Season 6 Episode 3
Five years later...First Age YS 500
[Episode opens on a scene of a wretched, withered old man with a long white beard and gnarled staff in hand, crossing over the Ford of Brithiach, and wandering in the dark feet of the Echoriath. All the land is cold and desolate… He comes to a great fall of stones beneath a sheer rock wall. Although he does not know it, this is all that is left of the old way into Gondolin, after Turgon ordered the entrance to be blocked. Húrin looks up into the grey sky, hoping that he might descry the eagles as he did before, so long ago. But he sees only dark clouds and shadows blown from the East, and hears only the wind hissing over the stones.
Húrin stands in despair before the silent cliffs of the Echoriath; the setting sun pierces the clouds for a brief moment, and his white hair is stained blood red. He cries aloud in the wilderness, not caring if any heed him, cursing the pitiless land…Climbing onto a prominent rock he cries in a great voice:]
Húrin: Turgon, Turgon, remember the Fen of Serech! O Turgon, will you not hear in your hidden halls? [cut.]
* * *
[Cut to scene of Thorondor descending from the skies above Gondolin, which are clouded with the dust of Angband. He speaks to Turgon from the walls.]
Thorondor: There is one in the valley who came long ago as a stranger and departed as a friend. I know not how he returns here beyond hope.
Turgon: [in wonder] Can it be that Húrin now returns out of the very darkness of Angband? Does Morgoth sleep? [shakes head in disbelief. Firmly] You were mistaken…
Thorondor: [sharply] Not so. If the Eagles of Manwë were wont to err thus, then long ago, lord, your hiding would have been in vain.
Turgon: Then your words can bear but one meaning. [purses dry lips.] Even Húrin Thalion has surrendered to the will of Morgoth. My heart is shut.
[Thorondor is silent, giving only a last penetrating gaze. The King of Eagles pushes off from the walls with mighty claws, spreads his wings once more, and swiftly launches into the sky. Turgon turns away, heartsick, his own words ringing in his ears. Idril enters, and seeing her father’s distress, tries to comfort him.]
Turgon: Thorondor tells me Húrin is seeking access to our realm again. I have refused, for Morgoth allows none who do not serve his purpose in some way to walk freely from Angband.
Idril: Do you not recall the boy you once knew? … do you remember also the man who, with his brother counselled you to leave the field of battle and save our people? The man who, standing between Angband and Gondolin, gave the aid of the House of Hador that Lord Ulmo prophesied?
Turgon: [nods in anguish]
Idril: And you also know and love his nephew, who was chosen as the Herald of Ulmo…Surely you cannot bring yourself to believe that such a man would seek now to betray us?
Turgon: [head in hands] I have erred in my pride… [rushes again to the balcony, cries to the Eagles] Eagles of Manwë, Come to me! [Several of them come to the city walls in a rush of wings.] Make haste and bear word to the one who seeks me: the one I doubted in this dark hour but will doubt no longer. Bear word and welcome to Húrin... Idril, run and fetch Tuor that he may greet his kin! [Cut]
* * *
[Cut back to Húrin standing still on the rock. There is no sound save the wind in the dry grasses.]
Húrin: [Bitterly] Even so the grasses hissed in Serech at the sunset… [as he speaks the sun sets behind the Ered Wethrin and the wind ceases as a silence falls in the waste. In the darkness Húrin stumbles as he steps down from the rock, and he falls into a heavy sleep of grief. The Eagles circle above, unable to find him. Camera pans down from the sky and over the desolate landscape, coming to rest on hidden eyes in a thicket that have observed all. As we watch, a wretched snaga Orc sneaks away silently to report to his Master… Fade.]
*
[Fade back into scene of Turgon with Idril and Tuor waiting for neews on the balcony of the King’s Tower. Thorondor hovers in front of the King, and shakes his head as he indicates there is no sign of Húrin. Turgon bows his head in sorrow Idril clings to Tuor who comforts her. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Fade into scene north of Gondolin, in a small encampment near the Anghabar mine, one year later. There are several temporary dwellings constructed near the mouth of the mine, in a little vale on the knees of the mountains: timber-covered hills roll up to meet the snow further up the slope. The entrance to the mine is a gaping hole in the side of the mountain, surrounded thickly by pines. Cut to Maeglin returning to the city from the mine. He is leading a pack-horse laden with precious ores along the main road through Tumladen,. After a while, he is waylaid by two riders coming from the opposite direction.]
Talagand: Lord Maeglin! [hails him comfortably from his perch upon a grey palfrey, as his steed approaches at a leisurely walk. Mounted beside him is Penlod, Lord of the Pillar and Tower on a chestnut stallion. He looks at the horse’s panniers with interest,] I see you have plenty to show for your long absence…
Penlod: [cordially] You have been long away from the city, my lord. Lord Egalmoth fears you are gathering a treasure hoard to rival his own.
Maeglin: [curtly He need not. Ah…what is the gossip from Court, my lords?
Talagand: We missed your presence at the King's feast last moon, or at least I did. I swiftly grew weary of Rog's arguments, Duilin is never merry, and Ecthelion's taste for wine leaves him incapable of anything but song. [laughs jovially.] To cap it all, the King is vexed with his daughter’s ability to elude him with increasing frequency. I do believe he worries she has finally given her heart to some sprightly noble or another!
Maeglin: [laughs hollowly.] Surely not, my Lord. When I greet my cousin I will be sure to mention her father’s concern. Do you ride the forest for pleasure, my lords, or do I hinder your task?
Penlod: [eagerly] We ride to join Galdor and Duilin for a hunt. [Maeglin nods and makes to continue on his way…]
Talagand: [calls after him slyly] Of course, you would not have been present for the most recent news to stir the City. Our mortal friend Master Tuor has taken up permanent residence in the house of the King, and some say he will be made a lord of Gondolin. But perhaps Turgon has spoken of this to you?
Maeglin: [stops and turns, smiling ironically] So Turgon seeks to ease his conscience by giving favour and glory to the messenger of Ulmo whose counsel he ignores. And Tuor makes his home in the kingdom whose destruction he came to foretell… I had not heard anything of the matter. I think perhaps I should speak with Master Tuor. [Penlod nods and rides away. Talagand makes to follow, calling over his shoulder to Maeglin]
Talagand: Do indeed, he tells a most fascinating tale, even when speaking of his own life. One soon forgets how short a time he has lived! [Waves hand in farewell. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to halls of King’s palace in Gondolin. All is quiet and still. We see Maeglin walking; He hears voices talking softly in an alcove some way ahead, and he freezes. He takes a few steps nearer and stops again, trying to listen.]
Tuor: [gently] Hush…you worry needlessly.
Idril: I do not think so. I think I worry for good reason. [Camera focus on Maeglin as he recognizes idril’s voice. He frowns, wondering what could be worrying her. He takes a few more steps so that he can just see her back, but not who she is talking to.]
Tuor: Ah, my love…
[Maeglin shifts, three steps to the right, just in time to see Tuor slip his arms around Idril’s waist and kiss her, long and deeply and passionately. Maeglin knees quiver and his breath catches as he stares in shock and denial. Idril sinks into Tuor’s arms and kisses him back with a small sound of pleasure. Maeglin is transfixed, unable to take his eyes away. He digs his nails into his palms in silent rage. Eventually Idril pulls back, shivering.]
Idril: Someone is here… [she draws closer to Tuor who turns, eyes narrowed. ]
Tuor: Someone? [Camera cut back to Maeglin who fixes him with a look of pure hatred, then turns and flees silently. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to scene of Turgon and Ecthelion walking in the King’s Square. Tuor and Idril can be seen in the distance, she sitting on a bench, absently petting one of the hounds at her feet whilst Tuor reads aloud from a book, acting out the story. Her laughter rings out often. Camera focus on Turgon observing them.]
Turgon: It seems that my daughter has taken a great liking to the Man of Shadows.
Ecthelion: [candidly] If I may be so bold, a liking that may turn to love.
Turgon: [smiles] [/i][/color][/I][/color] So I am not the only one who has noticed it. You are a shrewd man, Ecthelion, whose mind perceives many more things than your mouth lets on about.
Ecthelion: Do you intend to forbid their love?
Turgon: [thoughtfully] Ecthelion, do your remember the last words of Huor at the Nirnaeth to our ears?
Ecthelion: I cannot forget, my lord.: “Out of your house shall come the hope of Elves and Men. Though we part here forever, from you and from me a new star shall arise.”
Turgon: [nods] Long have I pondered these words. The fate of the Noldor is bound to this messenger. Their union may be the fulfillment of Huor’s foresight…Bitter shall be their union, but bitterer still if they were parted.
Ecthelion: Does it matter not that he is a man, and she is of the immortal kind?
Turgon: Such a union has happened once before, and though death was their lot in the end, there was also great joy. If Idril’s heart is given, she will never love another, and I know that she would be happy with this man. I love him as I would a son. If he pursues his suit, I shall not stand in their way. Though maybe I shall envy their bliss… [Camera pan back to Tuor and Idril: Tuor declaims his last speech and takes a bow, to rapturous applause from Idril. Fade.]
* * *
[Scene opens on Enerdhil working alone in his workshop. It is grown late: the forge is dim, only the coals glowing. The red light glows on the anvil, the fire, and Enerdhil’s dextrous fingers as he works on the inlaid hilt of a long knife with a leaf-shaped blade. He is so engrossed that he does not hear Tuor enter.]
Tuor: [pleasantly] Greetings, my lord!
Enerdhil: [spins to face him with a look of surprise. Calmly, he lowers the blade. ] My Lord Tuor…I had not expected you. What brings you here?
Tuor: [smiles and steps forward] Oh, I am here in secret... please, you must not tell anyone! There is an errand I would see done, and I must request your aid.
Enerdhil: My skills are at your service, my lord. [nods for him to continue, turning back to the workbench and rummaging for a piece of paper and stick of charcoal.]
Tuor: [clears his throat, a little embarrassed.] I would ask you to fashion for me a ring…
Enerdhil: [raises] A ring, my lord? Oh, I see, you are wanting a seal for your documents, perhaps, an emblem of the House of Hador to pass down as an heirloom?
Tuor: [laughs easily] No, it is not for me, but for one that I love dearly. I wish to commission a betrothal gift for Idril. You see, I have in my possession this gem— [brings forth an aquamarine from a pouch hanging from his belt ] I feel would suit Idril perfectly…
Enerdhil: [taken aback] For the Lady Idril? [gazes at the sparkling stone, trying to gather his composure.]
Tuor: Aye, for Idril Celebrindral. I know that you crafted the Elessar for her…
Enerdhil: Indeed. It was a token of my esteem.
Tuor: I know she values your craftsmanship highly, as do I.
Enerdhil: [smiles weakly,] I would be honoured, my Lord… hestitantly] Yet, if I might be so bold as to ask, you could have another just as skilled to smelt the silver for such a gift. Why not the Lady’s cousin, Lord Maeglin?
Tuor: [flushes with embarrassment.] I fear Lord Maeglin holds some antipathy for me. He might think I wished to taunt him with such a request. [sadly] I had hoped that Idril’s cousin could share in our joy. It pains me that he despises me so…
Enerdhil: [Nods in understanding] It is probably wise not to flaunt your happiness before one who is miserable! It will only further ill-feeling. Now, as to the design – have you any suggestions?
Tuor: I leave it to your discretion, my lord, but perhaps something flowing, like the waves on the shore?
Enerdhil: Leave it with me, my Lord. I shall have preliminary designs for you to choose from by the end of the morrow. [Tuor expresses his thanks and exits, leaving the door open. As he passes down the corridor, a shadow stirs unnoticed opposite the open doorway. A dark figure observes Enerdhil sketching a few ideas on the parchment. The cold night air creeps in, cooling the coals in the forge. As the figure turns away from the doorway we see Maeglin silently weeping. Fade.]
* * *
[Fade into scene of Rog’s forge on the lower levels of Gondolin. Tuor enters.]
Tuor: Greeting, my Lord. I received your request for my presence here. How may I be of service to you?
Rog: Ah, Lord Tuor... [turns from his anvil] It is I who is at your service. The King has commanded me to fashion a suit of armour for you as a wedding gift! [leads Tuor over to a stand where we see a suit of armour made of Elven-steel overlaid with silver; the helm is adorned with a device of metals and jewels representing two swan-wings, one on either side, and a swan's wing is also wrought on the shield] I believe you will find this fitting for the Lord of the House of the White Wing…
Tuor: [lifts the helm and tries it for size, then hefts the shield to feel its weight. Bows in appreciation.] It is truly magnificent, my lord...you have my grateful thanks. [casts his eyes over the various weapons displayed in the forge.] I wonder, perhaps you might be able to help me select new arms also, for although I have made good use of the Vinyamar sword, my weapon of choice is the axe.
Rog: Have you any thought to the design?
Tuor: I wish for a hand axe of the finest quality: It should be made for a strong man, yet I wish that it be light and curved, ready to deal a slash as well as a blow.
Rog: [smiles as if he has a secret] Then I have just the thing! Years ago I felt compelled to forge a weapon unlike any I have yet made. Was it not I who forged Glamdring, sword of Turgon, and the greatest blades of Gondolin? And yet this work is greater still. [walks to a rack and lifts up a great axe. He turns and brings it over to Tuor.] This axe should suit: its buffet stuns and its edge cleaves all armour. The blade shall neither break nor bend, nor will it rust or blacken should it lie in the ground for a thousand years.
Tuor: [hefts the axe, testing its balance and weight. He raises it above his head, and takes a practise swing.] It is perfect. I shall name it Thunder-stroke!
Rog: [bows reverently] In the Elven tongue that is Dramborleg…a fitting name.
Tuor: It shall be an heirloom of my house in time! [bows to Rog] My thanks, Master Smith.
Rog: [inclines his head] The lord who bears this token caries the weight of Gondolin with him. Keep it well. [he turns back to the forge where he has been crafting a long sword. ] The people of Gondolin are getting careless...They have neglected the practice of weapons, and laid aside their weapons to rust in a corner. They no longer increase the size of the arsenal. [draws the blade from the coals and begins hammering the white-hot metal.] Mark my words, one day all shall have need of weapons. They shall find their arrows spent, and the number of swords inadequate, [He raises the sword up to make sure it is straight, then places it in the cool water which hisses and steam rises. Cut.]
* * *
[Scene opens on the day of Idril and Tuor’s wedding: the whole city has turned out, crowding into the Place of the Gods, near the King’s halls. Every column, sign and balustrade is garlanded with white flowers that leave a heavy perfume in the air. Camera focus on Tuor just inside the doors to the palace, fidgeting in his new wedding garments. Ecthelion arrives at his shoulder and escorts him down to the square, taking their places beside the other Lords on one side at the base of the marble stairway; the ladies of the Court wait on the other side, flushing in the heat and with excitement.
A trumpet sounds and Tuor looks up, and stares, his jaw dropping slightly in breathless amazement. Ecthelion, on his other side, smiles in satisfaction. Camera cut to Idril, glowing and resplendent in her gown and veil, coming slowly down the steps, on her father’s arm. She glances at Tuor lovingly, as she arrives at his side and then glances sideways at the assembled courtiers. She seems relieved to have found no sign of Maeglin. Turgon takes her hand, and places it in Tuor’s. Turgon gestures him to kneel and when he does so, Turgon places a silver circlet upon his brow. He stands again, and Turgon fixes round his neck and beautiful sky-blue cloak edge with white fur. Upon it is emblazoned the symbol of a white Swan’s wing. Now joined, the two turn to face the crowd; Turgon presents the couple:]
Turgon: My loyal subjects, I give to you the Lord and Lady of the House of the White Wing! [a great cheer goes up and white birds are released from cages. They fly up to perch in the surrounding trees, and the air is filled with their sweet song. The couple are directed to the feast table. Tuor and Idril partake first as beautiful harp music fills the air. Finally the couple are toasted.
