Upon Cirith Thoronath by StarSpray

Upon Cirith Thoronath

Read Upon Cirith Thoronath

Behind, Gondolin burns. It has been a blessing amid the curse, for the smoke and fumes that fell upon Tumladen hid them from questing eyes as they made their desperate dash from the passage to the mountain path. Tuor keeps looking back—to see that no one is struggling, but also to try to catch one last glimpse of the city through the haze. Perhaps elven eyes can pierce it, but his cannot. He sees Idril with a firm grip on E ärendil’s hand, keeping him close to her side. Eärendil has a smear of drying blood across his forehead that Tuor wants to wipe away but knows there isn't yet time. It isn’t his blood, at least. Eärendil’s expression is set, grim in a way that sits wrongly on the soft roundness of a child’s face.

“We are coming to the Cirith Thoronath,” Tuor calls, as the path ahead begins to narrow. On their right the cliff side rise up, sheer and grey and cold. On the left the already steep mountainside falls away, equally sheer. Already everyone is hugging the right side of the path; Tuor sees Idril pull Eärendil even closer. This opens up a way for someone to come from the rear to the front, and Glorfindel quickly takes it. He has lost his helm, and his hair has come loose of its braids, laying limp and matted with dirt and blood over his shoulders.

“Have you sent scouts ahead?” he asked.

“No,” said Tuor. He is not even sure they have skilled scouts with them. “But we have scouted this way before.”

“The Enemy must know all the ways out,” said Glorfindel. “It might be—” A horrid cacophony of cries erupts ahead of them, as orcs appear—up the cliff on hidden ledges, on the path, with bows and swords. And behind them rises a figure of darkness and flame. The heat rolls down the path over them, bringing the smell of burning flesh and bitter fear with it. Someone screams.

But the Gondolindrim have archers among them too, and orcs begin to fall from the cliff side, tumbling onto the path and then over the edge, white-fletched arrows stuck in them. They crash into others and take them over too. Tuor draws his battle ax and charges, Glorfindel a step behind him. It ’s a desperate and treacherous fight; too few of them can fight in one place at one time—and there is the balrog, looming over the orcs, coming inexorably closer.

Then Glorfindel surges forward with a great shout that echoes off the mountainside and for a moment silences even the orcs. He cuts his way through to the balrog, who rears up, brandishing both mace and whip. “Glorfindel!” Tuor cries, but the orcs close in behind him and there is no reaching him. “Archers!” Tuor calls over his shoulder, and arrows fly toward the balrog, kindling just before striking—but they seem useless, for the balrog only roars its rage and brings down his mace.

Glorfindel springs aside, and the duel begins in earnest. Even the orcs fell back, lest they be cast over the edge by mistake. The fight lasts only seconds, though watching it feels like much longer. At last Glorfindel lunges forward with a mighty shout and knocks the balrog off balance, sending it tumbling—but Glorfindel cannot catch himself.

“Glorfindel!” someone screams, and Tuor lurches forward himself, but he is too late. At the same time the orcs all shriek and surge forward, thinking to finish the job, but ear-shattering screams from above herald the arrival of the eagles, Thorondor at their head. They come in a flurry of wings and talons, casting all of the remaining orcs down the mountainside, or flinging them afar off into the air.

Even when the path is clear, none of the Gondolindrim move. Glorfindel has always been as a beacon, bright and full of life as the sun in high summer, and to imagine that light doused—it is, Tuor thinks bitterly, as unthinkable as the fall of Gondolin itself. He turns away from the ledge to rally everyone. They cannot linger.

Then a cry goes up, and he turns again to see Thorondor soar up, something small and golden grasped in his great talons. He circles a few times, before landing on a wider space some way ahead of them. Tuor hurries forward, Idril and the rest at his heels. Carefully, Thorondor lays the body of Glorfindel onto the cold stone. Wordlessly he bows his head to them, and then he is gone in a rush of wind, leaving behind nothing but a single large feather to drift down to the mountainside. E ärendil picks it up. There are tears on his face, but he is silent.

Without speaking, everyone gets to work gathering stones. There is no shortage, for much of the mountainside had been cracked or broken in the fight. It seems both terrible and terribly fitting that many of the stones of Glorfindel ’s cairn bear scorch marks from the balrog that he fought and slew. Someone begins a song of mourning, and others also take it up, though most are still too stunned.

When the cairn is built and the song is done, Tuor takes a deep breath, and rallies them again. They must keep moving.

 

It rains that night. The next morning, though there is none there to see, a small yellow flower blooms between two of the stones of the cairn.