Gondolin, the Hidden City of the Ñoldor - Free RP

[Dungeon Delver]

Gondolin, the Hidden City of the Ñoldor
Original Artwork by Sara Morello

"Rejoice that ye have found it and rest from endless war
for the seven-naméd city 'tis that stands upon the hill,
where all who strive with Morgoth find hope and valour still."
― The Lay of the Fall of Gondolin

Gondolin, the greatest of all the elven realms in exile. It is a name that evokes themes and aesthetics that continued to influence the world even to the end of the Third Age so great was its renown. Founded in 116 by Turgon, son of Fingolfin at the insistence of Ulmo. He found the secret place within the Echoriath, driven by dreams sent by the Vala to find a place where his people would be safe from the mechanizations of Melkor. Great are the tales told of its founding and of its people and their valor, and great, too, is the story of its fall. It was a place of beauty, with light and song filling the streets. Gondolin’s lords and kings were great and renowned and many a saga has been composed to their memories. As great and wonderous as the city was, the greater was its fall. Founded by Ñoldorian exiles, the city was subject to the Doom of Mandos. Tuor, son of Huor, came to city in 495 at urging of Ulmo to warn the city that the Doom was indeed coming and to avoid it the citizens must abandon their city and make for the city. However, his warning was disregarded and Turgon and his people did not leave Gondolin willingly. In 510, Morgoth, having found the location of the city thanks to the treachery of Maeglin, attacked with orcs, dragons, and balrogs. The city fell and all would have been lost if not for Idril, daughter of the king. She had a secret way constructed in case of disaster. Tuor, Idril, and Glorfindel led the survivors away through Cirith Thorondor to the Mouths of the Sirion, though not before Glorfindel fell to a balrog hiding in wait. Gondolin fell, a manifestation of pride and glory, a white and shining city, a diamond in a field of emerald.

He found within the mountains the hidden Valley of Tumladen. The only entry into the valley was Orfalch Echor, the pass formed by the Dry River. In the middle of the green plain there was the rocky height of Amon Gwareth, the Hill of Watch, and upon it the city of Gondolin.

Upon the hill rose the city of Gondolin, built by Turgon and his people in secret, with its towers piercing the sky. The plain was clear, and anyone could walk there with no need of a guide. The many pathways from the mountains to the city took a day’s march to travel and they were fair and leveled, crossing the sward covered here and there with smooth boulders or clean pools. Amon Gwareth could only be climbed by some winding stairs, which led to the main gate. This was westwards and was of great weight and strength, made of iron, although it seemed golden in the light of the sunset.

White stairs led to the doors of the palace, and in each side of these were the two trees called Glingol and Bansil, one golden, the other silver, both shoots of the Trees of Valinor before their destruction. The northwest entry to the Square of the Palace was the Road of Arches, which led to the Place of the Well. This could also be accessed by the Arch of Inwë in the west that encircled a well of great depth, another entry to the Square of the Palace was the Alley of Roses. From the Square of the Palace, the Road of Pomps went southwards, leading to Gar Ainion, the Place of the Gods. It was very open and in its middle was the highest ground of the city, so from there the Place of the King could be seen below. Another street to the southern part of the city was the Way of Running Waters, which led to the Fountains of the South. Past these was the house of Tuor upon the southern walls. The folk of the Fountain also dwelt in the southern part, as well as Salgant, near the Lesser Market. East of the city was the Great Market, full of stores and fair workmanships.

During the Quest of the Silmaril, whilst being carried by Eagles, Beren and Lúthien could see the valley. Tears fell from Lúthien's onto the plain, and from them a fountain sprang to life: the Fountain of Tinúviel, or Eithel Nínui.

Gondolin is also known as the City of Seven Names, or Ostrin an Ost (though the seven names are only given in the Lost Tales era)

Gondobar ("Stone House")
Gondothlimbar ("House of the Stone Folk")
Gondolin ("Hidden Rock")
Gwarestrin ("Tower of Guard")
Gar Thurion ("Secret Place")
Loth ("Flower")
Lothengriol ("Flower of the Vale")

Original Artwork by Rodrigo Catini Flaibam

Locations and Regions:
(please note that this is an ever-growing list of canon and "noncanon" places and is by no means definitive)
House of the King – led by Turgon, King of Gondolin, symbols are the sun, moon, and scarlet heart
House of the Fountain – led of Ecthelion, slayer of Gothmog, symbols are Fountain, silver, diamonds, and flute
House of the Golden Flower – led by Glorfindel, symbols are rayed sun and golden flower (celandine)
House of the Hammer of Wrath – led by Rog, symbols are stricken anvil, red gold and black iron and mace
House of the Mole – led by Maeglin, betrayer of Gondolin, symbol is moleskin
House of the Pillar – led by Penlod, symbol is a pillar
House of the Tower of Snow – also led by Penlod, symbol is a tower
House of the Tree – led by Galdor, symbols are tree, iron-studded club, and slings
House of the White Wing – led by Tuor of the Edain, symbol is a white wing
House of the Swallow – led by Duilin, symbols are arrowhead and fan of feathers
House of the Heavenly Arch – led by Egalmoth, symbols are rainbow, opal, and jeweled boss
House of the Harp – led by Salgant, symbols are silver harp and tassels of silver and gold

Palace – the greatest structure in Gondolin, where affairs of state, royal feasts, and
King's Alley – a great winding street that led to the palace
King's Square – a large square lawn where the two trees, Glingol and Bansil, were kept
Turgon's Gardens – a wide private garden for the king, made to resemble the gardens of Lórien in Valinor
Turgon's Tower – the highest tower in Gondolin, the king’s residence
Great Market – a very large market to the east of Gondolin, the workplace of many skilled craftsman and laborers
Lesser Market – another market within the city, along the southern walls

Caragdûr – a black precipice of rock on the north side of the city of Gondolin, the site of Eöl’s execution and Maeglin’s fall
Gar Ainion – a temple in Gondolin, according to the early version of the legendarium, located near the king's halls
Cirith Thoronath – the great eyries of Thorondor and his eagles
Idril's Secret Passage – the Secret Way Idril had constructed after her foreboding, used by the survivors to escape the wreckage unnoticed
Eithel Ninui – the fountain that sprang to life from the tears of Lúthien
Fingolfin's Mound – near Cirith Thoronath, the place where the high king’s body was buried after its rescue by Thorondor
Glorfindel's Grave – the site along the Secret Way where Glorfindel fought and died against the balrog, saving the survivors
Gurthrond – one of the large mountains in the northern region of the Crissaegrim
Mines of Anghabar – mines used and controlled by smithies loyal to Maeglin and his house; the mines were the source of the ore for many precious metals such as gold and iron and lay approximately twenty-five miles from the city
Orfalch Echor - the ravine of the Dry River in the Encircling Mountains, the route by which the hidden city of Gondolin was approached
Dry River – the name given to the dry bed of what had once been a tributary of the River Sirion rising in the Encircling Mountains; once filled with water, it drained a lake in the Encircling Mountains. Once the lake was gone the lake became the valley of Tumladen and the bed of the Dry River provided a defensible pathway into the hidden area

Wooden Gate – the first gate of the Seven Gates of Gondolin, placed at the end of the secret passage and the beginning of the Orfalch Echor
Stone Gate – the second of the Seven Gates of Gondolin, it stood in Orfalch Echor, half a league from the Gate of Wood where it formed a wall with two stone towers
Bronze Gate – the third of the Seven Gates of Gondolin, in shape a wall spanning the Orfalch Echor mounted by three square towers, roofed in bright copper
Iron Gate – the fourth of the Seven Gates of Gondolin, it spanned the highest point of the canyon; the wall and four towers appeared to be wrought of iron
Silver Gate – the fifth of the Seven Gates of Gondolin, in shape a low and broad wall of white marble spanning the Orfalch Echor. The parapet was a trellis of silver between five great globes of marble
Golden Gate – the sixth of the Seven Gates of Gondolin, it was the last of the ancient gates of Turgon that were wrought before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad; similar in appearance to the Gate of Silver, however the wall was made of yellow marble, and the globes and parapet were of red gold
Steel Gate - the last of the Seven Gates of Gondolin in order of entering and construction, having being built by Maeglin some centuries after the other six as an ultimate defense after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, a great steel fence across the Orfalch Echor

Rules and Guidelines:
1. Read and enjoy other people’s hard work but respect their privacy (go to the RP Request Form if you would like to join an existing story or start a new story)
2. Given that this is Gondolin (the Secret City), let's leave minions out unless it is within context of the Fall of Gondolin
3. Keep any OOC comments to the The First Homely House - Imladris OOC II
4. Icons and small images are welcome, but please no moving gifs
5. Anyone can use any canon characters in their stories, there is no ownership in this thread; that said, there are many, many important canon characters here that people use in their stories (the TR included) so when using any, read other's works and tread carefully
6. We are all adults here and can decide for ourselves the stories we want to read so rather than dictate what can and cannot be written in this thread, we will ask that any CW (at the discretion of the writer) be placed at the top of the post
7. Should you want to add a location to the list, just tag the TR in the OOC and I'll be happy to add it and any description (within reason)