*
Cut to later: The King's Square is a whirl of feet and ribbons…Maeglin leans against a marble column bathed in the evening sun, watching the rest of the city celebrate.. The bright sun makes a play of light and shadow on the flagstones of the courtyard. The minstrels begin to play a popular tune, Maeglin fakes a smile and begins to clap with the others. Talagand is leaning against a pillar across the square, looking bored. He shifts uncomfortably, looking around for his next drink. An Elf-maid approaches Maeglin, asking for a dance. Maeglin shakes his head. Disappointed, the girl moves away, and next we see her dancing with Ecthelion, laughing and twirling her arms in the air to make the ribbons flutter. Soon they are lost in the crowd of silk and jewels.
Cut to an uncharacteristically merry Pengolodh nearby, spinning his partner with one hand, and balancing a cup of wine with the other.
Cut back to Maeglin scanning the crowd. Camera picks out Enerdhil, the shy young jewel smith dancing with a blushing girl. By the fountain, Duilin and Egalmoth are deep in conversation, their words indiscernible for the music and laughter. Rog, the huge, strapping Lord of the Hammer, is nearby, a comical sight in the arms of a petite Elf maiden.
A sudden hush falls over the crowd. Simultaneously the setting sun slips behind the gem-laid roofs of the buildings, casting prismic rainbows of light before golden twilight falls on the square. Maeglin looks up to see two figures standing alone in the middle of the square, as the crowd parts to make way for them. The light of the dying sun is caught in their golden hair, their eyes focused on each other, and oblivious to the watchers around them.
As one, they begin to sway to the gentle music of a harp, their arms wound around each other. Idril’s slender fingers wind in Tuor’s coarse blond hair. His feet stumble, unused as yet to the Elven way of dancing, but she steadies him. He mumbles something, smiling an apology, and then leans closer to whisper in Idril’s ear. Her cheeks flush a pale shade of red, and her blue eyes sparkle mischievously as she runs a finger along the line of Tuor’s chin, pulling him into a tighter embrace with her other hand.
Cut to Maeglin, looking as though he will be sick. He sags against the pillar, the strength gone from his limbs. Suddenly aware of Talagand watching him he straightens and turns away, leaving the square to the lovers…Fade.]
* * * * *
The History of the Silmarils - Season 6, Episode 3
The History of the Silmarils - Season 6, Episode 3
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
[Fade into to some months later: Turgon and Tuor are waiting in an alcove outside a closed door, silent with worry, unspeaking, unable to look at one another. Then a baby’s cry breaks the still air; and the pair breathe deeply in relief. A door opposite opens and Idril’s handmaid appears:]
Meleth: Idril is delivered of a fine son! All is well! [Tuor embraces Turgon and hurries into the room ahead of Meleth. Turgon signals to a page, who hurries off then the King also goes to see his grandchild for the first time. Bells begin to ring and outside the sounds of celebration rise up. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Scene open on throne room of Angband. Camera passes around the room, over the empty throne on its raised dais several steps high. To one side of the room an unfortunate Orc has been strung up by its hands, and flailed. The creature is mostly skin and bones: there are huge chunks of flesh missing, and what is left hangs in tatters… Camera moves on until it reveals the huge figure of Morgoth, his back to camera, staring intently at a map of Beleriand stretched on a. large frame. As the camera closes in on the map it we realize that it is actually made of skin, scraped and dried, then stretched and sewn on to the frame.. Morgoth traces his finger over the map from the shadowy tops of Thangorodrim towards the wilderness of Dorthonion. Footsteps are heard coming up behind him.. A snivelling Orc spy has returned and is held roughly by 2 guards. Morgoth lets him wait for some painful seconds before he turns and acknowledges the newcomers. The remaining Silmarils in his iron crown glow in the torch light and his features are illuminated: Diagonally across his brow and right hand side of his visage run deep furrows where Thorondor clawed his face. He points at the trembling Orc spy who stumbles forward and falls to his knees.]
Morgoth: [softly] Well then?
Orc: [whispers fearfully] M- Mighty One, I crave your pardon! At your bidding we have trawled through the mountains and into the wilderness, searching for news of the hidden city, but only I survived to return... the rest were slain.
Morgoth: By whom?
Orc: Some by the cursed eagles who hunt as well by night as they do under the sun. But the others… there is an everlasting darkness under the trees and there were spiders and other blood-sucking monsters and shadows… Most just vanished, and later we found only the corpses… if at all. [wringing hands] Forgive us, Master - we… we have failed you.
Morgoth: [raging] And you that have returned, dared to do so empty handed? Useless maggot!! Did you think I would reward failure?
Orc 1: [trembling] No, Master --
Morgoth: [interrupting] -- Neither do I forgive!
[Morgoth’s hand shoots forward and grabs the unfortunate Orc around the neck.; he yanks him up off the floor so that the Orc is dangling from his grasp. The metal gauntlets contract and we hear the crunch of bones as Morgoth squeezes the breath out of his victim. Finally he throws him against the wall where he crumples at the base of it, glassy eyes seeing nothing.
Morgoth turns away and beckons forth a shadowy form from behind the steps of the dais. As the creature enters the torchlight it unfurls to its full height and we see that it is a mighty Balrog, though its flames are damped down to glowing embers only glimpsed through its eyes and the cracks in its skin. Morgoth turns to study the map again.]
Morgoth: It has to be somewhere beyond Dorthonion! Beyond this meagre heathland lies the pine forest.they call Taur-nu Fuin…
Gothmog: But Master, no Elf or Man dare to wander in the Forest under Nightshade!
Morgoth: Fool! The hidden city cannot be in regions known to us - my wolves and allies would have found it by now… [muses] No, the wretched mortal was seen crying for aid to the Noldor King in the mountainous land between Anach and the upper waters of the Sirion: that road leads on towards Nan Dungortheb…and yet he must have turned back before reaching that dread valley.
Gothmog: If I may be so bold, Master… could the presence of the Eagles could be significant? No spy of ours has been able to come there because of the creatures…
Morgoth: As Manwë’s agents, you mean? It is possible, though the Eldar no longer have the favour of my brethren since they were exiled. [taps chin] Hmm….Yet why not? Why should I assume my puling brother is above bending the rules? It would be like him, to lend aid where he is commanded to take no part, if only to thwart my efforts! [gathers himself, now commanding and sure] Find me fresh recruits: let their search be concentrated around the mountain range where the infernal birds have their eyries. The day will come, my faithful servant, when the last stronghold of the Elves will be laid bare to my eyes, and you will lead my armies to destroy every last one of that cursed race!
Gothmog: As you command, my Lord. [For a second the glowing embers flare beneath his skin and his form swells with pride. Then Gothmog bows and withdraws. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Fade into low lit scene of Idril tossing and turning in her sleep beside Tuor in their bedchamber. Camera dissolves into a vision of Gondolin under attack…darts of fire and flaming arrows like small snakes rain down from the sky, falling upon the roofs and gardens of Gondolin till all the trees are scorched, and the flowers and grass burnt up, and the whiteness of the walls and colonnades is blackened and seared…Idril is running through streets flowing with the blood of dead Elves and Orcs, carrying a crying Eärendil. She keeps looking back, as though running from someone As she runs the roads and pavements begin to split open, and flames lick upwards through the cracks. Rounding a corner she finds herself teetering on the brink of a huge chasm which has opened up… Looking down into the depths she sees great furnaces firing the huge war machines of Morgoth,.. Behind her she hears someone calling her name and she looks round. Maeglin approaches, his clothes are torn and bloodied, and his blood-splattered face is distorted with a crazed expression. Idril backs up nervously, coming closer to the edge as she glances back and forth between Maeglin and the chasm. Eyes alight with burning ardour, Maeglin smirks as he comes ever closer, knowing she is trapped… below we hear the hearty, manic laughter of Morgoth and Idril screams…camera dissolve back as she wakes with a jolt, and sits up breathing heavily, the sweat pouring off of her. In the background we hear the baby Eärendil crying; Tuor comes awake and makes to rise but Idril halts him.]
Idril: Go back to sleep, my love. No need for us both to be disturbed… [she gets up and moves away from the bed as Tuor rolls back over. Fade.]
* * *
[Scene opens on Idril stalking down the halls of the palace, her eyes filled with anger. She storms into her bedchambers and collapses into a chair ungracefully, thumping the arms in frustration. Tuor, who has been watching over their son, Eärendil, arches an eyebrow at his wife. Camera focus on Eärendil, sleeping: tiny, and pink, with his face all curled up and eyes squeezed shut; Tuor moves to kneel at Idril’s feet, taking her hand gently.]
Tuor: [softly] Idril?
Idril: [lifts sad eyes to his] He does not listen to the voice of reason, Tuor.
Tuor: Your father? [Idril nods. Tuor rests his forehead against hers] Have you had another augury of the future?
Idril: [hesitates] Yes…
Tuor: [lifts his face away from hers to look into her eyes again] Idril, you must tell me what happened in your vision.
Idril: I had a dream that the city fell and the land drowned in blood. You were not there … But Maeglin was … And Eärendil also. A gulf of fire opened before my feet- a furnace of Morgoth! [turns to Tuor] I do not despair Tuor …. The Valar have warned us enough. It is time … Time for us to act.
Tuor: [quietly] Idril, I know that I am merely a man, a human, and that I do not possess your infinite wisdom – but maybe I can speak with Turgon. He might listen to me. [glances sidelong at her and puffs out his chest] After all, I am a messenger to the mighty Vala Ulmo
Idril: No, he will not. He refuses. He is proud of this city, proud of how it has grown and become prosperous – he will not leave it willingly. [eyes filling with tears.] He would rather die in this place before the end…
[Camera cut to Eärendil waking, tired and hungry: he begins to cry, waving his small fists in the air. Tuor walks to the cradle and picks up the baby. Eärendil grabs Tuor’s proffered finger and sucks it hungrily. Tuor carries his son over to his wife and passes him to her for nursing.]
Idril: [shakes her head] I love my father, Tuor. But he has lost his faith, and almost his hope. We cannot stay hidden forever, though Thorondor and Ulmo and all the powers of Beleriand try and protect us. He thinks that if Morgoth attacks Gondolin, the people will be able to defeat him and hold the city. We have many warriors in Gondolin, Tuor, but even with an army of experienced warriors such as Ecthelion of the Fountains, we would not be able to hold the city against Morgoth at his full strength.
Tuor: [nods in agreement] Even I can see that! [strokes her hand with his thumb] He will not make an alternate escape route out of the city, even at his own daughter's request?
Idril: [smiles sadly.] He listens to no one save Maeglin. He has never heeded his daughter, his little Silverfoot, for her mind was estranged by grief in her childhood, and now she is guided by idle whims and strange sight. But he shuns his counsellors also, even to his own conscience. And I grow frightened in the shadow of my father’s pride. [she begins crooning to Eärendil in soft Sindarin. Then she meets Tuor’s eyes again, and they are determined,] Maeglin still takes an interest in me, and an interest none so pure in Eärendil. I see the way he looks at him, husband – and he has no fondness for you.. Tuor, my love, we must make a tunnel from our house, beneath the rocks of this hill, out into the Vale. Only then will the darkness of Maeglin be foiled.
Tuor: [taken aback] Forsooth, Idril, the rocks of Amon Gwareth are like iron…it would take years to cleave such a passage!
Idril: We need a tunnel, an escape route, for us and our child. [begging] Please, Tuor…please help me. Help us. Think of all the people you could save if we made this tunnel.
Tuor: [considering] Idril, if we should construct a tunnel, there is a danger it could be used against us were it to be discovered. The Enemy could enter the city undetected, and we would be caught like rats in a hole!
Idril: [determined] No, Tuor… the Valar have showed me in a dream that we will exit safely when he attacks! The tunnel must not lead towards the Way of Escape – my heart bids me trust it not. We should delve instead towards the Cleft of Eagles, and find the distant pass through the mountains. I have faith in my visions, husband, as should you… [Eärendil has fallen asleep again, and Idril places him in the cradle. Tuor gently turns his wife to face him..]
Tuor: If you wish it of me, my love, I will make this tunnel for you. We must seek out those builders known to have least love for the Lord of the House of the Mole.
Idril: [throws her arms around him] Thank you, husband… [Tuor cradles his wife, holding her close. Fade.]
* * *
[Scene opens in library of Gondolin. Pengolodh is working at his desk, amongst the orderly scrolls and leather-bound tomes on the shelves behind him. The door opens and he looks up to see Idril entering surreptitiously. She looks around to see if the clerk is alone, then moves across to stand before his desk.]
Idril: I need your help, and I trust, Master Pengolodh, that you will be discreet about it?
Pengolodh: [surprised] I am at your service as always, dear lady.
Idril: I need you to bring me all the maps of the city that you can find.
Pengolodh: That should be easy enough, my lady. Please, take a seat whilst I gather the materials to hand for you. [gestures Idril to a window seat]
Idril: Thank you. [watches as the lore master scurries across to various shelves and begins to peruse the contents of several scrolls.] I have a specific requirement: I wish for highly technical diagrams of the city, showing the foundations, drainage, and tunnels…
Pengolodh: [looks askance at her over his shoulder, and replaces the simple map he had withdrawn, reaching for a different scroll which he brings over to her.] One wonders why you would wish to know these things so discreetly?
Idril: [scans the map he has handed to her.] Let us say – purely in thought – that it was a good idea to build, in case of some unimagined disaster, an escape route out of Gondolin. A tunnel. As someone aware of city’s labourers and resources, would this possible? It seems to be, from how Gondolin is made, but the workers…
Pengolodh: My lady, it is more than possible. Because of Anghabar, most every Elf labourer of strength in the city is capable enough with stone.
Idril: [lightly] Supposing this needed to be done in secret… Could someone with access to the city’s ledgers contrive it so that workers’ hours were freed here and there, tools were made available, and suchlike?
Pengolodh: [shocked] You mean, could someone lie in the King’s records, to cover this secret work? Lady Idril, why? [at that moment the sound of Eärendil’s voice is heard outside, and both glance down to see the child playing with his nurse, in the courtyard below.]
Idril: [looks back to Pengolodh.] I could face my own doom, should Gondolin fall, for my father’s pride. But not that of my child. Would you not want such for your own kin?
Pengolodh: [looks into her eyes and nods] am obliged to own that I would…
Idril: This must be done; and it has come to me that it must be secret until needed, so that those who might stop it for their own reasons never learn of it. [hesitates] You could help. Will you?
Pengolodh: [knowingly] You wish me to manipulate the King’s resources, to keep your secret? [Idril blushes.] Give me a list of those you trust and I will set to work. [taps his chin, deep in thought] A city worker here…a cart detail there…requisitioning of supplies to feed the underground workers from those lords that are your allies…I believe I can organize that without suspicion. [Idril smiles in relief, hugs the old scholar.] Yes, Yes…Now, tell me, where do you plan to begin excavation? [Camera pulls back as we see the two bend their heads closely over the plans of the city.]
Idril: [runs finger over the map.] I had thought it safest to begin the tunnel within the grounds of our home in the North of the city.
Pengolodh: Ah, good…good. We can use the pretence of sinking a new well, perhaps… [sound and vision fades out.]
* * *
[Montage of clps to show the passing of months and years as Eärendil grows, all the while the tunnel is being delved: we see Idril rocking her son while he coos and babbles; Eärendil sitting on the affairs of state under Turgon’s watchful gaze, putting fistfuls of parchment in his mouth, drooling and smearing the ink beyond comprehension; Ecthelion with him in the garden, giving pony rides and making neighing noises to make him laugh; these are interspersed with Maeglin retiring to his forge and mine in the hills, Turgon strengthening the watches with fire and arrows, large rocks, and boiling oil. Finally we see Idril visiting Glorfindel, when Eärendil is about 5 years old. Camera focus on Eärendil brandishing a wooden sword as Glorfindel on his knees, holds a wooden shield up to deflect the blows. Idril sits on a chaise, sipping tea from a delicate china cup.]
Idril: [turns to Eärendil’s nursemaid] Take Eärendil for his bath, would you, Meleth? I will come and settle him for bed later.
