Those whom Doom will not release by AdmirableMonster

Those whom Doom will not release

Read Those whom Doom will not release

"Lovely to heart's enchantment is that land, Tuor, as you shall find, if ever your feet go upon the southward roads down Sirion. There is the cure of all sea-longing, save for those whom Doom will not release."

--J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fall of Gondolin

Flickering red lights played over the rough stone walls.  Lendalwed tipped his head back and let it rest.  His head was spinning, and he kept coughing, unable to shake off a persistent heaviness in his chest.  He had a pack of his scrolls and books beside him, hastily assembled.  All throughout the close secret passageway, Gondolindrim huddled against one another, whispering and crying.

He had looked, when he first arrived, for his father and mother, but he had not found them.  Now he sat with his knees drawn into his chest, alone.  Alone.  He had not seen any of the other loremasters.  Maeglin—traitor that he was—certainly was not here.  And Salgant—Salgant was not here either.

Gondolin was burning.  Lendalwed had looked back only once, as he made his way down the steep stone steps descending into the earth, hidden in the shadow of the walls.  They had been cut roughly, hastily, but at least they had been cut at all.  He reached over and reassured himself that the books were safe.  They did not number many, but he had managed to get his hands on a copy of Rúmil’s Ainulindalë and several of his other works.  That was an accomplishment.

His hands were stinging.  When he looked down at them, he saw that the palms were mottled red with ugly burns.  He did not know when it could have happened.  Something terrible and broken welled up Lendalwed’s chest, and he curled up around it and began to sob.

When he had cried like this as a child, Salgant had pulled him close, held him, stroked his hair.  Yesterday—no—no more than a few hours ago, they had stood at the edge of this dark pit, and Salgant had—Salgant had—

His face had been so blank.  Lendalwed had never seen that mask directed at himself before, and he had recoiled immediately.

“Go,” Salgant said roughly, and Lendalwed thought he must have misunderstood, because Salgant had not even used his hands to sign.

Hesitantly, he had reached out, off-balance with the heavy pack of books and scrolls hanging from one shoulder, and Salgant had caught his wrist in a harsh grip and shaken his head.

“Escape if you can, Lendalwed.”  

Jerking back, Lendalwed had stumbled and nearly fallen.  “I’m not going without you?” His hands had shaped it into a question without meaning to.

And Salgant had laughed.  “Do not wait here for me to call the Orcs upon you, pengolodh.”

“I don’t understand.”  Smoke was rising black above his home.  The lorehouse was aflame—he had stumbled through the fire himself to retrieve what he could—and it had not been enough, it could never have been enough.  The halls of the king were aflame, too, and the streets were full of fighting.  Lendalwed had never been trained in the arts of combat, and he had only run flat-out, hoping to escape and not really expecting to.  Salgant had appeared out of nowhere to pull him aside, and it only at this point occurred to him to wonder why Salgant had been there, why he had been alone.

“You don’t understand?” Salgant echoed coolly.  “Surely you know by now that Gondolin has been betrayed.”

The high blue sky should have been visible by this time, the Sun’s bright rays illuminating the white city with the midsummer’s warmth.  They should have been dreaming on the grass, after a long night’s celebration.  But there was nothing above them but ugly black smoke and a weird white haze, nothing below them but the hard-cut stones of the path.  Yes, Gondolin must have been betrayed; there was no other way that the Enemy could have found it.

“I am giving you a chance to get away,” Salgant said patiently.  “Take it before it’s gone.”

It made no sense, Lendalwed thought miserably now, looking around at the small bands of survivors.  I’m not brave, holinke, he remembered Salgant saying once, long ago.  He had heard the rumors behind his friend’s back—he had stayed well away from the fighting in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and Lendalwed had not cared, because it had meant that he had returned.  He had seen the ways the other lords treated Salgant, but he had not cared.  Now, with his life in jagged shards around him, he wondered if he had only turned his face away from some truth too painful to look on.

Lendalwed wasn’t certain how long he’d waited at the bottom of those rough-cut steps, after Salgant had left him.  It had all been dark about him, but it had not been still, for the earth had rumbled continuously beneath him.  He began to feel the bruises from his fall at the top of the steps.  Dazed, he had been quite unable to move.  Eventually, other Gondolindrim had begun to trickle down.  Several had passed him without noticing, but one young Elf in the livery of the House of the Swallow had caught sight of him and offered a hand.  She had been almost as tired as Lendalwed himself, but between the two of them, they had made it far enough down the passage to at least be among other refugees.  He thought it must have been another several hours since he had reached this place.

Someone shook his shoulder.  He flailed upright fearfully, staring up at a figure gold-limned in the torchlight, face blurred out by the darkness.  A pair of hands went up gently.

“You are one of the loremasters?” they asked, after a moment.