[Aikári Salmarinian]

Gondolin – FA507
The final days (1)

“You have seen my sword somewhere?” asked Ernamo to his wife who stood in the kitchen preparing food for this evening meal. “No, darling,” said Nyarnwë looking over her shoulder at him. She shook her head and went on cutting the vegetables. Today she had to make for three persons, as their daughter was coming home. Nyaránë they had called her almost two ages ago, but she had proven to be very troublesome considering socially. But after that time and apprenticed by her master Aranadhel in one of the Houses, she had turned around and become a more model citizen of the town. It had cost his wife a lot to accept that it would be Nyaránë would bring honour to them and not her brother. Serving with the House of the Wing had gone well this far. Ernamo knew they were the bodyguards of Tuor and Idril and their young son Eärendil, grandson to the King and that was honourable, to say the least. Ernamo served mostly on the great northern walls, so he was part of the House of Swallow and worked together with the Heavenly Arch lots of time. He knew both Egalmoth and Duilin, respected men but not of real important birth. His own abode stood in the poorer parts of town, the northeast block of the city was one of these neighbourhoods, where in the southwest near the Fountains and the Running Waterway laid the richer parts. It was small streets and other paths meandering into a network of houses everywhere. From gardens, or more arbours, you found flowers in sorts and colours imaginable. Butterflies flew from one flower to the other and bees spread the seed around. Later in the season those flowers would give fruits. Nuts were growing on trees also. The valley outside the city gate was rich of growing wheat, barley, rye and other grains. It would be harvested in the last summer. It was to feed a city of over 30.000 people. Some people were farmers and had knowledge on agri-culture. Others had knowledge on spiders and caterpillars who made the basics for the textile silk. In the fields grew also cotton. Wool came from the sheep that wandered on the gentle slopes of the mountains. Viscose was another fabric. And the dressmakers made beautiful clothes of all the fabrics. In the city were also a few butchers, but it were just only a few families who liked meat. None of the other elves ever ate it. Meat didn’t belong in the natural food chain of the elf.

“Can you get another sword?” Nyarnwë asked concerned. A lost sword was not a thing easy replaced. “I had this one made for me, and was kind of special,” said Ernamo. “Maybe our daughter has it?” said his wife. He shook his head. She would not have it as she had her own weapons, and Aranadhel kept a close eye on her. And surely would be expecting to behave examplary when visiting home for some time. Life went on as usual in town. On a grand scale not much was happening than only a few merry happenings as the marriage of Idril and Tuor and the birth of a royal child that was about four years old now. In the king’s circles was also his nephew Maeglin, who got his own House and they were the most numerous around. Ernamo knew the young, proud man was pretty proud and troublesome, but he was happy enough Aranadhel and Nyaránë were not connected to him. The town was big and each person had a home to stay. He smelled the vegetables his wife was cutting for a stew. “You have seen Nyarámo?” he asked. Their son was also much less at home, as his sister. From Nyaránë they knew where she was. But her brother’s whereabouts were unknown. It was seldom that he was dining with them, or had any breakfast or lunch. He was getting his food somewhere else. But Ernamo’s family was not rich enough they could afford always eat outdoors. They hadn’t any servants. “No, I don’t know where he is,” she shrugged. Nyarnwë never asked anymore what her son was doing. None of his behaviour was understandable. He had been troublesome in different ways and at length she had told him a truth and after that he got his avoiding attitude of getting him to see less and less. And from who he got that character, it came not from her side. But who then? Perhaps somewhere in her husband’s family? He was a Sinda after all, while she was Noldo. “Is there anyone in your family, who always wandered?” she asked him over her vegetables, that were ready to be baked.

“In my family?” repeated Ernamo her words. He never thought about his family than the woman he married and the twins born two centuries ago. As Sindar living in Beleriand already, these Noldor had come from the north under cover of darkness and they had felt it was quite good to join with them. The Sindar numbers were not as great as the Noldor numbers, but still. Anything in town breathed the lands these Noldor came from, and Ernamo had found it pretty magnificent in Nevrast. The city of Gondolin outstood everything this far, was well positioned and defended and shone like a diamante in the light. It was some days now after his mysteriously vanished sword. He put it for now out his mind. Their daughter had no need to know of that. She was coming home after serving for a longer time. It would be good to see her back. “I have no idea. But we will hear about new tales from the Wing House,” he said. “Bit of insider news is always great.” “Don’t recon to much of that. Nyaránë will have her oath to honour. Perhaps she got some barrack anecdotes to tell about?” said Nyarnwë, while the vegetables vanished in the stew, together with the herbs to have the right flavour. A perfect dish of her people this was. She had learned cooking from her mother back in Valinor. She had hoped to teach her daughter that, as a continuing mother-daughter tradition. But it hadn’t happened. She had followed more the unusual father-daughter tradition. Nyarnwë was now okay with that, but a century ago this was different. Ernamo spotted nothing unusual in the valley from his guarding position. He could be home every day, and was glad about that. He hoped his daughter would be looking forward to come home. But knowing her, that would be different. And where Nyarámo hang out? He had become very unpredictable.

All that has happened before this post in the Ages of Arda on the Old Plaza, was reposted by Jan 2019 online in Gondolin Story and can be read as well.

[Dungeon Delver]

Wandering Above the Fog
The House of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow, FA 230
(Open to All)

It didn’t matter how old he was or how many times he saw it, the sight of Arien appearing in her pink and golden chariot out of the wild east was a thing to behold. He’d been awestruck the first time he’d seen it, just as they were coming to Beleriand, and each new day Penlod grew to appreciate it more. Today was no different, the sun threw out light like the scattering of a thousand rose petals and he smiled. Unimaginable beauty forged from unspeakable tragedy. Each sunrise was a reminder that not all ills are forever, and that new things are never far behind.

The House of the Pillar was quiet today. Most of the people of his House were out and about, their jobs and duties beginning in the predawn light of the stars. Today, though, it was especially quiet. His wife, Lirsinry, was with her people celebrating an Avari holiday called the Day of Vastation. While she didn’t describe it in detail to him, he knew it was a dour and serious ritual, as were all the ceremonies and rituals of the Mablui; it was a cleansing of some kind and given the word “vastation” it was not a pleasant ceremony to witness or in which to partake. The Day only came once a century and, despite its name, lasted nearly a week. This was the second Day of Vastation of which Penlod had been aware, and he was no closer to understanding anything about it or liking it. His children, too, were missing. They were too young to take part in the ritual, but they had insisted to their father that they ought to be allowed to explore the city. Attacked on three sides, he had no choice but to acquiesce to their demands.

The Lord of the House of Pillar and the Tower of Snow broke his fast in his private chambers. It was large with vaulted sky-blue ceilings with tower motifs, a hazard of allowing his wife to design their halls. If he’d had his way, the halls of his home would be less grandiose and more functional, but he couldn’t deny that they looked nice, even after nearly a hundred years, there were still designs and symbols painted here and there he found. The entire house was like a treasure hunt with clues and hints he couldn’t possibly predict. Whatever treasure sat at the end of this hunt must be magnificent. He enjoyed the quiet in here. It was vast and cavernous, and he felt his solitude keenly here. There were days when that solitude felt overwhelming, but today it felt like a companion, a reflection. He watched as the sun rose and cut across the sky, spreading golden beams down on the hidden valley, casting long, looming shadows. There was nothing quite so beautiful. The cinnamon and orange tea was piping hot and the tartine and marmalade was cool and sweet. He ate in silence, letting the waves of quiet wash over him. Today was going to be a busy day, filled with council meetings, audiences, and interviews. A little silence and serenity in in the beginning would go a long way.

He finished breakfast and made his way from his private chambers and into the main hall. It was still early, but there was someone already waiting for him. No matter how early Penlod went about his day, Velenwë was always a step ahead of him. If either of them were political men, eager for the back and forth of games and words, Penlod might have been worried, but Velenwë found it all distasteful, a man after his lord’s own heart. They were loyal to each other. The entirety of the Houses of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow were loyal to each to a fault, crossing treacherous ice caps and navigating deadly snowstorms together tends to do that though. Velenwë had been his man in Valinor, his bodyguard, confidante, and sparring partner.

“My Lord Penlod! It is good to see you up so early. Your breakfast was good I hope?”

“It was more the passing, old friend. I pray you too have had a decent morning. What time did you rise?”