Eärendil: [kisses his mother.] namárië, Naneth. namárië, ‘Fin [Meleth leads him out]
Glorfindel: [murmurs] He is a beautiful child…
Idril: [looks after them fondly] Meleth tells him too much of the tales of Melkor. Oft he is too restless to sleep.
Glorfindel: Even adults are made uneasy by such tales…
Idril: [gazes at him keenly] I believe you feel the cloud of foreboding even as I do...
Glorfindel: [shrugs] There are many whose sleep is troubled now, since word came of the ruin of Doriath and Nargothrond.
Idril: [angry frustration] Yet still more laugh, saying Gondolin will stand as long as Taniquetil itself…they stockpile arms and weapons even as they scorn Tuor’s warning, and his heart grows heavy with mine!
Glorfindel: I do not believe the Valar have they forsaken us as utterly as many believe, though we have turned from them. Nay, Thorondor and his kin that guard the heights of the Echoriath are Manwë’s own servants, and your husband wears the favour and emblems Ulmo himself chose for him.
Idril: [nods gratefully] Aye, and Tuor is not to blame if others do not listen. But I cannot sit idle while the tide is turning… [gravely] I would beg your onfidence on this: Tuor and I have secretly been constructing a way of escape from beneath this very house. We have at least a years work ahead of us still, but the last month or two before the passage is finished will be the most critical.
Glorfindel: [hesitantly] Why do you not entrust this task to your cousin, my lady? Maeglin has the greatest skill in stonework and smithing. His miners could -- [pauses as a shadow passes over Idril’s face.]
Idril: [coldly] I do not wish to speak of Maeglin – nor must any word of this project reach his ears. I do not trust him… [places her hand on his arm] Glorfindel, I need you to oversee the last phase of the construction work.
Glorfindel: [Coughs apologetically] Ehm, I am honoured, my lady, but I must inform you that I have little skill in such matters. I would make a poor architect.
Idril: [smiles] Did you think I was asking you to trade your sword for a mallet? Nay, when the hour comes Tuor and I will lead as many from here as we may. I would have you and your people stay near to us, for the House of the White Wing is not numerous and the road will be hard.
Glorfindel: [straightens his back, resolved] My people will rally to you and Lord Tuor should Gondolin or the King fall.
Idril: [sadly] If the city falls, it will be from a treachery and evil greater than I or any other save the Valar can withstand. It will be more foul than the Unnumbered Tears, and none will be left to sing of it… [Fade.]
* * *
A/N The scene between Idril and Pengolodh was adapted from the extensive fanfiction by Tyellas Magweth Pengolodh: The Question of Pengolod
Meleth: Idril is delivered of a fine son! All is well! [Tuor embraces Turgon and hurries into the room ahead of Meleth. Turgon signals to a page, who hurries off then the King also goes to see his grandchild for the first time. Bells begin to ring and outside the sounds of celebration rise up. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Scene open on throne room of Angband. Camera passes around the room, over the empty throne on its raised dais several steps high. To one side of the room an unfortunate Orc has been strung up by its hands, and flailed. The creature is mostly skin and bones: there are huge chunks of flesh missing, and what is left hangs in tatters… Camera moves on until it reveals the huge figure of Morgoth, his back to camera, staring intently at a map of Beleriand stretched on a. large frame. As the camera closes in on the map it we realize that it is actually made of skin, scraped and dried, then stretched and sewn on to the frame.. Morgoth traces his finger over the map from the shadowy tops of Thangorodrim towards the wilderness of Dorthonion. Footsteps are heard coming up behind him.. A snivelling Orc spy has returned and is held roughly by 2 guards. Morgoth lets him wait for some painful seconds before he turns and acknowledges the newcomers. The remaining Silmarils in his iron crown glow in the torch light and his features are illuminated: Diagonally across his brow and right hand side of his visage run deep furrows where Thorondor clawed his face. He points at the trembling Orc spy who stumbles forward and falls to his knees.]
Morgoth: [softly] Well then?
Orc: [whispers fearfully] M- Mighty One, I crave your pardon! At your bidding we have trawled through the mountains and into the wilderness, searching for news of the hidden city, but only I survived to return... the rest were slain.
Morgoth: By whom?
Orc: Some by the cursed eagles who hunt as well by night as they do under the sun. But the others… there is an everlasting darkness under the trees and there were spiders and other blood-sucking monsters and shadows… Most just vanished, and later we found only the corpses… if at all. [wringing hands] Forgive us, Master - we… we have failed you.
Morgoth: [raging] And you that have returned, dared to do so empty handed? Useless maggot!! Did you think I would reward failure?
Orc 1: [trembling] No, Master --
Morgoth: [interrupting] -- Neither do I forgive!
[Morgoth’s hand shoots forward and grabs the unfortunate Orc around the neck.; he yanks him up off the floor so that the Orc is dangling from his grasp. The metal gauntlets contract and we hear the crunch of bones as Morgoth squeezes the breath out of his victim. Finally he throws him against the wall where he crumples at the base of it, glassy eyes seeing nothing.
Morgoth turns away and beckons forth a shadowy form from behind the steps of the dais. As the creature enters the torchlight it unfurls to its full height and we see that it is a mighty Balrog, though its flames are damped down to glowing embers only glimpsed through its eyes and the cracks in its skin. Morgoth turns to study the map again.]
Morgoth: It has to be somewhere beyond Dorthonion! Beyond this meagre heathland lies the pine forest.they call Taur-nu Fuin…
Gothmog: But Master, no Elf or Man dare to wander in the Forest under Nightshade!
Morgoth: Fool! The hidden city cannot be in regions known to us - my wolves and allies would have found it by now… [muses] No, the wretched mortal was seen crying for aid to the Noldor King in the mountainous land between Anach and the upper waters of the Sirion: that road leads on towards Nan Dungortheb…and yet he must have turned back before reaching that dread valley.
Gothmog: If I may be so bold, Master… could the presence of the Eagles could be significant? No spy of ours has been able to come there because of the creatures…
Morgoth: As Manwë’s agents, you mean? It is possible, though the Eldar no longer have the favour of my brethren since they were exiled. [taps chin] Hmm….Yet why not? Why should I assume my puling brother is above bending the rules? It would be like him, to lend aid where he is commanded to take no part, if only to thwart my efforts! [gathers himself, now commanding and sure] Find me fresh recruits: let their search be concentrated around the mountain range where the infernal birds have their eyries. The day will come, my faithful servant, when the last stronghold of the Elves will be laid bare to my eyes, and you will lead my armies to destroy every last one of that cursed race!
Gothmog: As you command, my Lord. [For a second the glowing embers flare beneath his skin and his form swells with pride. Then Gothmog bows and withdraws. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Fade into low lit scene of Idril tossing and turning in her sleep beside Tuor in their bedchamber. Camera dissolves into a vision of Gondolin under attack…darts of fire and flaming arrows like small snakes rain down from the sky, falling upon the roofs and gardens of Gondolin till all the trees are scorched, and the flowers and grass burnt up, and the whiteness of the walls and colonnades is blackened and seared…Idril is running through streets flowing with the blood of dead Elves and Orcs, carrying a crying Eärendil. She keeps looking back, as though running from someone As she runs the roads and pavements begin to split open, and flames lick upwards through the cracks. Rounding a corner she finds herself teetering on the brink of a huge chasm which has opened up… Looking down into the depths she sees great furnaces firing the huge war machines of Morgoth,.. Behind her she hears someone calling her name and she looks round. Maeglin approaches, his clothes are torn and bloodied, and his blood-splattered face is distorted with a crazed expression. Idril backs up nervously, coming closer to the edge as she glances back and forth between Maeglin and the chasm. Eyes alight with burning ardour, Maeglin smirks as he comes ever closer, knowing she is trapped… below we hear the hearty, manic laughter of Morgoth and Idril screams…camera dissolve back as she wakes with a jolt, and sits up breathing heavily, the sweat pouring off of her. In the background we hear the baby Eärendil crying; Tuor comes awake and makes to rise but Idril halts him.]
Idril: Go back to sleep, my love. No need for us both to be disturbed… [she gets up and moves away from the bed as Tuor rolls back over. Fade.]
* * *
[Scene opens on Idril stalking down the halls of the palace, her eyes filled with anger. She storms into her bedchambers and collapses into a chair ungracefully, thumping the arms in frustration. Tuor, who has been watching over their son, Eärendil, arches an eyebrow at his wife. Camera focus on Eärendil, sleeping: tiny, and pink, with his face all curled up and eyes squeezed shut; Tuor moves to kneel at Idril’s feet, taking her hand gently.]
Tuor: [softly] Idril?
Idril: [lifts sad eyes to his] He does not listen to the voice of reason, Tuor.
Tuor: Your father? [Idril nods. Tuor rests his forehead against hers] Have you had another augury of the future?
Idril: [hesitates] Yes…
Tuor: [lifts his face away from hers to look into her eyes again] Idril, you must tell me what happened in your vision.
Idril: I had a dream that the city fell and the land drowned in blood. You were not there … But Maeglin was … And Eärendil also. A gulf of fire opened before my feet- a furnace of Morgoth! [turns to Tuor] I do not despair Tuor …. The Valar have warned us enough. It is time … Time for us to act.
Tuor: [quietly] Idril, I know that I am merely a man, a human, and that I do not possess your infinite wisdom – but maybe I can speak with Turgon. He might listen to me. [glances sidelong at her and puffs out his chest] After all, I am a messenger to the mighty Vala Ulmo
Idril: No, he will not. He refuses. He is proud of this city, proud of how it has grown and become prosperous – he will not leave it willingly. [eyes filling with tears.] He would rather die in this place before the end…
[Camera cut to Eärendil waking, tired and hungry: he begins to cry, waving his small fists in the air. Tuor walks to the cradle and picks up the baby. Eärendil grabs Tuor’s proffered finger and sucks it hungrily. Tuor carries his son over to his wife and passes him to her for nursing.]
Idril: [shakes her head] I love my father, Tuor. But he has lost his faith, and almost his hope. We cannot stay hidden forever, though Thorondor and Ulmo and all the powers of Beleriand try and protect us. He thinks that if Morgoth attacks Gondolin, the people will be able to defeat him and hold the city. We have many warriors in Gondolin, Tuor, but even with an army of experienced warriors such as Ecthelion of the Fountains, we would not be able to hold the city against Morgoth at his full strength.
Tuor: [nods in agreement] Even I can see that! [strokes her hand with his thumb] He will not make an alternate escape route out of the city, even at his own daughter's request?
Idril: [smiles sadly.] He listens to no one save Maeglin. He has never heeded his daughter, his little Silverfoot, for her mind was estranged by grief in her childhood, and now she is guided by idle whims and strange sight. But he shuns his counsellors also, even to his own conscience. And I grow frightened in the shadow of my father’s pride. [she begins crooning to Eärendil in soft Sindarin. Then she meets Tuor’s eyes again, and they are determined,] Maeglin still takes an interest in me, and an interest none so pure in Eärendil. I see the way he looks at him, husband – and he has no fondness for you.. Tuor, my love, we must make a tunnel from our house, beneath the rocks of this hill, out into the Vale. Only then will the darkness of Maeglin be foiled.
Tuor: [taken aback] Forsooth, Idril, the rocks of Amon Gwareth are like iron…it would take years to cleave such a passage!
Idril: We need a tunnel, an escape route, for us and our child. [begging] Please, Tuor…please help me. Help us. Think of all the people you could save if we made this tunnel.
Tuor: [considering] Idril, if we should construct a tunnel, there is a danger it could be used against us were it to be discovered. The Enemy could enter the city undetected, and we would be caught like rats in a hole!
Idril: [determined] No, Tuor… the Valar have showed me in a dream that we will exit safely when he attacks! The tunnel must not lead towards the Way of Escape – my heart bids me trust it not. We should delve instead towards the Cleft of Eagles, and find the distant pass through the mountains. I have faith in my visions, husband, as should you… [Eärendil has fallen asleep again, and Idril places him in the cradle. Tuor gently turns his wife to face him..]
Tuor: If you wish it of me, my love, I will make this tunnel for you. We must seek out those builders known to have least love for the Lord of the House of the Mole.
Idril: [throws her arms around him] Thank you, husband… [Tuor cradles his wife, holding her close. Fade.]
* * *
[Scene opens in library of Gondolin. Pengolodh is working at his desk, amongst the orderly scrolls and leather-bound tomes on the shelves behind him. The door opens and he looks up to see Idril entering surreptitiously. She looks around to see if the clerk is alone, then moves across to stand before his desk.]
Idril: I need your help, and I trust, Master Pengolodh, that you will be discreet about it?
Pengolodh: [surprised] I am at your service as always, dear lady.
Idril: I need you to bring me all the maps of the city that you can find.
Pengolodh: That should be easy enough, my lady. Please, take a seat whilst I gather the materials to hand for you. [gestures Idril to a window seat]
Idril: Thank you. [watches as the lore master scurries across to various shelves and begins to peruse the contents of several scrolls.] I have a specific requirement: I wish for highly technical diagrams of the city, showing the foundations, drainage, and tunnels…
Pengolodh: [looks askance at her over his shoulder, and replaces the simple map he had withdrawn, reaching for a different scroll which he brings over to her.] One wonders why you would wish to know these things so discreetly?
Idril: [scans the map he has handed to her.] Let us say – purely in thought – that it was a good idea to build, in case of some unimagined disaster, an escape route out of Gondolin. A tunnel. As someone aware of city’s labourers and resources, would this possible? It seems to be, from how Gondolin is made, but the workers…
Pengolodh: My lady, it is more than possible. Because of Anghabar, most every Elf labourer of strength in the city is capable enough with stone.
Idril: [lightly] Supposing this needed to be done in secret… Could someone with access to the city’s ledgers contrive it so that workers’ hours were freed here and there, tools were made available, and suchlike?
Pengolodh: [shocked] You mean, could someone lie in the King’s records, to cover this secret work? Lady Idril, why? [at that moment the sound of Eärendil’s voice is heard outside, and both glance down to see the child playing with his nurse, in the courtyard below.]
Idril: [looks back to Pengolodh.] I could face my own doom, should Gondolin fall, for my father’s pride. But not that of my child. Would you not want such for your own kin?
Pengolodh: [looks into her eyes and nods] am obliged to own that I would…
Idril: This must be done; and it has come to me that it must be secret until needed, so that those who might stop it for their own reasons never learn of it. [hesitates] You could help. Will you?
Pengolodh: [knowingly] You wish me to manipulate the King’s resources, to keep your secret? [Idril blushes.] Give me a list of those you trust and I will set to work. [taps his chin, deep in thought] A city worker here…a cart detail there…requisitioning of supplies to feed the underground workers from those lords that are your allies…I believe I can organize that without suspicion. [Idril smiles in relief, hugs the old scholar.] Yes, Yes…Now, tell me, where do you plan to begin excavation? [Camera pulls back as we see the two bend their heads closely over the plans of the city.]
Idril: [runs finger over the map.] I had thought it safest to begin the tunnel within the grounds of our home in the North of the city.
Pengolodh: Ah, good…good. We can use the pretence of sinking a new well, perhaps… [sound and vision fades out.]
* * *
[Montage of clps to show the passing of months and years as Eärendil grows, all the while the tunnel is being delved: we see Idril rocking her son while he coos and babbles; Eärendil sitting on the affairs of state under Turgon’s watchful gaze, putting fistfuls of parchment in his mouth, drooling and smearing the ink beyond comprehension; Ecthelion with him in the garden, giving pony rides and making neighing noises to make him laugh; these are interspersed with Maeglin retiring to his forge and mine in the hills, Turgon strengthening the watches with fire and arrows, large rocks, and boiling oil. Finally we see Idril visiting Glorfindel, when Eärendil is about 5 years old. Camera focus on Eärendil brandishing a wooden sword as Glorfindel on his knees, holds a wooden shield up to deflect the blows. Idril sits on a chaise, sipping tea from a delicate china cup.]
Idril: [turns to Eärendil’s nursemaid] Take Eärendil for his bath, would you, Meleth? I will come and settle him for bed later.
