Gondolin

The crowd gathered in solemn remembrance for the city that burned before them. Women wept softly, children cried out for their parents and the men of the City stood in silent despair. Their King was dead and their city was in ruins. They were refugees, the lucky few who had escaped, for the throng numbered a few hundred, no more and for a while they were leaderless until Tuor went about them, shaking them from their sorrows and organising what fighting troops were left.

She opened her eyes slowly, her eyelids heavy with a stupor left behind the onslaught of anxiety and panic. The shadow passed away into the edges of her vision until they withdrew completely, leaving a tall figure standing before her. She found her image of Mandos as valiant and beautiful as she could have imagined a Valar to be, but she did not understand why he dressed himself in battle-worn clothes and bleeding wounds upon his face. Perhaps Mandos robed himself in death.

“What is your name?” he asked gently.

They crept upstairs where there were many beds laid out and shelves against the walls stocked with various herbs and medicinal liquids. Eliriael spent much of her time here watching her mother tend to the injured. “Eli,” her mother whispered, giving a sad smile. She kneeled down to her daughter’s level and hugged her in a tight embrace, speaking softly. “Hide beneath this bed and do not come out until I say or all is silent outside. You must make your way to the Hidden Passage at all costs, do you understand?”

The twinkling lights danced in the bright eyes of young Eliriael and the night air caressed her cheeks with warmth as she stood on the city wall awaiting the first brush of sunlight in the dark. All around the young elf was merriment and laughter for it was the night before the Gates of Summer in the city of Gondolin. Today, she would be allowed to stay late into the night dancing and celebrating while the elves gathered to watch the rising of the sun at dawn.

It began with barely a whisper – a trail of smoke unfurling across the sky, rising from outside the walls of the city, where they now stood.

Alassien broke off her conversation with Belfaer to point, wondering aloud, “What's that?” Maltariel leaned across Orien to see, looking in confusion at the smoke, a cold finger of dread uncoiling inside her.

Tashdel recalled that when she was a child, her mother would tell her stories: Some were stories about heroes of old, about the slaying of dragons or monstrous wolves where great renown was won. About mighty kings and queens draped in gold and precious gems or even of the strong Fathers of Men, who became fast friends with the Elves.
But there were also stories of another kind. Of sorrow and grief. Of the horror of battle and the blood and the slaughter. The ruin of beautiful things and the downfall of majesty.

The fire had petered out a while ago, but neither Belegos nor Tashdel could remember when. The embers glowed deep orange in the pile of ash that was between them and the smell of smoke was strong in their nostrils.