They began to walk slowly down the hall, passing under pillars and passed mosaics made of zellige tile. The air was warm and sweet, smelling of orange and ginger as it blew through the wide windows, all shaped like the great pillar. Sunbeams caught the air and ignited it with golden luminescence. The younger, shorter Ñoldo smiled. “Some hours ago, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Gone for a run already too, I’m sure.”

“My lord knows me well,” Velenwë said with a chuckle. “How goes the Day of Vastation?”

Penlod caught something in his companion’s tone, a sort of smirk to the words that suddenly felt wrong to him. “Lirsinry and her people are still down in the tunnels, and their rituals are still ongoing as far as I know.”

“I wonder,” Velenwë said with an air of casualness, “would I be allowed to join them next time? I would love to see what sort of blood sport of fire play they get up to.”

“Careful what you wish for, Velenwë. Their rituals are dour and violent for a reason remember. We faced countless hardships on our way here, but the Mablui have endured the stings and arrows of the enemy for uncounted years. Their tragedies are as great as ours. They deal with them differently that we; you and I are children of the Trees, they are children of the Deeps. Remember that.”

Velenwë looked down, his cheeks coloring. “Apologies, I meant no offense. They are a strange people, stranger than the Sindar or the Nandor that have found their way to Beleriand, but I should not have mocked their rituals.”

Penlod stopped their procession through the long hall and put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive; all you need do is learn and adapt. We live in a vast and varied world. The Children come in all sorts of shapes and colors, yet we are all Children.”

“Of course, my lord,” Velenwë said, a little brighter. “I do hope they come back fulfilled, whatever it is they do down there. In truth, I have no idea what it is. Narcelia, the woman I’m seeing, was very cagey about it before she left. They are masters at evading questions, these Mablui, even more than evading arrows.”

Penlod grinned, seeing what question was about to be asked. “And you thought I might have a better idea? Is that it?”

Velenwë laughed, a soft baritone with honeyed resonance. “Well, you are married to their former queen, after all.”

“It is as you said, old friend, they are masters at evading questions, she even more so than the rest of her people. Had I any doubts about her, I would walk under a shadow of terror for what she might be. It was hard enough getting Turgon to trust her.”

“Perhaps once your children are old enough to partake, perhaps they will spill the secrets?”

That brought a bubbling laugh to Penlod’s throat. “Would that that were possible. If anything, those three are tighter lipped than their mother. There is no telling what sort of secrets they have together. I tell you truly, Velenwë, those three will have some great part to play in the world to come.”

“I’m surprised Ñarmotar wasn’t with you today,” Velenwë said with a wince.

“I know, he’s getting old enough he needs to start working with us to run the Houses. But there is still time yet. He’s still a young man and none of today’s activities are critical for him to witness.”

“Ah, to be young,” Velenwë said. They stopped before the great doors that led out into the Road of Arches and on toward the Great Market. “I cannot say I begrudge any of them another day; if I were them, I would have rebelled most loudly against any sort of responsibility.”

“If my memory serves correct, you did, many a time back in Valinor. I remember your mother whacking your hand with a spoon quite a few times before you started to embrace responsibility.”

“You have it right,” laughed Velenwë, “but it was my forehead, not my hand.” He opened the great doors and light and sound came flooding in, all the sounds of the city and bustle of folks. “I shall see you later for our meeting with Lord Rôg in the House of the Hammer.” The pair clasped hands and went their separate ways. As seneschal of the Houses, Velenwë had duties and responsibilities that were myriad in comparison to Penlod’s own. Since their days together in Valinor, Velenwë had had a talent for talking to people, making friends and connections, and administrative duties that Penlod couldn’t. He might be a lord of two houses in Gondolin, but when attempting to navigate the waters of databases, spreadsheets, and correspondence coordination, he felt like a lost little seal. He much preferred the quiet, scholarly pursuits, at least he did whenever he had a spar minute to reflection and indulge. He made a mental note to visit the scriptorium today, after the Gardens and after his meeting. It had been too long since he’d seen Alagostor, the armarius of the Scriptorium and Archives. Perhaps it was time to peek in and see what the ink-stained scribe was up to.

He was looking forward to the meeting with Rôg though, it had been too many years since the two of them sat down with each other without the additional presence of the council. It would be good to catch up and plan, maybe even have a duel like in the old days. Penlod owed the Lord of the Hammer a rematch…

--- * --- * --- * ---
Aman, the Gardens of Lórien, YT 1300

The Gardens were the jewel of Aman, like diamonds that shimmer and catch the starlight amongst fields of gold. Penlod loved it here. There was such peace here, such peace that could never be found amongst the hustle and bustle of his friends and peers. Each one was off learning half a hundred different crafts or devising new modes of communication, but Penlod preferred the quiet garden labyrinths of Lórien. His parents build their home upon arriving Aman nearly the eaves the great forest and encouraged their only son to explore the wildlands. Often, under the shimmering light of Telperion, he would sneak into the garden and watching the blooming of the night-blooming jasmine, the moonflowers, and the night-scented orchids. He would stray into the lands of sweet dreams for hours at a time, exploring the myriad groves of cedar trees, ash trees, and cypress trees. In that world of green, Penlod found himself. In that land of sleep and rest, Penlod learned who he was to become, who he was meant to be. He ran oft unclad in the great forests, amongst mushroom stalks thick as tree trunks. He believed the forest to be his and his alone, for never in any of his trips did he meet another living soul. He found butterflies and dragonflies a plenty, each massive, three times the size of anything his parents ever discovered during the Long Journey. He walked amongst flowers of every conceivable color, ate the fruit of a hundred different trees, even planted his own seeds here and there to help the Gardens grow in his own, oft clumsy way. He tasted grapes as black as midnight, drank their fermented juice and wandered through streams and groves whilst watching the stars wheel about his head. Those moments of peace and solitude were formative for Penlod, He found his people’s love of the woodlands, of the forest, of gardens filled with every imaginable flower, and understood that love. It was not until he’d grown into his full height, a height greater than almost all of his fellows, that he found another soul wandering the gardens. At first, he thought the interloper nothing more than a passing visitor, a faerie spirit drifting through the poppy fields. He called out to them, and he and the spirit spoke at long length. Penlod expounded on his great love of the Gardens, offering to guide the spirit to the choicest spots, the ones with the greatest views, with the loveliest arrangement of flowers, with the sweetest fruits. The spirit, enthusiastic to learn all they could, joined Penlod to all the spots and admired the great loveliness of the Gardens, rejoicing and dancing amidst the silence and among the flowering vines of nightshade. They walked long as Laurelin waned and Telperion waxed. They watched a century bloom, a cactus that only opened up to the night’s air once every hundred years. Penlod would have expounded on what a wonderous and magical sight they had borne witness to had not the spirit then their name. He was no ordinary spirit, indeed, he was no spirit at all. He was Irmo, the Keeper of the Gardens of Rest, the Master of Dreams and Illusions, the Sleeping Vala. Penlod tried to prostrate himself, to beg forgiveness for not asking the great Vala’s leave to enter the many labyrinths and groves, but Irmo would not have it. He laughed and told Penlod that all are welcomed in his Gardens, so long as they look to hope, desire, and inspiration. Penlod, shamed and honored, accepted the Vala’s token of forgiveness and became a student of his, learning the hundreds upon hundreds of flowers, trees, mushroom, vines, and bushes of the garden. He devoted himself to their care, wanting nothing more than to tend the sacred ground and pass along the knowledge that he gathered to his friends and family…

--- * --- * --- * ---
The Hanging Gardens of the House of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow, FA 230

Of all the places in Gondolin, all the terraces, mansions, parks, and theatres, there was no place Penlod loved more than the Hanging Gardens. He’d been a student of Irmo in days long passed and to ease the ache in his heart, he began construction of the Hanging Gardens. They reminded him of home, of a place he’d foolishly chosen to leave behind. They were a reminder of what he had left behind, but also of what he hoped to accomplish. He grew sacred cedar trees, tall and strong with leaves of dark emerald. They recalled the many sacred groves scattered throughout the maze that was the Gardens of Lórien. They were the tallest in the city, no park or private garden had trees so vast and tall. Also, he grew ash trees, lighter and broader. His children, when they were children indeed, could be found climbing the ash trees, insistent that they would be able to touch the clouds should they make it to the tops of the trees. Olive trees, palm trees, myrtle, juniper, pomegranate, date, almond, and ebony, all fed by one of the many aquifers and fountains that ran throughout the city. He filled his gardens with as much green in as many shades as he could. Each time he visited this place, he felt homesick, but the ache was lessened as he walked aimlessly among the trees. He touched their branches, felt their leaves, and he could feel the quiet blessing of his patron.