Eärendil: [kisses his mother.] namárië, Naneth. namárië, ‘Fin [Meleth leads him out]
Glorfindel: [murmurs] He is a beautiful child…
Idril: [looks after them fondly] Meleth tells him too much of the tales of Melkor. Oft he is too restless to sleep.
Glorfindel: Even adults are made uneasy by such tales…
Idril: [gazes at him keenly] I believe you feel the cloud of foreboding even as I do...
Glorfindel: [shrugs] There are many whose sleep is troubled now, since word came of the ruin of Doriath and Nargothrond.
Idril: [angry frustration] Yet still more laugh, saying Gondolin will stand as long as Taniquetil itself…they stockpile arms and weapons even as they scorn Tuor’s warning, and his heart grows heavy with mine!
Glorfindel: I do not believe the Valar have they forsaken us as utterly as many believe, though we have turned from them. Nay, Thorondor and his kin that guard the heights of the Echoriath are Manwë’s own servants, and your husband wears the favour and emblems Ulmo himself chose for him.
Idril: [nods gratefully] Aye, and Tuor is not to blame if others do not listen. But I cannot sit idle while the tide is turning… [gravely] I would beg your onfidence on this: Tuor and I have secretly been constructing a way of escape from beneath this very house. We have at least a years work ahead of us still, but the last month or two before the passage is finished will be the most critical.
Glorfindel: [hesitantly] Why do you not entrust this task to your cousin, my lady? Maeglin has the greatest skill in stonework and smithing. His miners could -- [pauses as a shadow passes over Idril’s face.]
Idril: [coldly] I do not wish to speak of Maeglin – nor must any word of this project reach his ears. I do not trust him… [places her hand on his arm] Glorfindel, I need you to oversee the last phase of the construction work.
Glorfindel: [Coughs apologetically] Ehm, I am honoured, my lady, but I must inform you that I have little skill in such matters. I would make a poor architect.
Idril: [smiles] Did you think I was asking you to trade your sword for a mallet? Nay, when the hour comes Tuor and I will lead as many from here as we may. I would have you and your people stay near to us, for the House of the White Wing is not numerous and the road will be hard.
Glorfindel: [straightens his back, resolved] My people will rally to you and Lord Tuor should Gondolin or the King fall.
Idril: [sadly] If the city falls, it will be from a treachery and evil greater than I or any other save the Valar can withstand. It will be more foul than the Unnumbered Tears, and none will be left to sing of it… [Fade.]
* * *
A/N The scene between Idril and Pengolodh was adapted from the extensive fanfiction by Tyellas Magweth Pengolodh: The Question of Pengolod
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
[Scene opens in stables near the royal palace in Gondolin. Maeglin is preparing his horse for another mining expedition. Others of his House are arrayed with various tools and mining gear. As Maeglin leads his horse out of the stall and into the courtyard, Talagand arrives back from a hunting foray, hooded kestrel on his arm. And a brace of coneys on his saddle.]
Talagand: Good day, my lord Maeglin. Not leaving us again for the hills?
Maeglin: When I first arrived in Gondolin I thought it impossible that I should ever tire of the city…
Talagand: and now?
Maeglin: Since Tuor came, the bright pavements shine falsely and even the innocent fountains seem to mock me. How right Mother was to flee this place in her youth! I desire often to slip away, back into the wilds of Beleriand.
Talagand: [concerned] You would disobey the command of your sworn Lord?
Maeglin: [prevaricating] My expeditions are necessary; the ores in Tumladen are growing scant, and we will in time have need of more weapons. The Nirnaeth clearly proved that truth. Whilst I might bend the rules on occasion and often venture further than I should from our walls in seeking ores, I cannot bring myself to ignore Turgon's decree outright… [more softly] Nor can I forsake his daughter. I seek an escape – from my pain, from my anger, from the vision of her in his arms…
Talagand: [Nods in a mixture of relief and compassion; pats Maeglin on the shoulder and turns away. Camera close up on Maeglin’s face. Fade.]
* * *
[Fade in to Maeglin and a few companions trekking into the lands beyond the mountains distant from the city. He is arguing with his companions:]
Elf 1: But, my lord, the way out of the city is forbidden!
Maeglin: Surely the king will understand! My violations of the valley’s boundaries are not in defiance of his orders, but in fulfilment of them, of his command to me that I must use my skill with steel to keep his city safe.
Elf 2: We need the metal, I admit, my lord, but…
Maeglin: I will be careful not to be seen. [snatches a satchel of supplies from the Elf’s nerveless hands.] Since you value my confidences so little, leave me be! I shall prospect alone.
Elf 1: My lord, you have not—
Maeglin: [cuts him off with a hard gesture.] --Return or go your own way! Fend off Turgon's queries of me, if you would serve!
[He turns and heads down the angled pathway in long strides, careful to leave no track. He threads his way through the low peaks of the northern mountains until he stands outside the sheltering valley. Behind the mountains, Gondolin is hidden. No wind stirs the air; a sudden rustle of the weathered bushes sounds loudly. The peace of is broken with a chilling scream… Maeglin whirls around, drawing Anguirel from its sheath and, dropping the sack of tools roughly to the ground. Suddenly Orcs surround him and set upon him in the space of a breath. They fight fiercely with many a cut or blunted fist landing on Maeglin. He slays 5 before he is borne to the ground, his wounds grievous enough to cause a momentary drop in his defence and Anguirel is wrested from him. Four Orcs hold him down, and they tie his hands roughly behind his back Ruthlessly they drag the Elf still struggling behind them, pulling at his bonds and cursing the foul creatures as they resume the narrow path. Almost he manages to pull free at one time, but the path is blocked from before and behind and harsh hands laid upon him, beating and whipping him with lashes into defeat, and his attempts are foiled. We see the Orcs head north, ominously towards the An-fauglith and Angband in the distance.. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to shot of the looming darkness of Thangorodrim concealing the delved halls of Angband; the skies are laden with fume and cloud. Before the Gate the plain fissures into evil canyons and chasms. Maeglin is dragged along the path to the very doors of Hell: he gazes at the two solid iron doors, more massive than any of the Seven Gates of Gondolin,as the Orcs drive him roughly within, and down stairs upon stairs, into the depths..
Maeglin stumbles, hands bound behind him, through the sooty darkness in his weariness. A rough arch opens into a chamber of fire. Some unseen creature howls in agony, cries echoing in the pitiless halls. On the stairs, he is shoved past a figure as grey as a shade, an Elven thrall, haggard, and hollow-eyed, and spiritless. Then he is forced on, fighting terror at every step.
Maeglin looks up, gasping in horror at the halls of the king of darkness. The walls drip with fetid moisture, and the floor is slick with fluids of an unknown nature. The great pillars are caught with putrid webs of giant, bloated spiders. The hall is crowded with Morgoth’s thralls, cowering in the shadows: orcs and trolls and other repugnant beasts that never see the light of day. Morgoth is sitting on his throne of black rock, clad in black mail and shadow, his massive mace, Grond, on the wall behind. On his brow the two remaining Silmarils sparkle white, unmarred by the orange flames of the torches. A guard of Balrogs stand by the throne, their cracked stone skin smouldering. Jabbering with anticipation, the Orcs cast Maeglin into the torchlight encircling Morgoth’s throne and force him to his knees.]
Orc: On yer knees, filthy golog… cower before the Lord of Arda!
Morgoth: [peers at Maeglin, thoughtfully] This hall receives you well, dark one! [he laughs, and the very foundations shudder as his booming voice echoes through the shadows of the lofty hall.. Morgoth’s mind reaches out for Maeglin, and a shadow falls over his eyes; he staggers under the pain and the weight of Morgoth’s mind upon his own. As the intensity proves too much for Maeglin he drops to the floor, writhing and screaming as though his skull is being split apart as Morgoth pries into the deepest reaches of Maeglin’s mind, his secrets open to the Dark Lord’s scrutiny…we see flashbacks of Maeglin’s youth…his fear of his father…his mother and father’s deaths…his lusting after Idril…his rejection…pain as Idril and Tuor seem to taunt him…all twisted and warped by Morgoth’s interpretation of his thoughts]
Maeglin: [shrieks] Stop!! [the mental torture continues. Maeglin bawls like a pleading child.] Stop!! [suddenly the mental rifling stops. Moaning in pain Maeglin opens his eyes again. Panting he glances up at the tall shadow above him.]
Morgoth: Well, well…does my welcome not please you? I perceived in your mind that we are kindred spirits…
Maeglin: [defiantly] Your words defile my ears – I share nothing with you, Bauglir!
Morgoth: [laughs again, and Maeglin shivers] Your conduct does not become your upbringing, Maeglin son of Eöl. Where is the famed courtesy of the Elves?
Maeglin: [angrily] I am no son of Eöl! You mock me! I am a prince of the Noldor. [Orcs jeer and Maeglin’s anger and shame increase]
Morgoth: [feigning innocence] You accuse me of mockery? I do not mock: I welcomed you to my hall...
Maeglin: [angrily] What do you want? What do you want with me?
Morgoth: [reasonably] Nothing that I cannot take whenever I choose! [One of the attending Balrogs steps forwards, and silently lifts a huge brazier and its stand, placing it nigh Morgoth's right hand. Its flames flare high. Maeglin cringes.] It shall take some time to break you. [A second Balrog steps up to Morgoth's left, unwinding a lash from his back, proffering it at the ready. The scourge glimmers as though edged with fire. ] But broken you shall be. [smirking]
Maeglin: [sneers defiantly] Many injuries have I already suffered in my mine and forge: I dare being maimed or burned every day I take to my workshop.
Morgoth: [cunningly] Ah, so you are a craftsman. [Morgoth moves his hand up over Maeglin's face, hovering without touching, blocking out the sight of anything else. Camera focus on the Vala's fingers wrapped in a web of angry red skin, scarred as if by burning.] Then only one torment is needed for you...I will have your hands wrung beyond hope of healing!
Maeglin: [in cold terror] Ai!
Morgoth: [chuckles in victory] You would be able to create no longer…I might send you back to the Elves, that they take pity upon you…or I may toy with you further. [caresses the skin of Maeglin's face with his fingertips.] Yes, your eyes will be seared out with hot iron. My vassals will do it. For you are nothing to me. And you could be all. You can save yourself yet, if you obey me of your own free will.
Maeglin: [obstinately.] I will never...
Morgoth: Will you not? [laughs again,] You are mine, fool, and you cannot resist me… You will not call the life that is left to you worth the labour of breathing, when my torment of you is done. But I am not needlessly cruel. I require only a small thing of you…
Maeglin: [unable to help himself] What thing?
Morgoth: Why, the location of the Golodh’s hidden city! That, and that alone, will see you spared and more. Tell me, and you shall be allowed to live unmarred.
Maeglin: [tries to laugh derisively, but only succeeds in coughing.] Gondolin?.
Morgoth: Yes, Maeglin, Gondolin! Ever since Húrin was seen roaming near the mountains of the Crissaegrim crying for Turgon to heed him, my spies have been on the watch but without success.
Maeglin: [realization dawns] You do not know? You have not been able to pry it from my mind! [Morgoth roars, the force of his will thrusting itself onto Maeglin’s mind.
Morgoth: [whispers] I see how Tuor and Idril have wronged you with their disgusting passion…Turgon's court treat you little respect… [Morgoth’s breath enflames Maeglin’s simmering hatred, irritating all the wounds he has taken.] Yet am I not the Lord of Arda? I can give you all you desire and more…if you but, tell me where to find the Hidden realm I will give you rule over Gondolin and Idril to wife…
Maeglin: and if I do not??
Morgoth: [simply] Then you will be chained, like Húrin the Mortal—like a mortal Man!—to Thangorodrim, with bewitched sight, so that all the days of your life you will see nothing but Idril and Tuor in their love. [Touches Maeglin’s mind with the softest of whispers:] You can protect her, rescue her from herself. Free her from the spell the mortal has cast upon her. Help me, and I will help you save her… [ Maeglin feels a pain like a fire in his chest…his limbs ache., Morgoth’s persona presses down on him like a vast thundercloud, his voice filling his thoughts.] Tell me what I need to know, and I will see she comes to no harm. If not – well, I will find the way eventually. Am I not Lord of Arda? What will become of your golden one then? Would you see her suffer as you suffer now? [Morgoth sends images of Idril,suffering as Maeglin is in this reeking pit, into Maeglin’s mind and t that image overthrows his resistance at the last.]
Maeglin: [crazed with fear, and in despair] No…No.! Please – do not cause her pain! Spare her, I beg you! For her sake only will I betray my uncle the king, who has shown me nothing but kindness… Gondolin lies within the Encircling Mountains of the Echoriath, between the Vale of Sirion and the highlands of Dorthonion. But the way is blocked…Turgon ordered it to be sealed when Nargothrond fell…
Morgoth: [smiles in satisfaction] That is a minor detail. But now I must return you to your King’s tender care, lest any should suspect your betrayal. Likewise, I must ensure you do not confess your treachery in a fit of loyalty. It would not do to have the Noldor forewarned of my plans… [raises his gauntled hand and points at Maeglin, forcing him to his knees with his power] Swear upon your love for the fair princess that you will keep this pact between us secret!
Maeglin: [thickly] I swear upon my love for Idril that I will not break this oath, may your will hold me. [Morgoth releases Maeglin from his hold and gestures his servants to take him away. Fade.]
* * *
[Fade in to Maeglin coming to, upon a small outcropping of rock backed by the walls of a cliff that join the harsh grey of a mountain range not far above. The sun beats down harshly upon his body…his eyes blink open tiredly.
He sees that he is back upon the path he had struck out on when he left the safety of the encircling mountains...
Upon searching his body he finds he is fully clothed and armed, and that no remnant of pain or even the slightest trace of his torture within the Iron Fortress. He rises to his feet, bewildered and unsure of himself. Almost believing it to be a bad dream, he tries to take a step towards the path. Suddenly we hear Morgoth as a voice in his head:]
Morgoth: [voiceover: clearly and cruelly:] Betray me, dark one, and the torture I visited upon thee this day will seem a pleasure compared to what thee will get…
[Maeglin stands stock still, arms wrapped around his body, eyes screwed tight and moaning as the reality of what he has done sinks in.. But as the promise of the dark lord resounds in his heart, it is filled with black desire for Idril, and Maeglin begins to calm. Smiling coldly, he faces the forward path, and sets out back to Gondolin. Cut.]
*
[Cut to distance shot of a dazed Maeglin wandering back down from the Echoriath onto the Vale of Tumladen. He is soon spotted by scouts and escorted back to the city, to a joyful welcome, Turgon having feared he was dead like his companions. A goblet of wine is thrust into Maeglin’s hands, amidst pats on the back and praise for his strength and determination to have escaped the ambush. Maeglin takes a swig of the wine, trying to enjoy the attention, but it tastes like ashes in his mouth. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Two years later: Eärendil has turned seven and is enjoying a party at the palace. His family and friends are watching him open his presents. Turgon gestures a delighted Eärendil to come and sit on his knee. The boy gazes up at his grandfather adoringly, blue eyes shining like sapphires and golden curls bouncing.]
Turgon: To celebrate my grandson’s birthday, I have an announcement to make: [looks around at his assembled family and courtiers The sighting of spies of the Enemy have dwindled to nought of late: therefore, I have reduced the watch and ward about the realm to its ancient numbers. The men of this city deserve to enjoy their homes once more. [the courtiers make murmurs of approval; somewhat taken aback, Idril looks to Tuor whilst Glorfindel and Ecthelion half-heartedly join in the applause. Idril catches Glorfindel’s eye and together they move out of ear shot of the gathering.]
Idril: Now come the days when we must make choice… [low voice] Is it nearly finished?
Glorfindel: Indeed. The exit on to the far north of Tumladen is still being finished, but for the most part it is done.
Idril: Thank you. I will rest easier when I know the work is done, for something tells me we may soon have need of it…
Glorfindel: [nodding in Turgon’s direction] Had you any idea this announcement would be forthcoming?