Lendalwed’s heart was still beating too quickly.  He schooled his face to something that he hoped was a little more dignified, though he knew his countenance must still be marked with ash and tears.  “Yes.”

“The Lady Idril requests your presence, if you are able.  Are you badly injured?”

Shaking his head, Lendalwed got up slowly.  “I am only bruised and shaken, thank you.”  By changing positions, they were able to make out the face of the other Elf and recognized him as Lord Galdor, of the House of the Tree.  He was not someone Lendalwed had personally spoken to, but Salgant had reported on him as a kind and earnest lord.  A soft voice wailed inside him at that thought, and he clenched his fists.  (If Salgant could be false, then who else?)

He got awkwardly to his feet and followed Galdor.  They passed other groups of survivors—most of them young, most of them injured, only a few who seemed to have been warriors.  The warriors had all tried to fight—perhaps they were still fighting, even now.  There was no one else that Lendalwed recognized.

The lady Idril was ensconced on an old blue quilt that had been thrown over a rough outcropping of rock in the passage.  She sat on it as if it were a throne, her child nestled at her feet, and her husband standing beside her.

“Pengolodh,” she greeted him, with a dip of her head.

Lendalwed bowed stiffly, wondering if he ought to make more of a display of respect.  His back was hurting, though, and she seemed unconcerned with formality, so he did nothing else, only looking up and waiting for her to continue.

“You are the only member of your order to have reached us?” The look on her face told him it was more a last flare of hope than a question.  

“I don’t know,” Lendalwed answered honestly.  “I have not seen any of the others, certainly.”

“Thank you.  Were you able to bring any of the histories?”

“A few, Lady Idril.”  He raised the precious bag from his shoulder.  “Many of Rúmil’s works, some of my own notes.  I took what I could carry.”  He coughed, and as if his body was remembering the flames consuming the lorehouse, found that he could not stop once he had started.  Someone offered him some water, but he could not drink it.  His world tightened as his lungs and chest did the same.

Then something was pressed against his chin, the outside of his mouth.  He smelled something sweet and fresh, and the next breath was a little easier.  “Breathe slowly,” Lord Galdor told him, and he tried to obey.  

A mask had been slipped over his face—one of Maeglin’s alchemical respirators, that were kept outside the laboratories for safety.  Lendalwed had never had occasion to wear one before.

“Just a few more questions, if you would, and then I will let you rest,” said the Lady Idril.

Lendalwed took another long, deep breath, and another.  “Anything my—” he paused, struck and unsure.  He did not know how to refer to her.

“Your king,” she supplied, easily enough.

“Anything my king commands,” Lendalwed finished, though he had to force the words out, throat raw with horror.

“Have you any news of any of the lords?” Idril asked.  “Galdor, Glorfindel, and Aegamloth are with us.  Lord Turgon is dead.  Glorfindel tells me he saw Echthelion fall.  Maeglin—” Here one hand trembled very slightly.  “Maeglin betrayed us.  He fell, too.”

No.  No.  His throat vibrated unpleasantly, and from the look on Eärendil’s face, he had made some kind of unpleasant sound.  Lendalwed pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to get it to stop.  Not Maeglin, too.  Not Lendalwed’s other best friend—but of course if Salgant—well, it made sense, didn’t it?

What kind of fool am I?

“Salgant betrayed us, too.”  His hands were shaking so forcefully it was hard to shape the words.

Lady Idril’s face pinched slightly.  Tiny Eärendil looked up at her and said something that Lendalwed could not understand.  

I am giving you a chance to get away.

He had reached for Salgant again, and Salgant had shoved him away, hard.  Lendalwed had tripped and fallen badly on the steps.  He’d thought he was dying, lungs frozen and incapable of taking in air.  For one wild instant, he’d thought that Salgant would be there, to help him, to soothe his injuries and tell him that it would be all right, as he’d always done, every since Lendalwed was a tiny child.  When he’d finally gasped in his next painful breath and sat up, Salgant had been gone.

He looked up at the Lady Idril, feeling moisture on his cheeks, collecting on his chin, trickling down his throat.  “That is all I know.  I am yours to command, my king.”

“Go with Galdor,” Idril said.  “He will see to it that you are safe.  Tomorrow, we cross Tumladen, and you must be the keeper of our histories, Pengolodh, for I do not think there is another.”

Pengolodh, again.  A portentous epessë, and one he might have been proud to bear under other circumstances.  Now he could only think that perhaps it would be less painful to hear than Lendalwed.

He schooled his hands to steadiness and bowed again.  “If you have need of me, I will carry them, though I do not know the way.”

“We will all go together,” Lady Idril told him.  “Thank you, Pengolodh.  Go now and rest, with my blessing.”

He would not sleep, he thought—he could not, the pain in his chest and heart too much—but he did, slipping into uneasy dreams from which his exhausted body could not escape.  When he woke, only Galdor was there.