Whenever he was ill at ease, Penlod came to his garden. He sought the peace and solitude of the deep groves to think and ponder. His wife joined him, as often as not. She supplied many a variety of mushroom that her people considered hallowed, and they build a place within the gardens where they flourished and grow to immense, brobdingnagian proportions. They sat together, wordless as the days of beginning, and connected. Penlod knew that his wife missed the caverns of her ancestors, so within the gardens, he built a deep place, a facsimile of her old home, and filled it with crystals that reflected and refracted light. They passed the hours watching the turn of underground rainbows. If there was anything that Penlod hoped he would be remembered for, it was these gardens.

Ñillewen was tending the hyacinth as he came in, passing under a great topiary arch. She saw him and smiled. He waved and joined her, taking one of the buckets of water she was carrying and carefully watered the roots of the flowers. The soil was dark and fertile. The smell of the earth and the flowers was uncanny, bringing him back to the time he first discovered the opium poppy.

“Good morning, my Lord,” she said in lilting accent once they’d finished their task. “What brings you to the gardens today? Worried about your wife?”

They took a seat on one of the stone benches scattered throughout. “I try not to, it’s about as productive as my children trying to catch the clouds in the tops of the ash trees. No, today I just needed a reminder that there is peace in the world.”

“Of course there is peace, Lord Penlod. All of Beleriand is at peace, experiencing a golden age of light and life and love. What troubles you? You forget, I can talk to plants and can catch them in a lie, an elven face is far easier to read than a sunflower’s.”

“You are truly an observant one,” Penlod laughed. “I worry for my children. They’re fine, they’re fine,” he added quickly, noting his gardener’s sudden concern. “They’re growing up. They are growing attached to this land. I cannot shake the feeling that something will rip them away one day, the same as it was for me, Akorlin most of all. Of all my children, I think she would fair the worst in the world outside. You and I have seen what the world is like outside our hidden valley. We know the beauty and the ugliness. You even more so than I.”

“What has brought this fear on?”

“I had a dream…” he said, trailing off. Though he and his gardener talked about a great many things, his dreams were not one of them, especially dreams he believed prophetic, from his old patron. Those he would not share with anyone, not until he was able to discern their meaning, if indeed meaning was to be found at all. Though Penlod was a lord of two Houses, he did not count himself wise beyond any of the other citizens of the city, noble or otherwise. He was no great poet or philosopher, he was a passable warrior, but there were those in the city that far outstripped his talents. He was a master of herblore and horticulture, but that sort of knowledge could only go so far. He was friends with many people, but there were so few he was close to, so few that could see his inner thoughts.

“Say no more.” Ñillewen said, putting her hand over Penlod’s own. “I will say this about your children. They are stronger than you think. They are young, but they are wise. Ñarmotar wants to know everything about everything and can rattle off a hundred different questions at the drop of a hat. Akorlin is wise too, in her own, she knows the city better than anyone I know, she knows all the streets, back alleys, and secret passages. Solenzara can tell you every single peddler, monger, and salesman in the Great and Lesser Market, she has a talent for people that no one in your family has, a gentleness that makes your own Houses love her as if she were their own daughter. No matter what happens to you or your wife, or this city, your children will flourish and be great. They are meant for great things, those children of yours. They’ll find the deepest parts of the earth and the highest parts of the firmament.”

“You are a comfort, Ñillewen, what would I do without you?”

She snorted and smirked playfully. “You would not have near as lovely a garden, that is for sure.”

They both laughed. He and Ñillewen met when he came to Nevrast with Turgon, she was among the Sindar already living there. They bonded over a love of trees and growing things. She told him stories of the Onodrim, the Shepherds of the Forests, and how she and her people learned a great deal from them, including patience and understanding. It was Ñillewen and Velenwë that had accompanied Penlod into the deep caverns around Nevrast where they discovered the Mablui and welcomed them into the light of the sun. If it had not been for Ñillewen injuring herself as they descended and embankment, they might have never roused the Mablui guards who brought them before Lirsinry. Ñillewen was among the first to follow Turgon as he urged his people to move to a new, secret place. She saw the Vale of Tumladen and saw it come to life with all manner of plants and trees and flowers. Had it not been for some her impassion speeches, there might not have been so many souls that now called Gondolin home.

“Well, my Lord, if you will excuse me, I have some rose bushes that aren’t going to trim themselves. I leave you to your thoughts and musings. Fear not though, your children are safe.”

For a long moment, Penlod didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the peaks near Cirith Thoronath. There was something there. He squinted against the light of the midmorning sun. The longer he looked, the more unsure he was about what it was. At first it had seemed like naught but a wisp of cloud, then perhaps a flurry of snow and been blown off the cold peaks, but now it looked like something altogether different. It looked like mist, a soft white coiling hand reaching over the zenith of dark blue and reaching toward the sun or perhaps shrouding it with long, tendril like fingers.

“What do you make of that?” He said at last, pointing to the north. Ñillewen squinted and frowned. She was quiet for a long moment too, hesitant to say what she thought it might be. “A bit of mist perhaps?”

“It’s the wrong time of year for mists that way, isn’t it?” he asked, a feeling of disquiet settling on him. “If it is just mist, I suppose it’s nothing, but…” he trailed off.

“If it’s not, then what under the green eaves is it?” she finished.

--- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * ---

Several Leagues Outside the City

“Are you sure we should be out this far? I don’t think father would approve of us coming so far out. We promised him we would stay close!” Solenzara was running alongside her older brother, gasping for air trying to keep up with him.

He slowed to a saunter and laughed at her. “You worry too much. We promised him that would not leave out of sight from the city, and there it is still,” he pointed back north toward the Tower of the King, it could be seen glittering like a diamond on a field of green. “If you look close enough, you can see the Hanging Gardens still.”

“I…” she paused and scrunched up her face, thinking. “Well, I suppose if we are still within sight, we aren’t really disobeying him.” She looked very solemn for a moment, a near picture perfect image of their mother, even sounded like her when she was making a judgement on something. She put her finger to her chin and attempted to look studious before breaking into a grin and lunging at her brother. He tried to dodge but moved a heartbeat too slow. She grabbed handful of his shirt and held on as the weight imbalance took them both into the grass, rolling down the soft hill.

Solenzara was a bundle of giggles as she stood up and brushed the grass off her clothes, staining the light blue silk with indelible streaks of green. “You’re it.” She announced triumphantly. Without waiting another second, the youngest of the three siblings ran off up the embankment.

“You really fell for that,” Akorlin appeared, or more aptly materialized, out of the grass, arms crossed over her chest and a Cheshire cat grin. “You’re more gullible than I thought.” She laughed, a mix of sardonic mirth and genuine happiness. “You’ll never catch me, so your best hope is try and get again.” To emphasize just how little she thought of her brother’s speed and dexterity, she raced toward him, only a few steps, then, in a single bound, leaped on him, grabbing his cloak as she pushed off his shoulders, and pulled it behind her, blinding him and sending him back, face first, into the dirt. She disappeared in cloud of laughter.

Ñarmotar pulled his cloak back, with some difficult as it got tangled on itself whilst he tried to straighten it out. By the time the light came streaming back into his face, both his younger sisters had disappeared. The field was eerily quiet and empty. He could see for miles and miles in all directions. They didn’t get out of the city enough. There were dozens of little communities out here, farming or quarrying oriented places that saw little representation or image of themselves in the great, grand Houses of Gondolin proper. A few of the Houses worked with these communities, but by and large they represented themselves and kept themselves. Ñarmotar had only visited a few over the last few decades, usually alongside his father when there was civil business to attend to, and he’d found many of the people oddly unwelcoming. The old prejudices died away slower the further from the city center. They were openly hostile, but the air often simmered with patronizing words and innuendo. There was one such village maybe a mile away, one he’d visited recently. It was a town of miners and quarry workers. There were rumors in the city that one of the mining towns (possibly this one) had found some cave system that went deeper than any of the other caves, deeper than the Mablui tunnels in the city. What sort of secrets must those caves hide? What sort of treasures might they yield up? What mysteries might they deepen or explain? Ever since he’d heard the rumors, his single-minded focus had been to find this cave system. The first time he’d visited, the people and been tight lipped and furtive, but he was sure he could win them over, eventually. He wasn’t blessed with the easy way with people Solenzara or his father had, nor the domineering personalities of Akorlin or his mother. He was an admixture at best, little bits and pieces that made up a whole that was different from anything else in his family.

But there was time for all that later, he had to find his sisters before they decided the game was over. He raced off through the grass, barely letting his feet fall as he moved across the flat ground. The grasses were high here, nearly up to his waist, there was plenty of room for his siblings to hide or sneak about.