Idril: [shaking head] I did not, though truthfully I must admit my father is now more deceived than ever. He likens himself to the Valar even, and refuses to hear sense. But my mind has been occupied with Maeglin’s strange change of behaviour…
Glorfindel: [smiles cheerfully] He has certainly been more mellow and cheerful since he was lost…surely that is no bad thing?
Idril: [frowns He no longer mines or quarries in the hills, and keeps my father’s counsel to the point of my exclusion.
Glorfindel: Hmm…were it not for the fact that Ecthelion and I meet to practise arms regularly, I would have had no idea what goes on with the King. As it is, my information is very much limited. I would go to your father myself, but he is never alone.
Idril: I doubt that he would listen to you any more than he does Tuor. Neither of us can reach him, even as close as he is to us, he is still ever further away. Perhaps there is still time…
[They wander back towards the gathering. Eärendil jumps down to run and show his father his latest toy. Turgon stands and moves over to Idril. She takes his proffered arm and they wander out onto the balcony overlooking the city.]
Turgon: [sighs heavily] So peaceful, and beautiful, this city that I have made... [puts arm around Idril and she leans her head on her father’s shoulder] Did you know, that since Tuor came with Ulmo’s warning, I have thought often of leaving it?
Idril: [sadly] Then why do you not heed the words of the Valar?
Turgon: [smiles, gently stroking her hair] Maeglin has always brought me to see sense, when I was in such a mood. /color=blue][Fade.] [/color]
* * *
[Scene opens before Dawn on the Festival of the Gates of Summer. Idril and Tuor are lyng in bed, wrapped in ach other’s arms]
Idril: [lays her head against his chest] Are you happy here, Tuor? Tell me truthfully.
Tuor: [smoothes her hair and caresses her cheek absently] Very much so.
Idril: Are you sure, my love?
Tuor: [smiles] How could I not be happy? I have a beautiful wife and son, a fair house, and a whole company at my command. [pauses] But…
Idril: …The sea.
Tuor: [puzzled] How did you know?
Idril: You are constantly gazing westward, sometimes singing. You murmur in your sleep, sometimes about your father and your home in the Shadows, but usually about the gulls and the lapping of the waves.
Tuor: [looks down and tilts her face to meet his gaze] I have heard the music of Ulmo, Beloved, and never will it leave me. One day, I shall build a house by the sea, and we shall live always listening to the music of the waters.
Idril: Will that truly happen?
Tuor: It shall, if only at the renewing of the world. [kisses her.] Come, it is nearly dawn. Let us go and watch the sun rise with the city. [cut.]
*
Talagand: Good day, my lord Maeglin. Not leaving us again for the hills?
Maeglin: When I first arrived in Gondolin I thought it impossible that I should ever tire of the city…
Talagand: and now?
Maeglin: Since Tuor came, the bright pavements shine falsely and even the innocent fountains seem to mock me. How right Mother was to flee this place in her youth! I desire often to slip away, back into the wilds of Beleriand.
Talagand: [concerned] You would disobey the command of your sworn Lord?
Maeglin: [prevaricating] My expeditions are necessary; the ores in Tumladen are growing scant, and we will in time have need of more weapons. The Nirnaeth clearly proved that truth. Whilst I might bend the rules on occasion and often venture further than I should from our walls in seeking ores, I cannot bring myself to ignore Turgon's decree outright… [more softly] Nor can I forsake his daughter. I seek an escape – from my pain, from my anger, from the vision of her in his arms…
Talagand: [Nods in a mixture of relief and compassion; pats Maeglin on the shoulder and turns away. Camera close up on Maeglin’s face. Fade.]
* * *
[Fade in to Maeglin and a few companions trekking into the lands beyond the mountains distant from the city. He is arguing with his companions:]
Elf 1: But, my lord, the way out of the city is forbidden!
Maeglin: Surely the king will understand! My violations of the valley’s boundaries are not in defiance of his orders, but in fulfilment of them, of his command to me that I must use my skill with steel to keep his city safe.
Elf 2: We need the metal, I admit, my lord, but…
Maeglin: I will be careful not to be seen. [snatches a satchel of supplies from the Elf’s nerveless hands.] Since you value my confidences so little, leave me be! I shall prospect alone.
Elf 1: My lord, you have not—
Maeglin: [cuts him off with a hard gesture.] --Return or go your own way! Fend off Turgon's queries of me, if you would serve!
[He turns and heads down the angled pathway in long strides, careful to leave no track. He threads his way through the low peaks of the northern mountains until he stands outside the sheltering valley. Behind the mountains, Gondolin is hidden. No wind stirs the air; a sudden rustle of the weathered bushes sounds loudly. The peace of is broken with a chilling scream… Maeglin whirls around, drawing Anguirel from its sheath and, dropping the sack of tools roughly to the ground. Suddenly Orcs surround him and set upon him in the space of a breath. They fight fiercely with many a cut or blunted fist landing on Maeglin. He slays 5 before he is borne to the ground, his wounds grievous enough to cause a momentary drop in his defence and Anguirel is wrested from him. Four Orcs hold him down, and they tie his hands roughly behind his back Ruthlessly they drag the Elf still struggling behind them, pulling at his bonds and cursing the foul creatures as they resume the narrow path. Almost he manages to pull free at one time, but the path is blocked from before and behind and harsh hands laid upon him, beating and whipping him with lashes into defeat, and his attempts are foiled. We see the Orcs head north, ominously towards the An-fauglith and Angband in the distance.. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to shot of the looming darkness of Thangorodrim concealing the delved halls of Angband; the skies are laden with fume and cloud. Before the Gate the plain fissures into evil canyons and chasms. Maeglin is dragged along the path to the very doors of Hell: he gazes at the two solid iron doors, more massive than any of the Seven Gates of Gondolin,as the Orcs drive him roughly within, and down stairs upon stairs, into the depths..
Maeglin stumbles, hands bound behind him, through the sooty darkness in his weariness. A rough arch opens into a chamber of fire. Some unseen creature howls in agony, cries echoing in the pitiless halls. On the stairs, he is shoved past a figure as grey as a shade, an Elven thrall, haggard, and hollow-eyed, and spiritless. Then he is forced on, fighting terror at every step.
Maeglin looks up, gasping in horror at the halls of the king of darkness. The walls drip with fetid moisture, and the floor is slick with fluids of an unknown nature. The great pillars are caught with putrid webs of giant, bloated spiders. The hall is crowded with Morgoth’s thralls, cowering in the shadows: orcs and trolls and other repugnant beasts that never see the light of day. Morgoth is sitting on his throne of black rock, clad in black mail and shadow, his massive mace, Grond, on the wall behind. On his brow the two remaining Silmarils sparkle white, unmarred by the orange flames of the torches. A guard of Balrogs stand by the throne, their cracked stone skin smouldering. Jabbering with anticipation, the Orcs cast Maeglin into the torchlight encircling Morgoth’s throne and force him to his knees.]
Orc: On yer knees, filthy golog… cower before the Lord of Arda!
Morgoth: [peers at Maeglin, thoughtfully] This hall receives you well, dark one! [he laughs, and the very foundations shudder as his booming voice echoes through the shadows of the lofty hall.. Morgoth’s mind reaches out for Maeglin, and a shadow falls over his eyes; he staggers under the pain and the weight of Morgoth’s mind upon his own. As the intensity proves too much for Maeglin he drops to the floor, writhing and screaming as though his skull is being split apart as Morgoth pries into the deepest reaches of Maeglin’s mind, his secrets open to the Dark Lord’s scrutiny…we see flashbacks of Maeglin’s youth…his fear of his father…his mother and father’s deaths…his lusting after Idril…his rejection…pain as Idril and Tuor seem to taunt him…all twisted and warped by Morgoth’s interpretation of his thoughts]
Maeglin: [shrieks] Stop!! [the mental torture continues. Maeglin bawls like a pleading child.] Stop!! [suddenly the mental rifling stops. Moaning in pain Maeglin opens his eyes again. Panting he glances up at the tall shadow above him.]
Morgoth: Well, well…does my welcome not please you? I perceived in your mind that we are kindred spirits…
Maeglin: [defiantly] Your words defile my ears – I share nothing with you, Bauglir!
Morgoth: [laughs again, and Maeglin shivers] Your conduct does not become your upbringing, Maeglin son of Eöl. Where is the famed courtesy of the Elves?
Maeglin: [angrily] I am no son of Eöl! You mock me! I am a prince of the Noldor. [Orcs jeer and Maeglin’s anger and shame increase]
Morgoth: [feigning innocence] You accuse me of mockery? I do not mock: I welcomed you to my hall...
Maeglin: [angrily] What do you want? What do you want with me?
Morgoth: [reasonably] Nothing that I cannot take whenever I choose! [One of the attending Balrogs steps forwards, and silently lifts a huge brazier and its stand, placing it nigh Morgoth's right hand. Its flames flare high. Maeglin cringes.] It shall take some time to break you. [A second Balrog steps up to Morgoth's left, unwinding a lash from his back, proffering it at the ready. The scourge glimmers as though edged with fire. ] But broken you shall be. [smirking]
Maeglin: [sneers defiantly] Many injuries have I already suffered in my mine and forge: I dare being maimed or burned every day I take to my workshop.
Morgoth: [cunningly] Ah, so you are a craftsman. [Morgoth moves his hand up over Maeglin's face, hovering without touching, blocking out the sight of anything else. Camera focus on the Vala's fingers wrapped in a web of angry red skin, scarred as if by burning.] Then only one torment is needed for you...I will have your hands wrung beyond hope of healing!
Maeglin: [in cold terror] Ai!
Morgoth: [chuckles in victory] You would be able to create no longer…I might send you back to the Elves, that they take pity upon you…or I may toy with you further. [caresses the skin of Maeglin's face with his fingertips.] Yes, your eyes will be seared out with hot iron. My vassals will do it. For you are nothing to me. And you could be all. You can save yourself yet, if you obey me of your own free will.
Maeglin: [obstinately.] I will never...
Morgoth: Will you not? [laughs again,] You are mine, fool, and you cannot resist me… You will not call the life that is left to you worth the labour of breathing, when my torment of you is done. But I am not needlessly cruel. I require only a small thing of you…
Maeglin: [unable to help himself] What thing?
Morgoth: Why, the location of the Golodh’s hidden city! That, and that alone, will see you spared and more. Tell me, and you shall be allowed to live unmarred.
Maeglin: [tries to laugh derisively, but only succeeds in coughing.] Gondolin?.
Morgoth: Yes, Maeglin, Gondolin! Ever since Húrin was seen roaming near the mountains of the Crissaegrim crying for Turgon to heed him, my spies have been on the watch but without success.
Maeglin: [realization dawns] You do not know? You have not been able to pry it from my mind! [Morgoth roars, the force of his will thrusting itself onto Maeglin’s mind.
Morgoth: [whispers] I see how Tuor and Idril have wronged you with their disgusting passion…Turgon's court treat you little respect… [Morgoth’s breath enflames Maeglin’s simmering hatred, irritating all the wounds he has taken.] Yet am I not the Lord of Arda? I can give you all you desire and more…if you but, tell me where to find the Hidden realm I will give you rule over Gondolin and Idril to wife…
Maeglin: and if I do not??
Morgoth: [simply] Then you will be chained, like Húrin the Mortal—like a mortal Man!—to Thangorodrim, with bewitched sight, so that all the days of your life you will see nothing but Idril and Tuor in their love. [Touches Maeglin’s mind with the softest of whispers:] You can protect her, rescue her from herself. Free her from the spell the mortal has cast upon her. Help me, and I will help you save her… [ Maeglin feels a pain like a fire in his chest…his limbs ache., Morgoth’s persona presses down on him like a vast thundercloud, his voice filling his thoughts.] Tell me what I need to know, and I will see she comes to no harm. If not – well, I will find the way eventually. Am I not Lord of Arda? What will become of your golden one then? Would you see her suffer as you suffer now? [Morgoth sends images of Idril,suffering as Maeglin is in this reeking pit, into Maeglin’s mind and t that image overthrows his resistance at the last.]
Maeglin: [crazed with fear, and in despair] No…No.! Please – do not cause her pain! Spare her, I beg you! For her sake only will I betray my uncle the king, who has shown me nothing but kindness… Gondolin lies within the Encircling Mountains of the Echoriath, between the Vale of Sirion and the highlands of Dorthonion. But the way is blocked…Turgon ordered it to be sealed when Nargothrond fell…
Morgoth: [smiles in satisfaction] That is a minor detail. But now I must return you to your King’s tender care, lest any should suspect your betrayal. Likewise, I must ensure you do not confess your treachery in a fit of loyalty. It would not do to have the Noldor forewarned of my plans… [raises his gauntled hand and points at Maeglin, forcing him to his knees with his power] Swear upon your love for the fair princess that you will keep this pact between us secret!
Maeglin: [thickly] I swear upon my love for Idril that I will not break this oath, may your will hold me. [Morgoth releases Maeglin from his hold and gestures his servants to take him away. Fade.]
* * *
[Fade in to Maeglin coming to, upon a small outcropping of rock backed by the walls of a cliff that join the harsh grey of a mountain range not far above. The sun beats down harshly upon his body…his eyes blink open tiredly.
He sees that he is back upon the path he had struck out on when he left the safety of the encircling mountains...
Upon searching his body he finds he is fully clothed and armed, and that no remnant of pain or even the slightest trace of his torture within the Iron Fortress. He rises to his feet, bewildered and unsure of himself. Almost believing it to be a bad dream, he tries to take a step towards the path. Suddenly we hear Morgoth as a voice in his head:]
Morgoth: [voiceover: clearly and cruelly:] Betray me, dark one, and the torture I visited upon thee this day will seem a pleasure compared to what thee will get…
[Maeglin stands stock still, arms wrapped around his body, eyes screwed tight and moaning as the reality of what he has done sinks in.. But as the promise of the dark lord resounds in his heart, it is filled with black desire for Idril, and Maeglin begins to calm. Smiling coldly, he faces the forward path, and sets out back to Gondolin. Cut.]
*
[Cut to distance shot of a dazed Maeglin wandering back down from the Echoriath onto the Vale of Tumladen. He is soon spotted by scouts and escorted back to the city, to a joyful welcome, Turgon having feared he was dead like his companions. A goblet of wine is thrust into Maeglin’s hands, amidst pats on the back and praise for his strength and determination to have escaped the ambush. Maeglin takes a swig of the wine, trying to enjoy the attention, but it tastes like ashes in his mouth. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Two years later: Eärendil has turned seven and is enjoying a party at the palace. His family and friends are watching him open his presents. Turgon gestures a delighted Eärendil to come and sit on his knee. The boy gazes up at his grandfather adoringly, blue eyes shining like sapphires and golden curls bouncing.]
Turgon: To celebrate my grandson’s birthday, I have an announcement to make: [looks around at his assembled family and courtiers The sighting of spies of the Enemy have dwindled to nought of late: therefore, I have reduced the watch and ward about the realm to its ancient numbers. The men of this city deserve to enjoy their homes once more. [the courtiers make murmurs of approval; somewhat taken aback, Idril looks to Tuor whilst Glorfindel and Ecthelion half-heartedly join in the applause. Idril catches Glorfindel’s eye and together they move out of ear shot of the gathering.]
Idril: Now come the days when we must make choice… [low voice] Is it nearly finished?
Glorfindel: Indeed. The exit on to the far north of Tumladen is still being finished, but for the most part it is done.
Idril: Thank you. I will rest easier when I know the work is done, for something tells me we may soon have need of it…
Glorfindel: [nodding in Turgon’s direction] Had you any idea this announcement would be forthcoming?
Idril: [shaking head] I did not, though truthfully I must admit my father is now more deceived than ever. He likens himself to the Valar even, and refuses to hear sense. But my mind has been occupied with Maeglin’s strange change of behaviour…
Glorfindel: [smiles cheerfully] He has certainly been more mellow and cheerful since he was lost…surely that is no bad thing?
Idril: [frowns He no longer mines or quarries in the hills, and keeps my father’s counsel to the point of my exclusion.
