn, awakening an ancient thrumming in his blood that was half fury and half hope. This could be it—the final reckoning with the Enemy who had plagued their land for so long, the battle that could strike a crippling blow against him. With Elves, Dwarves, and Men standing together, emboldened by the triumph of Luthien and the noble sacrifice of Fingolfin, perhaps there could finally be meaningful victory. It had been many years since Rog had fought in anything but a sparring match or the melee at the yearly Games, but now his hands itched to take up his hammer for a cause. 

But he wondered whether the elves of his House would feel as he did. Tomorrow he would call them and relay the news, but he resolved now that he would not ask any to join whose hearts did not burn as his did with the desire to strike at the Enemy. Some had set aside their blades and had made true homes here. They had taken up crafts of their own. They had started families. If they wished never to see blood and death again, he would not fault them. 

The soft start to the kettle’s whistle drew Rog from his thoughts, and he removed it from its hook over the fire, his hand wrapped in a thick cloth glove. He poured its boiling contents into the waiting ceramic mug on the kitchen table before him. Pale gold seeped slowly from the small ball inside, made of metal netting and filled with fragrant lemongrass and crushed chamomile flowers. 

Rog heaved a contented sigh and closed his eyes for just a moment, and in that moment, someone knocked at the kitchen door. 

It was a strange hour for anyone to come calling, but it had been a strange day. When Rog pulled the door open, he was not entirely surprised to find the Lord of the House of the Mole standing in the moonlit kitchen garden, face shadowed by the fall of his night-dark hair.

“I...hoped I would find you here,” the young elf said, as if he’d meant to say something else but had settled on those words.

“Ah, Lómion! Please come in.” Rog managed to stop himself before adding ‘child.’ “I believe I have enough hot water for a second cup of tea, if you would like some.” 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” 

“Of course not! Sit. Tell me what has you wandering the city at this hour.”

“I was not wandering,” Lómion said tersely, moving to stand beside a chair without sitting down. 

“Then you sought me out specifically?” Rog pulled a few small metal boxes from a nearby cabinet. None were labeled, but he seemed to know what was in each one by its shape. “How do you feel about lavender?” 

Lómion was quiet for a moment. “Yes.” 

Rog scooped a mixture of lavender and tea leaves into another steeping ball and placed it in a mug, then poured more hot water over it. “Would you care to tell me what is on your mind?” he asked as he set the mug down next to Maeglin and sat back in his own chair. “If you’d only like tea and company, of course, I wouldn’t be offended.” 

Lómion shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about the Council meeting this afternoon. I want—” He sighed, and finally sat, though he seemed as if he could easily get to his feet again and flee at any moment, like a small bird perched on a branch. “I want to go.” 

Rog’s brows rose over the edge of his mug as he took the first sip of his tea. When the King had announced that Lómion would stay behind and rule in his stead, Rog thought it a generous gesture. Lómion was young, still scarcely more than a child compared to the city’s other Lords, and he had already suffered such a grave tragedy in his young life. Why subject him to the horrors of battling against the hordes of Angband if there was an alternative?

“Idril should be regent,” Lómion said after a few moments. “The people respect her—they love her. They will listen to her, and...” He trailed off as if he meant to add something else, but forced himself to be silent instead of taking his thoughts and words wandering where they ought not to go. That was not so unusual for Lómion—he seemed more conscious of his words than most, constantly dancing on the edge of revealing too much, or sending whoever he was talking to into a rage. Many in Rog’s House behaved similarly. Poor child—what must Lómion’s life in Nan Elmoth have been to shape his habits so?

But Rog thought he saw the crux of Lómion’s dilemma. “Do you want to go because you want to fight, or because you do not feel suited to the task your uncle has given you?” 

Lómion remained silent, eyes fixed on the surface of the water in his mug and the wisps of steam rising from it. “If I was not regent, I could not remain behind. A Lord of Gondolin should defend their King.” 

“Hm. That is not the whole of it.” 

Lómion inhaled sharply through his nose, as if he had not expected to be pushed on that point. Then he closed his eyes, and Rog could almost see him calculating what he would say. “The people of the city mistrust me. Do not say they do not—you are kind, but I have heard the whispers. If I stay, they would call me a scheming usurper or a coward. Craven, traitorous, like my father.”

His fingers trembled as he reached for his cup and drank from it, thereby hiding the bitterness of his expression.

“You understand that you are none of those things,” Rog said, tone even, as he met Lómion’s eyes. 

Lómion looked away. “I hope not to be. But I want—” He paused again. “No. Let me put it like this. Those who view me with suspicion would expect me to stay and claim power for myself, or to hide in the mines while the other Lords fight beside their King. I do not want to be who they expect. I want to defend our city, and I want to ride to my uncle Fingon’s aid.” 

Rog nodded. “It sounds to me like you have made your decision.” 

“I suppose I have,” Lómion said. His relief was quickly replaced by a grimace, and he moved to leave his chair, as Rog had suspected he might. “Ai, I am sorry to have wasted your time. I did not even ask for any advice, as I thought I would. I simply talked at you.” 

“Time spent with friends is never wasted, Lómion. Stay. Please. Finish your tea.”