He would have been wandering for hours had he not happened to hear a stifled giggle. The hunt was on, the game afoot, the chase underway. He flushed both Solenzara and Akorlin from their hiding spot, both squatting behind an old long in the tall grass, completely invisible to any onlooker. They scattered like pheasant. Akorlin was the closest when they’d bolted so he darted after her. She was fleet of foot with the inexhaustible energy of a deer. She nearly out paced him, the only mistake she made was trying to run at an angle then turn again. Ñarmotar wasn’t as fast, but he could pivot on a silver piece and change directions. He leapt. If there were tales to be told of this leap, they might add it alongside Beren’s Leap in later years, so majestic and high it was. For a moment, he felt like he was flying. His arms were outstretched, reaching for even the hint of his sister’s scarf that dangling behind her. She changed directions, but she wasn’t fast enough, and they both went down in a tumble of limbs, screeches, and blue cloaks.

“You’re it!” he announced, standing up brushing himself off.

“You know,” she said between gasps for air, “I think, I think I am quite done with is game. I’m exhausted and I just want to sit for a while.”

“Aha!” said Solenzara, coming up behind them both and jumping onto Ñarmotar’s back. “So, if you’ve given up, that means I win!”

“What?” cried Akorlin, still sitting in the grass, breathing hard. “How does that work?”

“Well,” she said, climbing onto her brother’s shoulders. “You declared the game over when you were it, so you can’t have won, and Ñarmotar can’t have possibly won because he was it before he tagged you. That leaves me, the unpursued, to be the winner of the whole game.”

“Oh fine!” Akorlin said, laying back in the grass. “But if the game is over, can we at least go up on that hill over there and rest?”

They made it to small hill, if one could even call it a hill and rested at the top. There was a small apple tree there that Solenzara climbed, having grown bored of sitting on her brother’s shoulders. The older siblings rested against the trunk of the tree, each breathing hard from their games.

“So what shall we do now?” asked Ñarmotar after some time. “I think we should try and find that cave. I know it’s around here somewhere. I only have to get the people in that village to talk to me.”

“Oh enough about your silly cave, brother!” said Solenzara, tossing an apple at her brother’s head. “All we’ve heard for weeks is about what this cave could hold and what sorts of things it could help you find. Well, I’ll tell you what it has in it. It has some dirt, maybe some water, and rocks. Oh, and it’s sure to have lots of darkness.”

Ñarmotar caught the apple deftly and in a single fluid motion, brought it to his mouth and took a bite. “You only say that because you’ve never been inside a cave before. I tell you, sister, if you came with me, you find a whole new world of sparkling wonder. It’s the most amazing thing you could ever see. The world below the surface is an entirely new world, unlike anything we could ever see on the surface.”

“You sound like the Undeep Monks,” Akorlin added lazily, her eyes closed as she listened to her siblings bicker. “You don’t even know where the caves are, or if this village even knows where they are.”

“They’re miners!” countered Ñarmotar, "of course they’d know."

“Mother says you mustn’t look down on them, brother,” called Solenzara, another apple in her hand. “Those that work in the earth are just as valuable as those that work in the field or in the marble halls.”

“I… I never said they…” Ñarmotar sputtered. “Fine, fine. What do you want to do Akorlin?”

She straightened up and opened her eyes. She took in a deep breath and rolled her neck from side to side until everyone heard the satisfying POP. “I want to find the Kravë tree.”

“That’s a myth!” laughed Ñarmotar. “And you think I’m chasing things that aren’t there.”

“It’s real!” insisted Akorlin.

“She’s right,” echoed Solenzara from her perch, her mouth filled with apple. “I heard it myself from Ñillewen when she was talking to one of the undergardeners.

“See? If Ñillewen says it’s real, then it’s real,” Akorlin said with triumph on her face.

“Fine,” Ñarmotar threw his hands up. “But do you have any idea where the tree is? And when you find it, what are you going to do with it?”

“It’s around here, somewhere, I know it is. I just have to keep looking. Maybe Sole, if you look from your vantage point…?”

There was no answer from their younger sibling, she was munching unconcernedly on an apple and staring into the clouds.

“Sole!” Akorlin shouted. “Ground control to Solenzara, can you hear me Solenzara?”

“Nope, I don’t want to. I want to.” She said after a moment.

Akorlin rolled her eyes and huffed. “I guess I’ll look on my own.”

“I think we should make flower crowns for mother and father,” announced Solenzara.

“Flower crowns?” both Akorlin and Ñarmotar said at once. “Why flower crowns?”

Solenzara shifted in her spot and looked down at her siblings with a grin. “Why not? There are so many flowers around here. You know father loves them.”

“He loves yours maybe,” Akorlin corrected.

“And mother could use one after her ritual thing,” continued Solenzara, ignoring her sister. “Come on Narmy, Akor, please, pleeeeeeeease?”

All of the arguing over what to do next, however, was rendered moot point in the next moment. Something red appeared in the sky, a sanguine sword cutting a swath through the wispy clouds of midmorning. Ñarmotar was the first to see it. He stood up and ran to the edge of the hilltop, shielding his eyes. A roar began, like thunder if the sound was stretched out and thinned to last longer. He couldn’t tell what it was as it cut across the sky, coming closer and closer to them. Solenzara screamed when she saw, a gut reaction of terror. Whatever this was, it was coming fast, hurdling down from the heavens and an unnatural speed. She fell from the tree, but like a cat, landed on her feet. She rushed to Akorlin who watched with eyes wide and mouth again, though from amazement or terror none could have said. All three huddled together as it continued falling. As it moved closer and closer the shape of the thing became clearer. It was massive, a stone was leading the way, a stone so hot that it glowed with an angry red fire. The tail behind it was smoke, smoldering grey and brown.

“A star is falling,” mumbled Akorlin, the only one of them to be able to find her voice.

It moved closer and closer. Ñarmotar finally got his limbs to work. He’d seen the falling star move close enough. He couldn’t tell the final trajectory of the thing, but he knew that it was going to be too close to their little hillock. He scooped up both siblings and, adrenaline pumping through his veins, hoisted them both onto his shoulders. Normally, Ñarmotar wasn’t considered a strong man, but under the circumstances he barely felt the weight of his siblings. Akorlin kicked instinctively in protest, but her older brother’s grip was too strong, Solenzara screamed again, but this time it came out as more of a mousy squeak than anything threatening. Ñarmotar didn’t hear her scream though. He was so focused on saving his siblings and pulling them from danger that he didn’t see or hear anything other than the ground in front of him and the roar and whine of the thing in the sky, falling almost directly them now.

He rushed down the hill just in time. The falling star missed the hill, but not the tree in which Solenzara had been resting. The tree verily exploded, throwing burned wood and scorched fruit in all directions. Even though they were a distance from the top of the hill now, Ñarmotar could still feel the heat of the explosion as well as something hitting him in the back. Akorlin was shouting something, but he couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything. The thunderous boom and whine turned into an explosion. The star fell to the earth, impacted the ground. He felt the ground shift and move. Only once had he ever experienced an earthquake when the ground itself seemed to want to tear itself apart and shake everything so that nothing stood on top of anything else. The ground shook now, throwing him off balance. He took a wrong step and suddenly he was flying again, but unlike last time, he had nothing to fall into except for the hungry, waiting ground. He hit the ground hard, and pain exploded all around him. As soon as he hit, the weight of his sisters vanished. The world went topsy-turvey. The sky and everything around him roared like a lion, a wind came up out of nowhere and threatened to rip his clothes and skin to shreds. The heat was sudden and horrific too. He’d visited the House of the Hammer a few times and went to forges where they crafted weapons and building materials. This heat felt like that forge, all the air and moisture seemed to be ripped apart and spread to the four corners, like he was being stuck with a branding iron. He heard his sisters scream as the heat washed over them too. Blindly, he reached out to them grabbing handfuls of earth until he found them and pulled them in as close as his muscles allowed him.

When he finally felt like he could look up, he staggered to his feet. His ankle was twisted and swollen; he tried to take a step on it and nearly collapsed as the pain overwhelmed him. There was also a stinging feeling in his back. His clothes were torn and tattered, but there was no excess of blood, neither from him nor his sisters. He whispered a silent prayer of thanks to Irmo.

After the roar of the falling star, the silence that settled over the field was unsettling. The grass was all blown sideways; each blade, if it had not been blown completely out of the ground, was bent in a single direction, as if fleeing the sight of landing. The ground was firm again, but something in Ñarmotar made him not want to trust it, to step as gingerly as he could on the ground, lest it crumble and send him and his sisters hurdling into the abyss.

“Is- Is everyone okay? Akorlin? Solenzara?”

“I’m fine,” voiced Akorlin, to his right. She looked disheveled and her hair was in a state of excitement, mixed with bits of grass and wood but otherwise she looked unhurt.

“Me too,” said Solenzara, appearing at his left. She looked a little worse for wear. She must have hit her head against something when he fell, there was a streak of dark blood against her ashy purple skin and pale silvery hair. “What was that?”