Glorfindel: Hmm…were it not for the fact that Ecthelion and I meet to practise arms regularly, I would have had no idea what goes on with the King. As it is, my information is very much limited. I would go to your father myself, but he is never alone.
Idril: I doubt that he would listen to you any more than he does Tuor. Neither of us can reach him, even as close as he is to us, he is still ever further away. Perhaps there is still time…
[They wander back towards the gathering. Eärendil jumps down to run and show his father his latest toy. Turgon stands and moves over to Idril. She takes his proffered arm and they wander out onto the balcony overlooking the city.]
Turgon: [sighs heavily] So peaceful, and beautiful, this city that I have made... [puts arm around Idril and she leans her head on her father’s shoulder] Did you know, that since Tuor came with Ulmo’s warning, I have thought often of leaving it?
Idril: [sadly] Then why do you not heed the words of the Valar?
Turgon: [smiles, gently stroking her hair] Maeglin has always brought me to see sense, when I was in such a mood. /color=blue][Fade.] [/color]
* * *
[Scene opens before Dawn on the Festival of the Gates of Summer. Idril and Tuor are lyng in bed, wrapped in ach other’s arms]
Idril: [lays her head against his chest] Are you happy here, Tuor? Tell me truthfully.
Tuor: [smoothes her hair and caresses her cheek absently] Very much so.
Idril: Are you sure, my love?
Tuor: [smiles] How could I not be happy? I have a beautiful wife and son, a fair house, and a whole company at my command. [pauses] But…
Idril: …The sea.
Tuor: [puzzled] How did you know?
Idril: You are constantly gazing westward, sometimes singing. You murmur in your sleep, sometimes about your father and your home in the Shadows, but usually about the gulls and the lapping of the waves.
Tuor: [looks down and tilts her face to meet his gaze] I have heard the music of Ulmo, Beloved, and never will it leave me. One day, I shall build a house by the sea, and we shall live always listening to the music of the waters.
Idril: Will that truly happen?
Tuor: It shall, if only at the renewing of the world. [kisses her.] Come, it is nearly dawn. Let us go and watch the sun rise with the city. [cut.]
*
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
*
[Cut to sometime later: The citizens of gondolin are gathering to celebrate the festival of Tarnin Austa - the Gates of Summer. We see Idril Tuor and Eärendil dressed in their finery entering the King’s square in the pre-Dawn light. Turgon’s men, their lances decked with flowers, stand at attention among the trees while the lords and ladies of the city gather to watch the sunrise… Lamplighters are busily hanging silvered lanterns from the boughs of the new-leaved trees. The fountains glitter, reflecting their light and the gleam of the two trees Glingol and Belthil. Eärendil sees Ecthelion by the fountain and runs to greet him. The crowd mills, jostling for vantage points by the walls, facing East.]
Tuor: [greets Ecthelion] We are going up to the walls to watch the sunrise. Will you join us? [ Ecthelion nods and leads then to a place between Egalmoth and Galdor. Idril follows, her white skirts rippling in the breeze. Tuor lifts Eärendil onto his shoulders so he might see the view over the terrace. Eärendil proudly relays that this is the first Tarnin Austa he is allowed to attend. Camera pans to the Hirizon: in a wash of crimson and gold, Anor breaks over the Echoriath]
Eärendil: [looks North,confused] Adar, is Anor coming up again?
Egalmoth: [nudges Tuor] A charming little prince, is he not?
Tuor: [laughs] Not normally first thing in the morning! But come, there is a feast waiting, and the cooks have prepared all your favourite dishes.
Eärendil: [tugs Tuor’s beard, trying to turn his head] No, Ada, She is coming up again now over there, see?
Idril: [affectionately] Silly child! Anor rises in the—oh, Elbereth! What is that? [Against the black mass of the Echoriath, where the North Gate cuts into the rock, a red glow lights the foothills like firelight. Drawn by Idril’s raised voice, Maeglin wanders over to the group.]
Tuor: This is no summer bonfire, for even the greatest fires lit by the farmers of the vale should not be visible as anything more than pinpricks so high up.
Ecthelion: It is plain the light is nothing natural.
Maeglin: [casually] ‘Tis nothing more than a child’s passing fancy
Tuor: [stiffly] If this is some fancy, then we can all see it. Even you cannot be so blind. [passes Eärendil back to his mother as the hostility hangs thickly in the air between him and Maeglin]
Maeglin: [dismissively] We are in no danger, mortal.
[A scream goes up from one of the ladies in the crowd still on the terrace.. Glorfindel turns, and Turgon braces himself on the edge to look out. More voices take up the cry;]
“The mountains are burning!”
“Dragons, on the hills to the north!
[All throng to the walls to see this marvel. Their wonder turns quickly to terror as they see the snow on the peaks red as blood, and a dread comes upon the crowd. There are panicked gasps and cries; women begin to quail in fear. ]
Tuor: [whispers to Idril] Take Eärendil back to our house, and remain there until I come for you… [she kisses him quickly and hurries away.]
Egalmoth: I see it also, [shifts over so Galdor can look] There, against the hills, do you mark it? [Glowing, writhing down the slopes, serpents of flame slide into the vale of Tumladen.] That is an army, from the north, from the direction of Angband. They have found us. No—oh, Eru, this cannot be!
Turgon: [trembles against the edge of the terrace, clutching the marble to hold himself upright. Croaks] Yes, I see it. [Below, riders come from the watches on the hills, clattering in the Gates, and soon stand breathless before the King.]
Rider: [draws a gasping breath] Ai!! Morgoth is upon us!
[Fear strikes the city. In blind panic Elves run for their weapons, the women weeping and children wailing. Turgon’s Guard stands firm around their King. The other Lords hurry to muster their houses and gather arms. Tuor hurries after Idril back to their House of the Wing. Everywhere is a flurry of activity. Tuor takes up his armour and Dramborleg, his axe, then returns to the palace.
The whole city rings with the sound of arms, and gear, and the squares are choked with women holding their children, trying to be calm and brave while Turgon convenes a War Council. Camera focus on the mountains ablaze and rivers of fire running down to the plain surrounding the city. At the foot of the tower stair, the lords of Gondolin gather…Tuor arrives, with his folk, his face grim and drawn, already sweating beneath his mail and armour. Together they enter the King’s chamber.]
Duilin: We should sally forth, my lord! The hosts of Morgoth cannot face the valour of your people and would be routed on the plain. Even Gothmog himself could not stand against the fury of the Gondolindrim.
Talagand: Surely with the strength of our numbers we might fare better to remain and fight behind impregnable walls?
Glorfindel: Duilin speaks truly: In the open plain, we can fight without hindrance of innocents and closed spaces. They cannot hem us in.
Maeglin: [slyly] Victory would be ours should we sally forth, my Liege, but the losses would be terrible and it would leave our city, so hard-built and dear, undefended. Is the strength of this hill become as lowly as the deep vale, or the hoard of weapons that lie upon it and its unnumbered arrows of so little worth that in the hour of peril you would cast all aside and go naked into the open against enemies of steel and fire?
Talagand: [fawning] Maeglin speaks well, O King, hear him! Why should we risk our troops out in the open field, when we clearly have the advantage in this city?
Glorfindel: [incredulous] Do you not hear the fire-drakes already shrieking overhead? They have found the hidden way—if the North Gate should fall, then it is already too late
Maeglin: [demurs] Our defenses are unequalled. There is no way to climb the hill. Its rock is like iron, and no foothold does it afford. There are only two ways to reach the city, and that is through the great staircases up to the Main Gate and the North Gate. It would be next to impossible to assail them under fire from our archers.
Turgon: [nodding] Have we not laboured for years uncounted at the building of walls of impregnable thickness and in the making of gates whose valour may not be over thrown; We could win here in the city as well, and would not risk destruction of that which we hold dear.
Tuor: [urgently] My lord, there should be no siege…We should flee with the entire host quickly, before the light and heat grows too great in the plain, or we are surrounded. [camera pan round those assembled. Most nod in agreement, though there is consternation] I suggest we evacuate in our separate houses, for we are swifter and more mobile that way.
Penlod: It might be wiser to travel in a group, with the women and children in the middle…
Galdor: Can we withstand hard blows upon the field and still protect our people? I doubt we could escape the Enemy’s notice out there on the Vale…we would be completely vulnerable!
Talagand: [alarmed] We would be putting the women and children needlessly into peril!
Duilin: Indeed, we are trapped in a noose of our own making! There is no escape through the Hidden Way, which has been blocked up for years…
Tuor: We must flee - it is the only way to save the people… [pauses, weighing up the wisdom of revealing Idril’s tunnel] The Lady Idril has long forseen such a circumstance as this we now find ourselves in. There is a tunnel… it would give our women and children at least such chance of escape rather than waiting for the end quavering behind these walls. [murmurs of surprise and approval are heard. Camera focus on Maeglin’s face changing at this new information: his eyes narrow, becoming crafty.]
Maeglin: My King, the City of Gondolin contains a wealth of jewels and metals and stuffs and things wrought by elves to surpassing beauty, and all these thy lords –more brave than wise, it seems to me – would abandon to the Foe a measureless booty.
Ecthelion: [quietly] Gondolin and its wealth is a little thing if the people perish. Many shall die in this siege at the least.
Turgon: [Eyes strangely empty and far away] Why did we build walls and why do we bear weapons, if not to fight? Gondolin is yet strong, and so long as we can defend her wealth and her beauty, I would stay by her side.
Penlod: [bangs fist on table] Gondolin cannot stand against the immeasurable might and power of Morgoth Bauglir. But if we flee, and come in time down to the land of Círdan, we may find rest and safety, for a time…
Maeglin: [derisively] Until Morgoth attacks us there, where we are even more vulnerable!
Tuor: [urgently] My Lord, let us get the womenfolk and children out of here at least. They cannot stand and fight. Not one of the soldiers will abandon the city, but would you demand the lives of innocents as well??
Turgon: [heavily] I fear that I must side against many of you, and go with the counsel of my nephew. We shall not flee this great labour that took so long, that we devised for our safety. Rally the soldiers to the walls, and prepare to repel the attacks of Morgoth…Let the enemy do its worst: this is the hour for the Noldor to redeem themselves. [A clamour goes up through the council, all arguing with him, pleading with him, trying to make him see reason;]
Glorfindel: [turns to Tuor:] The time for arguing is past: we all must go our ways, to lead our peoples as best we can. If we fight we may buy the innocent some time… [Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to scene in Tuor and Idril’s house. Idril stands looking out of her bedchamber window: It is four hours from midnight, and a red glow, like some fell fire, shines upon the hills, a bloody beacon in the night drowning out the stars. A black smoke and stench rises above the streets of the city…From the courtyards below, voices of the men call to one another as they muster the warriors of their houses.. Hearing the sound of small feet running up behind her, Idril turns to see her son, Eärendil, who buries his tear-streaked face in the folds of her long gown.]
Eärendil: [voiced muffled] Is Morgoth coming? Meleth said that if I was bad, Morgoth would come and—
Idril: [soothing] Hush, my little one, all shall be well. Do not be afraid.
Eärendil: [lifts face again] Where did Ada go? Is he going to fight?
Idril: Yes, my little love. But he will come back. [Eärendil rubs at his eyes with a chubby hand, his tears ebbing, Idril tenderly smoothes out his unruly gold curls. She walks to a trunk lying at the foot of the bed, opens it and we see its contents: two hauberks of fine Elven chain mail, and Idril’s sword, Hadhafang. She removes the larger hauberk and puts it on over her gown.]
Eärendil: [thinking it some joke] Surely that is too small for Ada!
Idril: [laughs weakly] Yes…that is because I had it especially made for me. And the other one is for you, to wear under your clothes. [Eärendil's face brightens at once and his eyes widen in awe. His face glows with pride as she pulls the small hauberk over his head.]
Eärendil: Am I a warrior now? Am I going to fight Morgoth with Ada and Ecthelion and Glorfindel?
Idril: [gently] No, it is just for—for protection, in case— [she collapses heavily on the bed, her shoulders shuddering with sobs, and the tears beginning to fall at last...]
Eärendil: [anxiously] Naneth? Naneth? [Idril takes him in her arms and holds him close, whispering a song she has sung to him since he was in the cradle, in a voice that cracks and trembles. Eärendil lies down on the bed, his head in her lap, and falls asleep almost immediately, his small hands bunched up into little fists even in slumber. Idril slides a pillow beneath his head and walks to the window again, dreading to see the battle outside.
Camera looks over the sight of the enemy, with Gothmog, High Captain of Angband and his brethren at their head. With him come legions of Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, and werewolves…. Great fire-drakes shoot darts of fire and flaming arrows like small snakes into the sky, and these fall upon the roofs and gardens of Gondolin until all the trees begin to scorch and the flowers and grass burn up. The white walls and colonnades are blackened and seared. A fire begins to burn in the city to the back of the main army of the defenders. Cut.]
*
[Cut to outer perimeter of the city. We see the dragons have not been able to climb the sheer, wet rock of Amon Gwareth, and a vast steam has arisen where the streams from the rock and the fire of the drakes mixes. The fire causes the springs and fountains within the city to steam as well. Stifling heat and smoke billow into the streets like a fog: the air becomes unbearably humid and people begin to swoon. Cut.]
*
[Cut to the Main Gate, Rog chafes silently behind his heavy iron shield as the archers from Egalmoth’s House line up along the walls against the hosts of Morgoth beneath them..
Cut to Egalmoth on the top of the wall: he and his archers are watching the Orcs trying in vain to climb up the glassy and steep sides of Amon Gwareth. Cheers come from the archers as the creatures slip back down each time, hissing in anger at the water flowing from the rock. Rog hefts his great mace, waiting at the gate, impatient to see combat…suddenly a messenger comes running:]
Messenger: [cries] Balrogs! The North Gate is assailed. The Balrogs have come!
Rog: [glances across the King’s Way to where Galdor stands with his people, the House of the Tree.]
Galdor: [raises his club in salute.] Is the Main Gate too splendid for the wretches to bear the sight of it? Come then, let us take the battle to them! The North Gate shall not fall!
[With a smile and a nod, Rog signals to his soldiers, the House of the Hammer of Wrath, and leads the way to the northern gate, Galdor’s troops following behind. As they approach the North Gate a massive resounding boom rings out. Rog positions his soldiers behind the gate and climbs the battlements to see what is happening.
Camera cut to shot of the Balrogs arrayed behind Gothmog. They part ranks and out of the haze of flames and smoke comes forth a giant silver dragon….its scales of steel plate burnished in the glow of the fiery skies. The monstrous dragon-headed battering ram is banded and capped with iron, with flames lit behind the carved nostrils and the bared fangs. The “dragon” makes steady progress up the steep approach to the Gates. The siege engines and catapults of the defenders rain boulders and molten ores down on the beast yet the fires roll off it. The ranks of Trolls drive the contraption forwards. As it nears the range of Duilin's archers they unload volley after volley of arrows, but to no avail. The signal is given as the contraption gets close enough, and the ram is released by the Trolls, slamming it into the North Gate. Again and again the ram is pounded into the Gates, which shudder and bend under the pressure, and sheer force driven against them. Rog sees that they will not hold much longer, and he climbs down from the wall to stand with his House.
Cut to shot of North Gate: With a groan like the bellow of a wounded dragon, the North Gate gives way at last. Orcs pour into the city as the houses of Rog and of Galdor fall upon them. Mace and club swung side by side as the lords of the Tree and the Hammer of Wrath lead their people against the foe. With every swing of Rog’s mace, another Orc falls, yet ever more Orcs leap up in turn, and it is all the Elves can do to hold the enemy there at the Gate. A rush of searing wind is felt on the combatants, and the Orcs leer and grin as the Elves shrink back, many crumpling to the ground from the burning agony that sweeps the defenceless courtyards.
Cut to view through Gate - three of the Balrogs have come forward to enter the city…the red light of their fire gleams upon Elven shields. Many an Elf falls, struck by the demons’ fiery whips.
Cut to the wall beside the broken gate: we see Duilin, leader of the Archers, fall, struck by a Balrog’s fiery bolt even as his own arrow flies from his bow. At this the Elves began to falter. Cut back to Rog standing his ground, his mace raised high. Anger wells up in Rog’s heart, and he summons a battle fury, crying out to the warriors of his House:]
Rog: Shall fire and shadow fall upon our city? You are Elves of valour, with strong steel in your hands! Did not even the Balrogs retreat from the Sons of Fëanor when they came to their father’s aid? To me, Gondolindrim! Let the Hammer of Wrath fall upon these vile creatures! Drive them forth from the gate and we shall smite them as hammer on anvil!
[His soldiers, heartened by his words, rally about him and begin to advance, pressing forward over the fallen bodies of Orcs that line the street, leaving still more of the fallen in their wake. Rog leads the charge to where the nearest Balrog is cutting a path with its fiery whip through the green tabards of the House of the Tree. The Balrog turns toward the newcomers and draws back his whip to strike again. Rog rushes in with his shield raised. The whip snaps towards him: he does not duck or fall back, but takes the lash upon his shield, then leaps towards the Balrog, swinging his mace.]
Rog: Let the Hammer of Rog fall! [from every side the Elves of his house run in with maces swinging. The Balrog roars and swings its whip again and again. Rog’s people are scarred with burns as it falls upon them, and knocked aside as it snaps out at them, but still they swarm upon the Balrog like sparks flying from the anvil. Again and again their maces strike until the fiery whip slows and finally falls still. Eventually the mighty demon’s fire slowly dwindles to embers at the Elves’ feet. A hush falls over the battle, as both the Elves and Orcs see what has happened. The Balrogs are not indestructible, after all…
Rog roars again and his warriors take up the battle-cry as they charge forth again. Orcs flee before them now. The other two Balrogs stand their ground and strive together, but the folk of the Hammer of Wrath divide themselves to fall upon each of the demons in groups and thus keep each one apart from its fellow. Hammers fall, sparks fly, and gradually the demons falter. The armies of Morgoth are driven back through the gate, out onto the plain of Tumladen once more.
Cut to their captain Gothmog, who calls forth the forces he has been holding in reserve. Orcs swarm around the Elves of the Hammer, and Rog looks around, realizing that their charge has carried them too far out from the city: the enemy forces have slipped in between them and the Gate. They are surrounded…
With the Orcs come Goblins and wolves, and striding through his armies, comes the mighty shadow of Gothmog himself, largest of the Balrogs. He bears a fiery scimitar in one blazing hand and a burning, many-flailed whip in the other. His eyes glow white-hot, like iron heated in the most hellish of furnaces, as he roars a challenge. All around Rog stand the Elves of his House, mighty but now too few. Gothmog draws near, face to face with Rog. With a bellow, he rushes upon the Elf lord. Rog stands tall and firm and meets the attack with shield and mace. Around him his warriors meet the renewed attack of the Orcs, and though they strive mightily they are hard pressed.]
Gothmog: [snarls] Enough of your Hammer!
[comes at Rog with his whip and his sword both lit with fire. Rog takes a sword blow upon his shield, but the whip catches him about the ankle and he is swept from his feet. Quickly he leaps up again and dives towards Gothmog, his mace battering against the Balrog’s sword arm so that it drops the weapon with a cry of rage. Rog presses the attack, but with his leg still smarting from the whip’s first blow he stumbles and only swift shield-work protects him as the whip lashes out again. He stands his ground alone now as the Orcs draw away the rest of his house to their separate defeats. Gothmog’s whip strikes again and again, and ever Rog finds it harder to dart within its reach to land a blow of his mace on target. Finally comes a lash he cannot avoid, and he falls before the Balrog, unable to rise again.]
Gothmog: [sneering] So falls the Hammer of Wrath, [bends to retrieve his sword.] So falls Gondolin! [He raises his fiery sword above Rog’s incapacitated body]
Rog: [breathing his last] Yet Balrogs too may fall, and so shall you, Lord of Balrogs, when you enter my city again. [Gothmog brings down his sword and despatches Rog’s spirit to Mandos. Fade.]
* * *
[Fade back to Idril at her window, head bent, tears running down her cheeks in new despair, the sound of the crumbling of Gondolin's walls filling the air. There is a knock at the door of the chamber.]
Idril: [head jerks up] Tuor? [Eärendil stirs and awakens, then runs to her side. She clasps his small hand tight in her own. Blinking, she wipes away the last trails of her tears as she walks to the door and opens it, to reveal her cousin Maeglin and some of his followers.]
Idril: [in surprise] Maeglin? [coldly, in annoyance] What brings you here in this hour of war? Your House should be fighting on the walls as well.
[Maeglin ignores the rebuke, his dark, fathomless eyes glancing at the window. Outside, battle is now openly raging among Orcs and Elves, with the Balrogs standing tall and fierce among them, smiting down any that would contest them. He smiles at the sight – though it is more like a grimace of pain on his pale face than an expression of delight. Eärendil presses closer to Idril and she puts a protective arm about him.]
Idril: [points to the chaise longue and orders quietly] Go and sit there until I tell you to come.
Eärendil: [whimpers] But—
Idril: [shakes her head] Go, my little one. [Eärendil walks reluctantly to the couch and sits, turning to watch Maeglin and Idril with wide, frightened eyes. She turns to Maeglin, steely voiced] Why are you here? [Maeglin meets her fierce, angry eyes with a cool, level stare. Furiously she accuses:] Coward! Craven! All of Gondolin will perish without your House's aid!
Maeglin: [quietly] Idril, we have no time for this! Your home is lost, and your father and your husband charged me with your safety. There are dragons at the gate. We must leave. For the sake of your son. Would you deprive him of his mother, too? [His gaze flickers over to Eärendil, his face filled with both envy and longing. He moves over where Eärendil sits nervously.]
Idril: [incredulous] You would have us flee while our home, my father, my husband is in danger?! I would never— [Maeglin snatches up Eärendil easily in one hand, ignoring the boy's struggles.] Maeglin, what are you doing? Release him!
Maeglin: [turns back to Idril] Come with me now or I will carry Eärendil away myself and you will never see him again -- I swear this!
Idril: [hands outstretched pleadingly for Eärendil, her voice rising] Surely you do not mean to harm my son?? [Maeglin regards her emotionlessly, as the tears trail down her face. Eärendil weeps also, beating furiously but without effect at Maeglin as he holds him away from his mother… In grief and anger Idril strikes Maeglin hard across the face.]
Maeglin: [lunges and grips Idril by her by unbound hair and wrenches her backwards.] Stop this, Idril! I do not want to hurt you! I am doing this for your protection! I love you!
Idril: [whispers, choked with tears] And I hate you! [Maeglin cringes as if the words have struck him as well, then he turns and drags her along behind him. Idril fights and screams for help as they pass his soldiers at the door of the house. But they do nothing, standing motionless in the corridor as it echoes with Eärendil's sobs and Maeglin's steady footsteps. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to North Gate: At the loss of Rog and his battalion dread falls more heavily upon the defenders, and they give ground even further into the city. Penlod perishes there in a side street with his back to the wall, along with many men of the Pillar and of the Tower of Snow. Morgoth’s forces claim the fallen gate and surge up a great part of the walls on either side, thrusting great numbers of the archers from the Houses of the Swallow and the Rainbow to their doom; the bodies of dead Orcs and Elves are piled high around the Gate and walls. The streets have become crimson rivers, the blood slowly flowing over the smooth pavement and splashing onto the heavy boots of the running Orc hordes now rampaging through the heart of the city. We hear screams of pain and terror, sobbing children, people calling for loved ones that they have become separated from, naked fear and desperation in their voices as they search. We see soldiers shouting as they frantically try to rally, knowing that they are hopelessly outnumbered but determined to buy enough time to allow at least a few innocents to escape. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to Glorfindel and the House of the Golden Flower defending the Great Market, to the south of the City. They wait behind barriers thrown up along the streets. The fire-drakes swoop low, barrelling along the road that connects the Lesser Market with the Great, and their flames rip through the barriers, igniting the storehouses that front the marketplace. Glass windows shatter in the heat and walls blow outward; the force of the explosion knocks over most of the defenders and pins those nearest the blast under the debris. A soldier screams as a chunk of burning masonry strikes him, Glorfindel hesitates, the heat and press of Orcs pouring over the shattered barricade keeps him from going to the injured Elf.
Glorfindel: Retreat! Withdraw towards the King’s Square… [to his second] Where are the reinforcements I sent for?
[An Orc snarls into view, disappearing in a spray of gore as Glorfindel’s sword cleaves its head in two; he kicks the body aside without even breaking his stride. Camera sweeps over bodies splayed in the streets, some Orcs but mostly Elves, hewn down or overcome by the heat and fumes and trampled.
A warrior running beside Glorfindel takes a flaming arrow between the eyes and goes down, grunting as he falls. The others cannot stop for him; the Orcs are at their heels, tearing at the corpses of those who fall behind. Turning a corner, we see warriors running toward them. They are wearing the silver and sable of the Men of the Harp. Their leader catches Glorfindel by the arm and holds him for an instant.]
Soldier of the Harp: [panting] Talagand did not tell us… that we…were needed. He…he held us back. When we found out we came anyway and left him cowering in his bed.
Glorfindel: [snarls] More treachery this day. It is even as Idril said, he is Maeglin’s coward. [catches his breath] The Great Market is lost. Do not go that way…
Soldier of the Harp: Where is the rest of your troop?
Glorfindel: [gestures to handful of Elves with him] This is my troop. All that escaped with us have gone ahead to the King’s Square; we are perhaps half the number we set out with.... [ Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to steps leading up to battlements overlooking the Vale of Tumladen on one side, and the courtyard of Idril’s house on the other, the silvered lanterns and jewelled lamps still hang for the forgotten festival. Still carrying Eärendil, Maeglin drags Idril roughly up the steps and out onto the battlements. The cold wind sweeps through their hair and clamour of the battle is terrifyingly loud. Releasing his hold on Idril’s hair, Maeglin stands overlooking the battle, his features strangely softened by the eerie red light.]
Idril: [scathingly]Do you care nothing for your people?
Maeglin: [starts and turns] They— [jerks his free hand furiously at the dying Elves below with a gesture filled with contempt] —are not my people. They must all die, regardless. Otherwise, my name would be disgraced, and they would seek me in vengeance.
Idril: [struggling to understand] What do you mean?
Maeglin: [shrugs] I told the Enemy how to find Gondolin... I told Morgoth himself.
Idril: [horror-struck] You monster! Now I know why you changed so drastically since you were lost in the mountains! All of a sudden kinder and willing to join in the merriment of the people which you shunned for so long, yet all the time concealing your treacherous heart! [looks down upon the raging war, trembles with newfound rage.] That so many should die and so many should grieve…Why, Maeglin…why? What was your price?
Maeglin: You have scorned me, avoided me, and rejected me when I would have given you everything. How I craved to taste your sweetness, to make you mine by the bond of marriage and love. And yet, that Mortal stole you away from me. My life is laid in ruin, and yet all I want is you. Even now, my beautiful Idril, you are the only thing I can think of…. [smiles ominously] …and I will have you when all others are dead and gone.
[Idril gasps, turning deathly white. Suddenly, from below a wordless cry of wrath and fury sounds from a familiar voice. Camera angles down and we see Tuor below in the courtyard, his eyes taking in the scene above him, the banner of the Swan whipping elegantly in the bitter wind as Tuor's warriors crash among Maeglin's, who have been guarding the citadel. Maeglin looks down upon the courtyard and his expression changes from suffering to malice. ]
Eärendil: [lifts his chin defiantly, meeting Maeglin’s eyes] If you hurt my mother, Father will come and kill you…
Maeglin: [calmly] I will not hurt her, but you should fear more for yourself… [he draws a long, shining dagger from his belt.]
Idril: [screams] No!
[she runs towards him trying to save her son, but Maeglin strikes a hard blow to her head with the flat of his blade. Idril falls back against the parapet. Sobbing, she crawls on her hands and knees towards Maeglin. He raises the glimmering blade high to stab Eärendil, who is crying in terror and reaching in vain toward his mother... The blade plummets downward, seeking Eärendil's heart.
Suddenly, Eärendil twists his head, sinking his young teeth deep into Maeglin's hand. Maeglin doesn't cry out, but staggers, The dagger still plunges downward in a weakened blow, and glances harmlessly off Eärendil's hauberk. Eärendil wriggles to the ground. He runs to Idril, hugging her tightly. Maeglin turns to them, venomous with anger, and advances steadily toward where they kneel together on the ground, Idril shielding Eärendil with her body. Thinking that this is surely the end of them both, Idril tries to bury Eärendil's head in her shoulder, but he slips his head out of her grip and points behind her.
Eärendil: [in elation] Ada! [Idril looks up to see Tuor, a dire light in his eyes and a look of cold fury fixed on Maeglin. Sword in hand, he walks almost lazily towards the dark-haired Elf. Maeglin whirls round, sword in hand. Tuor’s first blow nearly overbears Maeglin, and he staggers slightly but parries it successfully; the rhythmic thrust and counterthrust of swordplay continues, each knowing the other means to kill him, both seeing the same determination in the other’s eyes; they fight on with dogged determination, equally matched in both martial skills and rage. Tuor is slightly stronger, but Maeglin has the greater agility of the Eldar. All around them the city is burning, the masonry cracking and crumbling in the heat of the fires. Suddenly something slams forcefully into Maeglin from behind, and he staggers forward, thrown momentarily off balance; before he can recover, Tuor grasps Maeglin about the wrist of his sword hand, and Maeglin barely has time to struggle before his arm is wrenched into an impossible contortion. With a dry crack, the arm is broken, and Maeglin's sword clatters to the floor. Eyes full of rage, Tuor loosens his grip upon Maeglin's hand, though holds him by the front of his tunic.]
Tuor: [grimly,] No…I will not give you a warrior's death, Maeglin. You do not deserve one. Instead, you will die as a traitor and a murderer dies, for that is what you are. A murderer, thousands of times over! [He pushes Maeglin backwards, up against the battlements overlooking the rows of sharp, jagged rocks below. Maeglin looks quickly over his shoulder, seeing the steep precipice below…we hear the words of his father in his mind:]
Eöl: [voiceover Here may you yet die the same death as I... [Maeglin goes slack in acknowledgement of his fate. With a feat of sudden strength, Tuor lifts Maeglin up over the walls and throws him over the edge, onto the blades of rock that wait below. Idril hides Eärendil's eyes and looks away as well, even though Maeglin falls soundlessly. His body strikes the slope three times, before being pierced by the sharp rocks. Cut to Tuor standing over his wife and child. Eärendil leaps to embrace his father, laughing with delight. Tuor smiles gently down upon his son, then raises his gaze to Idril. She tries to smile as well, but all she can do is weep as he clasps her to him. Fade.]
End of Episode
*******************************************************************************
[Cut to sometime later: The citizens of gondolin are gathering to celebrate the festival of Tarnin Austa - the Gates of Summer. We see Idril Tuor and Eärendil dressed in their finery entering the King’s square in the pre-Dawn light. Turgon’s men, their lances decked with flowers, stand at attention among the trees while the lords and ladies of the city gather to watch the sunrise… Lamplighters are busily hanging silvered lanterns from the boughs of the new-leaved trees. The fountains glitter, reflecting their light and the gleam of the two trees Glingol and Belthil. Eärendil sees Ecthelion by the fountain and runs to greet him. The crowd mills, jostling for vantage points by the walls, facing East.]
Tuor: [greets Ecthelion] We are going up to the walls to watch the sunrise. Will you join us? [ Ecthelion nods and leads then to a place between Egalmoth and Galdor. Idril follows, her white skirts rippling in the breeze. Tuor lifts Eärendil onto his shoulders so he might see the view over the terrace. Eärendil proudly relays that this is the first Tarnin Austa he is allowed to attend. Camera pans to the Hirizon: in a wash of crimson and gold, Anor breaks over the Echoriath]
Eärendil: [looks North,confused] Adar, is Anor coming up again?