“Let’s take a look. Other’s will have heard that too.”

“The king probably heard that,” agreed Akorlin. “And at least twice as many people would have seen it. Come, let’s take a look.”

--- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * ---

In the Skies Above Cirith Thoronath

The air was calm and rarified the higher he flew. He loved flying this high, there was nothing in the whole world that could stop him or tear him down from this height. From up here, the entirely of the world, from the Uttermost West to the Uttermost East, seemed equidistant and equally unimportant. Up here in the clouds, Thuowénd felt like he could be himself. There was a peace in the silent stillness of the cloudy blue skies. While others hated being on patrol, he loved it. He loved soaring as high into the air as he could and floating down on his massive, outstretched wings.

He looked down at the Vale of Tumladen, it was a thousand shades of green and blue, from emerald to azure, from viridian to turquoise. He could understand why so many thought it was beautiful. It was. There was nothing that could compare to the diamond blue of the sky, but if there was a place in all the world that could, it would be there. He counted himself lucky. He could see the entire world open up for him from here.

And yet, despite all the blue and white surrounding Thuowénd, he could not help but feel a sense of unease. There was something about the air that made his pinions prickle, a sixth sense perhaps, or a premonition of danger.

He couldn’t find the source though. He’d been looking all morning, searching for something, the fount of his disquiet, but nothing. Even his eagle sharp eyes could not find anything amiss. Nothing but his gut. Then something tore across the sky, a red blade, a falling star. It roared and hollered and thundered, ripping clouds to shreds and throwing off wind that knocked Thuowénd from his stance. He plummeted for several seconds before he recovered his balance. As he fell, though, he saw something, or thought he saw something. A hint of mist creeping along the edge of the mountainside. The mist was not unusual, but it felt wrong. He couldn’t see anything in the mist, the curling tendrils of mist oft made shapes that tricked the eyes of the Eldar or of the younger Edain, but not the eyes of the Eagles.

He came back, his wings catching the wind again. He watched the star fall, terrified for a moment that it would hit the city, but the object was falling at too steep an angle to hit the city, doubtlessly it would hit some unoccupied field and bring a gaggle of people to talk and gawk at it whilst a single person tried to pull the star from the earth. Both Eldar and Edain were odd that way, letting one person work while most just stand around and discuss whatever it was.

He turned his attention away though. It would be important for Thorondor to know and perhaps he would have an idea of how to help with any possible damages, but for now, the thing that occupied Thuowénd’s thoughts was the mist. He couldn’t say why, but whatever that mist was, was the source of his misgivings. Yet, when he turned to look, the mist was nowhere to be seen. The mountain side looked as calm and pristine as it had a moment ago. He screeched. Something was very wrong. He knew of one individual he could go to in order to find answers.

It was time to talk to the soothsayer.

[Aranadhel]

Gondolin – FA507

Walking Home

She was tired. Dead tired. After standing and guarding the 7 walls of Gondolin on a rotation basis for seven days without sleep all Rane wanted to do was take a nice hot bath and sleep. She did not even bother to go to the armoury and dispensed herself off her armour, spear, sword, winged helm and shield.

The golden haired elleth stared back at the Gondolindrim who stared wide eyed at her as she made her way across the maze that was the Hidden City. Her tummy growled in hunger as she eyed the tasty loaves of bread coming from a bakery and added an extra load onto herself with the aforementioned bread for her family. Family. She had to chuckle to herself sometimes when the word popped out in her mind.

Her parents she can tolerate but it's the cursed twin of hers which always made her want to punch his sorry face whenever he comes into view. Twins they might be but they share not the same hair color nor do they have any semblance of a similar persona. Even rarer for Elves to have twins, the only known twins are the Ambarussa, youngest twin sons of the late King Feanor.

Rane smiled at the knowledge that she knew from the outside world, and she thanked her Master for that. Not only did he elevate her status from a cheeky, naughty thief but he also elevated both her mind and body as she joined the army and got accepted into Tuor's House of the Wing. Her thoughts was only broken as she'd neared her family abode and entered the house.

Hello ada and ami, she greeted them. She then carefully placed all the weaponry on a side rack and placed the winged helm on the rack top. Still in armour though she then hugged both her parents and asked, Where's the idiot boy?

[Aikári Salmarinian]

Gondolin – FA507
The final days (2)

Her dish on the fire was almost ready and Nyarnwë was quite content. She had been cooking for four persons, but it could still be three persons. She looked at her husband and wanted something to say, but then the door to the house creaked. It was opening. Her daughter had finally arrived. She heard clearly the undressing of some guard items she must have brought with her. Still after such a long time, decades at least, she was not used to see Nyaránë in uniform, just as Ernamo was wearing on duty. But he wasn’t now. “Good you’re home. I just have a good meal ready. Hungry?” she asked her daughter. She hugged her daughter back, glad she wasn’t wounded from some exercise. A war had been fought out already. And she had been basically alone then, when both Ernamo and Nyaránë had been off fighting. They had returned. Ernamo gave his daughter a tap on the shoulder. “You’re doing well,” he said, eyeing her approvingly. Nyarnwë couldn’t say what her daughter was thinking really, or even her husband. But they had a good name this far, and that shone over them, even the house was simple, and fairly humble for an elf with a good name. But she wouldn’t have in any other way. The day Nyaránë would marry, have her own family and her own home, she could chose how she wanted it. Nyarnwë was hoping to see one day that grandchildren would come in her life. But she was not certain about it with her daughter, and she had never said anything of that.

They assembled at the table she had decorated earlier and did a little acknowledgment to Yavanna for another good day, and the fortunes that they had. What could Nyarnwë yet hope for? Or more hope for? Her son didn’t appear and with a sigh she started eating from her plate, with utensils. There was a light vine juice to it, good of smell and taste. But not something you would singsong after great qualities. “So Nyaránë?” asked her father. “How are matters in the House of the Wing?” He served in the Swallows as wall guard. He was glad to be back though and have this quiet life after the Nirneath, that had been a devastating battle for the allied forces. “And what did you mean with idiot boy? I don’t like such talk and I reckon that Aranadhel won’t like it either, if you talk of your fellow guards that way in the House of Wing.” She had still to be corrected at some points. But he wanted just the best for her in the service of King Turgon. Serving went with grace in every form. Ernamo had learned the Noldorin way of grace, and this was not the same as being Sindarin. Nyarnwë could know, she was from the blessed lands. “Act with grace and you will even have more respect, and if all goes dire, maybe the royal family will give you the greatest honour of the protection of his family?” she smiled to her daughter.

She never had that honour as she was the mother at home in traditional sense. Their most troublesome child had turned out unexpectingly the one bringing real respect and honour. All of that still paid out to become a Lady herself with great wisdom. More elves had come from humble birth and grew into great loremasters. The meal finished, and Nyarnwë still had a treat for them, a fruit bowl, nicely and colourful decorated. It would not miss on the table of a king. She was quite proud of her meals. Ernamo didn’t speak of Nyarámo, and neither did she. It was a great guess what he was doing as he was out for days already and hadn’t returned. Not that she really cared. Like his sister he was capable of taken care of himself.

[Aranadhel]

Gondolin – FA507

Eating at Home

Rane quickly undid her body armour and splashed water on her her face and hands in the basin then she tied her hair back before making herself busy eating on the dinner table. While wolfing down the pork stew and honey bun she replied in between mouthful with food dropping out of her mouth. Tuor and the rest of us are training well in the House of Wing, ada. She took another bite of the bun.Lord Ecthelion of the Fountain has been training us hard in the art of close combat using the spear and shield. Hard work indeed dueling with the warriors of the Fountain. They outnumber us five to one and your dearest daughter almost got injured a few times, ama. Rane flicked her wrist to show them the bruises and drank her mother's vine juice in between chewing. Delicious as always, ama. Rane gave a thumbs up and continued eating like a pig.

She however never expected her father to admonish her for bashing about her twin brother. Rane kept her mouth shut throughout until her father finished. Of course I won't ever talk bad about my Master or my comrades in arms. But my brother is different! And I don't want to be recognised by the Royal Family. Master's approval is already enough for me, ada. Rane told her parents truthfully. But where is he? she asked in all seriousness and eyed the dessert next sitting temptingly on the table corner.

[Aikári Salmarinian]

Gondolin – FA507
The final days (3)

Nyarnwë finished the meal off and listened to the half barter between her husband and her daughter. What was keeping Nyarámo, and why were her twins always fighting? “A master’s approval is not everything, Nyaránë,” said Ernamo. “All can remain as well, but if dire, the king will make choices. And I wouldn’t want you to die in this valley. All of the other Noldorin realms have fallen to the Dark Lord, even King Turgon don’t take it very seriously. But you are young and have your whole life ahead of you. Think smarter than me, your mother and your brother.” The pudding went around and Nyarnwë gave all three the chance to chop something off. Her food was appreciated and she felt well by it. This was good life. Why should it change? “Well, I am happy your injuries aren’t severe and that you’re training well. Five to one? And you are keeping yourself against them?” asked her mother in awe. She had never imagined her daughter would be capable. But she was making her father proud. Not coming from the best parts of town, Nyaránë had made a good name for herself. Nyarnwë had no idea how to wield weapons. She was a traditional elven woman. Good for auxiliary work, the cooking and the washing. But what kept the brother from being away? He didn’t show up this time either. “No idea where your brother is. Somewhere in town,” replied Ernamo to his daughter’s last question. But when the pudding was consumed there were sounds in the back of the house.

----------

Nyarámo lived his own life complete, and never bothered with the family anymore. He got his room here still, but anything personal he had need for was long gone. Anybody could camp here really. His hair hadn’t seen a comb in weeks and fell just loose over his back and half over his face. The robes had seen better days too. They looked dirty if he had been rolling around in the dirt and dust. He carried a flute and a citer on him in the bag that hung at his side. He did little else than playing music, with a timbre that called up dark, ominous clouds and chasing the sunlight away. You could hear the marches of the dark lord in what he played. That inspiration had come from the signs of battle he had found around the valley, and the many skeletons hidden in the forests. King Turgon hadn’t always camped in this valley, which was a giant trap, surrounded by a ring of mountain peaks. In a sense it was music terrible to listen to, but it meant with Nyarámo’s rebellious mood. He had his dinner somewhere else and ignored the gathering in the dining room. He rather sat in the back garden.

He hoped that his stupid sister was not around, but just trying to get her limbs chopped off in training. But as he could hear three pairs of voices, his hopes were in vain. On the other hand, trying to get under her skin should be fun as well. Perhaps he ought to search it up. He moved from the gardens to the kitchen, and got himself fresh water from the well he gulped away in one move. With Nyaránë around nothing was safe. All instruments were replaceable and he was skilled enough to create a new one. He looked at the mess that still lay around, from the dinner his mother had been making. He could see them sitting in the dining room, as they could see him, but he didn’t bother to say anything. They could die for all he cared. The entire town was a living tomb, entertained by living dead. He took a cucumber as a snack for tonight and vanished once more to the back of the house. He dreamt of the day to leave this all behind and have a life in the complete wilds of nature. In the meantime he played heavy music to compensate the boredom of this lifestyle.

[Aranadhel]

Gondolin – FA507

Confrontation in the Garden

Rane's eyes flashed dangerously when her father chided her for wanting to follow in Aranadhel's footsteps without preamble. I do not follow the King, Ada. We won't die in Gondolin. She said with defiance in her tone. We are safe here. No harm shall fall upon us unless we ourselves neglect what matters the most. Rane raised her voice at her parents.

Eating her mother's pudding somewhat calmed her down but her mood went foul again when her mother could not tell her where her stupid twin was. Rane had just finished her last scoop when she heard sounds coming from the back of the house and finally laid eyes on Nyaramo. He saw her but did not acknowledged her presence as he slipped out the same way as he came in. Oi! She called out to her twin. Rane looked at her parents in anger and stormed out to confront Nyaramo.

What is wrong with you, donkey?! Aren't you glad to see me back home? She grabbed his arm and wanted to punch his face.

[Ercassie]

Pride Cometh Before .. - Part 1



'I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go
When all those shadows almost killed your light
I remember you said don't leave me here alone
But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight

Just close your eyes, the sun is going down
You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now
Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound ..'

(Safe and Sound, by Taylor Swift)




Tirindo Aiwenarion (with Culasso). Also Erfaron Silugnir
Survivors, of the House of Swallows; and the host of Fingon;
Entering the city of Gondolin. In the wake of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, 472 FA

Upon their departure, they had marched in company of hope, of faith, of resolution. Upon their return, they staggered, dogged by despair, by grief, and by great woe. The alliance which had nurtured a vain dream had instead bred nightmare. They rode on the wake of that nightmare, the train of walking dead.

Tirindo made himself walk, putting one foot forth and then the other. His passage was trialsome, as though mired waist high through a swamp, or some dread reminiscent of the blustered hurdles out upon the Helcaraxe. He had come through that ghastly experience in one piece, more or less, and so now he maintained he must persevere once more. If he'd managed that, then he would this.

The archer's quiver was empty, his beloved bow forsaken in favour of a far more precious load. Both arms were as heavy as they were determined, as much from the ceaseless labours of their war, as from cradling the limp folds of his dying son. Culasso slumped awkward but oblivious with one leg draped, one dragging against sheer obstinate will. A tremoring whistle rattled through what remained of his teeth, drawing and emitting breath through the gaping crevices that had been rendered in his once fair face. The spiked claw of an immense mace had cratered the young Elf's cheek, shattering what bone did not flee all about. One eye roiled naked of much means to hold it's place. Flies grew fat and gluttonous within the fleshy pulp, and the gnarled curve of his skull mask showed in fragments which had been embedded most unnatural. The mirror side of the youth's countenance hugged his father's ragged chest, seeming but asleep and untouched by horrors, which only cast his opposing features in stark and most ghastly contrast. Still the ravaged recruit clung to life and still his wilful parent could not bring himself to lay the waste down in the dirt and accept what must be. Haly was at home waiting for them ..

"We are come near home," the father mentioned, as he had some thousand times throughout the weary trek thereforth. As though it should make some difference at all, that they stood on cobbled streets now, as though that should matter .. to a one so far removed from all chance of recovery that it was a cruelty of the fates to grant him breath at all.



Erfaron should have rolled his anaemic eyes to observe such a harrowing waste of time. It was fortunate thus that his slow winding advance through the great city was thus stalled some. There was marvel for perhaps he and that slight count of his ilk, Hithlum's survivors, they as had never set eyes about fair Gondolin afore. What majesty and wonder the secret realm might else have declared was soiled by the stink of death that traipsed numb across it's forgotten flowers, the ribbons of blood which spilt from the tear of raw wounds to stain the fine streets. The irony of that infamous refuge, thick with all the evidence and terror of the outside world it had held out. Until now.

The pale newcomer bore no sword to stagger his approach, for that blade lay fast stuck in some swollen bloated corpse now leagues behind. Still his stance was hampered, by the weight of that felled soldier whose weight he had supported, too long, too far .. A one who had roused from consciousness only for briefest moments to oppose being supported at all. Ingrate. It had been a battle to bear the bedraggled and bewildered body thus far. Still orders were orders. And if they might be the last orders that his captain, the legendary Halberdier, ever emitted aloud, they would at the least have been accomplished. Doubtless the animated protests gave some indication that Earcolante’s only son was yet alive. The helpful assistant who relieved Silugnir of his most resentful load seemed to think so, and even think this cause for some celebration.

The injured archer was that volunteer's dilemma now. The soldier of Hithlum had borne his commander's son safe through the gate so that was ... Well. He knew not quite what he should do now. Stood stock in his boots, jostled by the herd which cared none for his confusion, he turned to depart and found it quite impossible. Carried by their faceless groaning tide toward the palace, the vast halls served as grander acoustics for the bruise of cries and pain and woe. The clamour was endless, inescapable, and so many helpful hands did not seem to acknowledge that the blood which drenched his devastated colours was in fact not his.

The acknowledgement struck him from balance; that they were all .. gone. His King, his captain, his friends … he would never see them again. And all that he could count his own was what he stood up in. Lucky to have been left alive ? What could there possibly be left that was worth living for except …. Except .. no .. this was Gondolin ? He lost balance and landed hard on his rear and the street. None noticed. One bewildered refugee was the least of the city's problems. Today at least.

"I can't just hide here with you while they're fighting out there."
"Why not ? You won't matter out there. You will matter here."

- An exchange between Samwell Tarly and Gilly, Game of Thrones





Feapoldie Aiwenariel and Laegon Nestion, with their daughter Isildie Nariel
Residence in Gondolin, the same hour that the survivors returned.

Theirs had been a battle of nerves, a battle of pain, a battle of awaiting. Not a word was spoke about the subject, although it was plain to observe. The stark white of the bandage, the fumbling clumsiness of the injured limb. It was ever present, never spoke of. They busied themselves with any other subject chance might seize upon. This day it was their greatest of mutual interests. Their treasured daughter.

"She is come," the Sinda warmed at the acknowledgement, moved to raise an arm and wave back at his urgently approaching child. Moved and remembered himself, and halted. His hand was not yet properly healed.

"She will have a hunger," his wife prophesised, raising from her seat. "She has been at the palace some hours." Even as she moved, expectant, Feapoldie picked up what her husband had put down. A silence, a fret .. Nariel had scarce time to cross the foyer before her parents were all about her.

"Word is come. The call from the gates," the handmaiden spilled over her admission, turning eyes from left to right, from mother to father. "There shall be a need to see to all those come to home. Father .." the girl laid gentle a hand on her father's arm. "The Princess is making ready all halls to receive those in want of attention. Your herbs will be in demand. Are you able ?"

A nod was enough. Laegon knew what it was she was asking. As well did his wife, her hands already seeking for his supplies. They were close to hand, for his need to tend to his own malady of late. Fea assigned them to the one most capable. "You're welcome," she mentioned quietly.

"The garden, Isildie" her husband bade their daughter, quiet like. Unrattled by the urgency of their concern. "Harvest what you can in small time. Some of each. We know not what we may require"

The back door yawned wide as Nariel fled to do her part and, in the silence, her mother encroached on Laegon's hands, sparingly for tender still were broken fingers.

"Not all blows dealt to our Enemy are measured in wrath," Fea decreed, as though she made such decisions in the hands of fate. "Love and care are of a strength he can not rival. This is when you revoke what fell deeds the Enemy had reaped upon our people. Reclaim what he has assigned to death, recover what he has bent and broken." Raising up his hands, Fea brought his fingers to her lips and ran them over with her soft caress. "This is your war my love, this is where you make the difference."


"We can all, each, only do what is in us, only in the ways that we know how," he returned. Unable despite his best want to thank her now from keeping him from marching out to battle. As an empress she stood, proud, victorious, and would not care for his opinion on her decision. She had cared when she had slammed the door upon his hand. An accident they had decided, in the heat of the argument. And how could he have known anger at her flamboyant drama, even though it marred his vainest hopes. How could he condemn her for her actions when she had come after to the floor, wracked by a tide of sobs. She was right, he could not deny, he was no warrior. Not in the traditional sense.. That was why she loved him. Because he was all that she wished the world might be, rather than what she grieved that it was. That was why she wept, not only for what damage she'd done him, but for fear that he should leave her. She would not survive his leaving her ...

To glance now at her porcelain complexion, you might think that she had known, had planned, had carried out some authentic performance ... But her husband could not believe that she had slammed the door .. then, there .. with intent. For he had seen her tears. He had heard her prayers and grimaced patiently as she laid kisses from her lips about the damage. She was his astounding Noldo bride and she could only ever love with a ferocity unrivalled. He had known that of her from the start.

Nariel returned, well laden with a crop of life-saving arsenal. Her gentle weapons would soothe, anaesthetise and aide the ailing. Her father would require the soft hands of the sweet little lady’s maid. He would guide, he would lend what assistance he knew to. Feapoldie watched them depart, vowing to make good her own time in service to those in need. A dancing instructor, she was proud and firm and unrelenting. What in such a circumstance might she do but to organise the street ? Hands would be made ready to help, though they could not all heal the harm which had been done to flesh; they could yet heal hurts. There would be much in the way of hurts. The heart of the city was in tatters.

The message that Nariel had carried from the palace, her mother now took up as though it were a song to be sung all through the streets. There would be no neighbour she could not rouse toward duty. There were few about all Gondolin that ever dared to refuse Feapoldie. All hands as could help were wakened, all as could bear sheets and food and blankets and .. Aught else ... All would hasten toward the palace. It was her daughter's wish, and so it was the mother's errand.


Some hearts were not designed toward tenderness, but a strength resided within all hearts just the same that day. Mother, father, daughter ... Hastened to do all they might for the suffering of all their folk alike. The fighting was finished, but the battle persevered long after that.


****Moved from my private flashback vault to kick off my Gondolin RP in this thread

[Aikári Salmarinian]

FA472 – End of battle (1)

Return

They returned. As the great army had emerged from the mountains, they swallowed the smaller returning force. Left with tenthousand of them, the return was written in tears. Just as the name of the battle had become. Ernamo was one of the survivors, battered completely, their numbers much lesser than they had left with. It had been a noble deed, but to little avail. Morgoth had won it out. The Gondolindhrim were returning home. How secret? That was yet to be seen. Not much good could come of it. He had a family to return to, a wife and a son. He knew what he had with Nyarnwë, but his son was a complete riddle. Nyarámo lived the life of a layabout, someone for whose life held no purpose. He wrote music and poems and played on instruments for himself, but held no interest in battles or even performing for a crowd. Why Nyarámo never mingled in social ways, he understood not. What the reason for it was, he knew not either. And besides at the return this bothered him a little. Far more concern lay around the wounded and an addition of people from Fingon’s army. The king himself was dead. Coming back to town was exhilarating and shaming in sense. He couldn’t explain why the House of Swallow had lost so many numbers. He knew Tirindo, but hadn’t seen him since the battlefield. There hadn’t been time to talk, or even on the way. Ernamo had other obligations to tend to, and that was the transportation of other wounded, laying flat on portable brancards. Three of his weapon brothers were assisting with the horses. They were heading toward the palace grounds. Maybe he would see Nyarnwë there? And perhaps his daughter Nyaránë was found there as well? Ernamo sighed deep, after the battles he had to become accustomed to live a life like this. He had heeded the call of them, but left him rather shaken. He couldn’t say if he had a trauma of it. But the faces of so many lost friends would surely come to haunt him in the coming time. He felt there would not be any escape of that. Fingon’s forces had come also with them. Fingon himself was dead. If all sayings were true, then, the souls would be going to Mandos’ Halls. So there was chance perhaps they would see each other once more, if they were re-embodied. But many would not choose for that again, and remain just a spirit.

Near the palace grounds

It was a busy hive out there, when they came through the gates and halted their horses. The few wounded in his care were approached by healers, as he presumed, but he couldn’t tell from the way they were dressed. But there was indeed the face he hadn’t seen from leaving. He jumped in a rash action on the ground and regretted that immediately. His right leg buckled for a moment and he could prevent falling from leaning on the long shaft of the spear he still had with him. Nyarnwë had come and the embrace was long and warm, and they said nothing. It was a sweet return as he had been dreaming of that for a long time. Neither had known if they would see each other again. “You’re back,” she whispered in his embrace. They let each other go and he nodded to her. “Yes, I am back.” His wife was not only here to see him, but also socially engaging in taking care of the wounded that were brought in. It was gruesome enough how some did cling still to life, while perhaps nothing could be done that to let them go. His daughter had fought in the battle as well, but she survived he had no idea yet. “How has it all been here in town?” Ernamo asked. “Very quiet really, with no word from the battlefield, only when you returned today,” said Nyarnwë. She had never seen the horrors of battle really. Was his son around? “Have you been alone here?” he asked. “I have been. Just with friends and such. My daily walk to the market. Having drinks with my girlfriends, doing household chores mostly for myself,” she said nodding. So Nyarámo was traceless. What was the point of having children, if they were never around? He placed again those thoughts out of his head. Nyaránë had been riding for the same noble cause. Perhaps she did pop up? Other parents with remaining children wandered around (Ennora's characters among), looking for those coming back. “Would you help me with the wounded I brought with me?” he asked to his wife. She nodded and together they saw the wounded were brought to the right ward in the palace. He couldn’t do much more than to sit down. Nyarnwë however was full of energy and knowing she was off some use, she got a look on the first patient, laying still on the stretcher and with help she was put on a comfortable bed. The wounds were severe, but not impossible to treat and the girl would live to see yet another day. She went helping with gathering water, putting bandages and tools ready and give the patient some comfort.


Ennora: Maybe there is somewhere a niche to hook on. Nyarnwë and Ernamo should be in or near the same space (Feapoldie,) Isildie and Leagon are.

[Aranadhel]

Aran kept pace with Tirindo as they made their way back into the hidden city. He was battered, bruised and felt lethargic. Even for an Elf he felt he couldn't take the strain for much longer. In his arms he carried his protege, Nyarane. To him she looked dead but her fea remained still in her hroar and that was the only reason he brought her home. Gondolin was, is her home. Aran allowed a smirk on his dirtied face thinking about how Gondolin became his cage in Arda.

To have been able to leave and participate in the Great Battle was a sigh of relief to Aran, since the Noldor have been cooped up for hundreds of years without outside contact. Losing the battle however was not what he'd expected. Probably it will be discussed in a later meeting once the survivors have healed and rested well. He did not want to disturb Tiri as Fea's brother is also fighting a battle of emotion regarding his son whose face has been disfigured badly in battle. Both of them needs to find healers as soon as they reach the infirmary.

Aran looked down on Rane's beautiful but still face. Wake up, little one. He shook her shoulders to no avail. Her forehead has an ugly lump on the left side above her left eye and her golden tresses was covered in mud. Not a good sight to behold. Almost there, little one. We're almost home. Aran cooed and continued on behind Tiri and the rest of the survivors through the Six Gates.