Egalmoth: [nudges Tuor] A charming little prince, is he not?
Tuor: [laughs] Not normally first thing in the morning! But come, there is a feast waiting, and the cooks have prepared all your favourite dishes.
Eärendil: [tugs Tuor’s beard, trying to turn his head] No, Ada, She is coming up again now over there, see?
Idril: [affectionately] Silly child! Anor rises in the—oh, Elbereth! What is that? [Against the black mass of the Echoriath, where the North Gate cuts into the rock, a red glow lights the foothills like firelight. Drawn by Idril’s raised voice, Maeglin wanders over to the group.]
Tuor: This is no summer bonfire, for even the greatest fires lit by the farmers of the vale should not be visible as anything more than pinpricks so high up.
Ecthelion: It is plain the light is nothing natural.
Maeglin: [casually] ‘Tis nothing more than a child’s passing fancy
Tuor: [stiffly] If this is some fancy, then we can all see it. Even you cannot be so blind. [passes Eärendil back to his mother as the hostility hangs thickly in the air between him and Maeglin]
Maeglin: [dismissively] We are in no danger, mortal.
[A scream goes up from one of the ladies in the crowd still on the terrace.. Glorfindel turns, and Turgon braces himself on the edge to look out. More voices take up the cry;]
“The mountains are burning!”
“Dragons, on the hills to the north!
[All throng to the walls to see this marvel. Their wonder turns quickly to terror as they see the snow on the peaks red as blood, and a dread comes upon the crowd. There are panicked gasps and cries; women begin to quail in fear. ]
Tuor: [whispers to Idril] Take Eärendil back to our house, and remain there until I come for you… [she kisses him quickly and hurries away.]
Egalmoth: I see it also, [shifts over so Galdor can look] There, against the hills, do you mark it? [Glowing, writhing down the slopes, serpents of flame slide into the vale of Tumladen.] That is an army, from the north, from the direction of Angband. They have found us. No—oh, Eru, this cannot be!
Turgon: [trembles against the edge of the terrace, clutching the marble to hold himself upright. Croaks] Yes, I see it. [Below, riders come from the watches on the hills, clattering in the Gates, and soon stand breathless before the King.]
Rider: [draws a gasping breath] Ai!! Morgoth is upon us!
[Fear strikes the city. In blind panic Elves run for their weapons, the women weeping and children wailing. Turgon’s Guard stands firm around their King. The other Lords hurry to muster their houses and gather arms. Tuor hurries after Idril back to their House of the Wing. Everywhere is a flurry of activity. Tuor takes up his armour and Dramborleg, his axe, then returns to the palace.
The whole city rings with the sound of arms, and gear, and the squares are choked with women holding their children, trying to be calm and brave while Turgon convenes a War Council. Camera focus on the mountains ablaze and rivers of fire running down to the plain surrounding the city. At the foot of the tower stair, the lords of Gondolin gather…Tuor arrives, with his folk, his face grim and drawn, already sweating beneath his mail and armour. Together they enter the King’s chamber.]
Duilin: We should sally forth, my lord! The hosts of Morgoth cannot face the valour of your people and would be routed on the plain. Even Gothmog himself could not stand against the fury of the Gondolindrim.
Talagand: Surely with the strength of our numbers we might fare better to remain and fight behind impregnable walls?
Glorfindel: Duilin speaks truly: In the open plain, we can fight without hindrance of innocents and closed spaces. They cannot hem us in.
Maeglin: [slyly] Victory would be ours should we sally forth, my Liege, but the losses would be terrible and it would leave our city, so hard-built and dear, undefended. Is the strength of this hill become as lowly as the deep vale, or the hoard of weapons that lie upon it and its unnumbered arrows of so little worth that in the hour of peril you would cast all aside and go naked into the open against enemies of steel and fire?
Talagand: [fawning] Maeglin speaks well, O King, hear him! Why should we risk our troops out in the open field, when we clearly have the advantage in this city?
Glorfindel: [incredulous] Do you not hear the fire-drakes already shrieking overhead? They have found the hidden way—if the North Gate should fall, then it is already too late
Maeglin: [demurs] Our defenses are unequalled. There is no way to climb the hill. Its rock is like iron, and no foothold does it afford. There are only two ways to reach the city, and that is through the great staircases up to the Main Gate and the North Gate. It would be next to impossible to assail them under fire from our archers.
Turgon: [nodding] Have we not laboured for years uncounted at the building of walls of impregnable thickness and in the making of gates whose valour may not be over thrown; We could win here in the city as well, and would not risk destruction of that which we hold dear.
Tuor: [urgently] My lord, there should be no siege…We should flee with the entire host quickly, before the light and heat grows too great in the plain, or we are surrounded. [camera pan round those assembled. Most nod in agreement, though there is consternation] I suggest we evacuate in our separate houses, for we are swifter and more mobile that way.
Penlod: It might be wiser to travel in a group, with the women and children in the middle…
Galdor: Can we withstand hard blows upon the field and still protect our people? I doubt we could escape the Enemy’s notice out there on the Vale…we would be completely vulnerable!
Talagand: [alarmed] We would be putting the women and children needlessly into peril!
Duilin: Indeed, we are trapped in a noose of our own making! There is no escape through the Hidden Way, which has been blocked up for years…
Tuor: We must flee - it is the only way to save the people… [pauses, weighing up the wisdom of revealing Idril’s tunnel] The Lady Idril has long forseen such a circumstance as this we now find ourselves in. There is a tunnel… it would give our women and children at least such chance of escape rather than waiting for the end quavering behind these walls. [murmurs of surprise and approval are heard. Camera focus on Maeglin’s face changing at this new information: his eyes narrow, becoming crafty.]
Maeglin: My King, the City of Gondolin contains a wealth of jewels and metals and stuffs and things wrought by elves to surpassing beauty, and all these thy lords –more brave than wise, it seems to me – would abandon to the Foe a measureless booty.
Ecthelion: [quietly] Gondolin and its wealth is a little thing if the people perish. Many shall die in this siege at the least.
Turgon: [Eyes strangely empty and far away] Why did we build walls and why do we bear weapons, if not to fight? Gondolin is yet strong, and so long as we can defend her wealth and her beauty, I would stay by her side.
Penlod: [bangs fist on table] Gondolin cannot stand against the immeasurable might and power of Morgoth Bauglir. But if we flee, and come in time down to the land of Círdan, we may find rest and safety, for a time…
Maeglin: [derisively] Until Morgoth attacks us there, where we are even more vulnerable!
Tuor: [urgently] My Lord, let us get the womenfolk and children out of here at least. They cannot stand and fight. Not one of the soldiers will abandon the city, but would you demand the lives of innocents as well??
Turgon: [heavily] I fear that I must side against many of you, and go with the counsel of my nephew. We shall not flee this great labour that took so long, that we devised for our safety. Rally the soldiers to the walls, and prepare to repel the attacks of Morgoth…Let the enemy do its worst: this is the hour for the Noldor to redeem themselves. [A clamour goes up through the council, all arguing with him, pleading with him, trying to make him see reason;]
Glorfindel: [turns to Tuor:] The time for arguing is past: we all must go our ways, to lead our peoples as best we can. If we fight we may buy the innocent some time… [Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to scene in Tuor and Idril’s house. Idril stands looking out of her bedchamber window: It is four hours from midnight, and a red glow, like some fell fire, shines upon the hills, a bloody beacon in the night drowning out the stars. A black smoke and stench rises above the streets of the city…From the courtyards below, voices of the men call to one another as they muster the warriors of their houses.. Hearing the sound of small feet running up behind her, Idril turns to see her son, Eärendil, who buries his tear-streaked face in the folds of her long gown.]
Eärendil: [voiced muffled] Is Morgoth coming? Meleth said that if I was bad, Morgoth would come and—
Idril: [soothing] Hush, my little one, all shall be well. Do not be afraid.
Eärendil: [lifts face again] Where did Ada go? Is he going to fight?
Idril: Yes, my little love. But he will come back. [Eärendil rubs at his eyes with a chubby hand, his tears ebbing, Idril tenderly smoothes out his unruly gold curls. She walks to a trunk lying at the foot of the bed, opens it and we see its contents: two hauberks of fine Elven chain mail, and Idril’s sword, Hadhafang. She removes the larger hauberk and puts it on over her gown.]
Eärendil: [thinking it some joke] Surely that is too small for Ada!
Idril: [laughs weakly] Yes…that is because I had it especially made for me. And the other one is for you, to wear under your clothes. [Eärendil's face brightens at once and his eyes widen in awe. His face glows with pride as she pulls the small hauberk over his head.]
Eärendil: Am I a warrior now? Am I going to fight Morgoth with Ada and Ecthelion and Glorfindel?
Idril: [gently] No, it is just for—for protection, in case— [she collapses heavily on the bed, her shoulders shuddering with sobs, and the tears beginning to fall at last...]
Eärendil: [anxiously] Naneth? Naneth? [Idril takes him in her arms and holds him close, whispering a song she has sung to him since he was in the cradle, in a voice that cracks and trembles. Eärendil lies down on the bed, his head in her lap, and falls asleep almost immediately, his small hands bunched up into little fists even in slumber. Idril slides a pillow beneath his head and walks to the window again, dreading to see the battle outside.
Camera looks over the sight of the enemy, with Gothmog, High Captain of Angband and his brethren at their head. With him come legions of Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, and werewolves…. Great fire-drakes shoot darts of fire and flaming arrows like small snakes into the sky, and these fall upon the roofs and gardens of Gondolin until all the trees begin to scorch and the flowers and grass burn up. The white walls and colonnades are blackened and seared. A fire begins to burn in the city to the back of the main army of the defenders. Cut.]
*
[Cut to outer perimeter of the city. We see the dragons have not been able to climb the sheer, wet rock of Amon Gwareth, and a vast steam has arisen where the streams from the rock and the fire of the drakes mixes. The fire causes the springs and fountains within the city to steam as well. Stifling heat and smoke billow into the streets like a fog: the air becomes unbearably humid and people begin to swoon. Cut.]
*
[Cut to the Main Gate, Rog chafes silently behind his heavy iron shield as the archers from Egalmoth’s House line up along the walls against the hosts of Morgoth beneath them..
Cut to Egalmoth on the top of the wall: he and his archers are watching the Orcs trying in vain to climb up the glassy and steep sides of Amon Gwareth. Cheers come from the archers as the creatures slip back down each time, hissing in anger at the water flowing from the rock. Rog hefts his great mace, waiting at the gate, impatient to see combat…suddenly a messenger comes running:]
Messenger: [cries] Balrogs! The North Gate is assailed. The Balrogs have come!
Rog: [glances across the King’s Way to where Galdor stands with his people, the House of the Tree.]
Galdor: [raises his club in salute.] Is the Main Gate too splendid for the wretches to bear the sight of it? Come then, let us take the battle to them! The North Gate shall not fall!
[With a smile and a nod, Rog signals to his soldiers, the House of the Hammer of Wrath, and leads the way to the northern gate, Galdor’s troops following behind. As they approach the North Gate a massive resounding boom rings out. Rog positions his soldiers behind the gate and climbs the battlements to see what is happening.
Camera cut to shot of the Balrogs arrayed behind Gothmog. They part ranks and out of the haze of flames and smoke comes forth a giant silver dragon….its scales of steel plate burnished in the glow of the fiery skies. The monstrous dragon-headed battering ram is banded and capped with iron, with flames lit behind the carved nostrils and the bared fangs. The “dragon” makes steady progress up the steep approach to the Gates. The siege engines and catapults of the defenders rain boulders and molten ores down on the beast yet the fires roll off it. The ranks of Trolls drive the contraption forwards. As it nears the range of Duilin's archers they unload volley after volley of arrows, but to no avail. The signal is given as the contraption gets close enough, and the ram is released by the Trolls, slamming it into the North Gate. Again and again the ram is pounded into the Gates, which shudder and bend under the pressure, and sheer force driven against them. Rog sees that they will not hold much longer, and he climbs down from the wall to stand with his House.
Cut to shot of North Gate: With a groan like the bellow of a wounded dragon, the North Gate gives way at last. Orcs pour into the city as the houses of Rog and of Galdor fall upon them. Mace and club swung side by side as the lords of the Tree and the Hammer of Wrath lead their people against the foe. With every swing of Rog’s mace, another Orc falls, yet ever more Orcs leap up in turn, and it is all the Elves can do to hold the enemy there at the Gate. A rush of searing wind is felt on the combatants, and the Orcs leer and grin as the Elves shrink back, many crumpling to the ground from the burning agony that sweeps the defenceless courtyards.
Cut to view through Gate - three of the Balrogs have come forward to enter the city…the red light of their fire gleams upon Elven shields. Many an Elf falls, struck by the demons’ fiery whips.
Cut to the wall beside the broken gate: we see Duilin, leader of the Archers, fall, struck by a Balrog’s fiery bolt even as his own arrow flies from his bow. At this the Elves began to falter. Cut back to Rog standing his ground, his mace raised high. Anger wells up in Rog’s heart, and he summons a battle fury, crying out to the warriors of his House:]
Rog: Shall fire and shadow fall upon our city? You are Elves of valour, with strong steel in your hands! Did not even the Balrogs retreat from the Sons of Fëanor when they came to their father’s aid? To me, Gondolindrim! Let the Hammer of Wrath fall upon these vile creatures! Drive them forth from the gate and we shall smite them as hammer on anvil!
[His soldiers, heartened by his words, rally about him and begin to advance, pressing forward over the fallen bodies of Orcs that line the street, leaving still more of the fallen in their wake. Rog leads the charge to where the nearest Balrog is cutting a path with its fiery whip through the green tabards of the House of the Tree. The Balrog turns toward the newcomers and draws back his whip to strike again. Rog rushes in with his shield raised. The whip snaps towards him: he does not duck or fall back, but takes the lash upon his shield, then leaps towards the Balrog, swinging his mace.]
Rog: Let the Hammer of Rog fall! [from every side the Elves of his house run in with maces swinging. The Balrog roars and swings its whip again and again. Rog’s people are scarred with burns as it falls upon them, and knocked aside as it snaps out at them, but still they swarm upon the Balrog like sparks flying from the anvil. Again and again their maces strike until the fiery whip slows and finally falls still. Eventually the mighty demon’s fire slowly dwindles to embers at the Elves’ feet. A hush falls over the battle, as both the Elves and Orcs see what has happened. The Balrogs are not indestructible, after all…
Rog roars again and his warriors take up the battle-cry as they charge forth again. Orcs flee before them now. The other two Balrogs stand their ground and strive together, but the folk of the Hammer of Wrath divide themselves to fall upon each of the demons in groups and thus keep each one apart from its fellow. Hammers fall, sparks fly, and gradually the demons falter. The armies of Morgoth are driven back through the gate, out onto the plain of Tumladen once more.
Cut to their captain Gothmog, who calls forth the forces he has been holding in reserve. Orcs swarm around the Elves of the Hammer, and Rog looks around, realizing that their charge has carried them too far out from the city: the enemy forces have slipped in between them and the Gate. They are surrounded…
With the Orcs come Goblins and wolves, and striding through his armies, comes the mighty shadow of Gothmog himself, largest of the Balrogs. He bears a fiery scimitar in one blazing hand and a burning, many-flailed whip in the other. His eyes glow white-hot, like iron heated in the most hellish of furnaces, as he roars a challenge. All around Rog stand the Elves of his House, mighty but now too few. Gothmog draws near, face to face with Rog. With a bellow, he rushes upon the Elf lord. Rog stands tall and firm and meets the attack with shield and mace. Around him his warriors meet the renewed attack of the Orcs, and though they strive mightily they are hard pressed.]
Gothmog: [snarls] Enough of your Hammer!
[comes at Rog with his whip and his sword both lit with fire. Rog takes a sword blow upon his shield, but the whip catches him about the ankle and he is swept from his feet. Quickly he leaps up again and dives towards Gothmog, his mace battering against the Balrog’s sword arm so that it drops the weapon with a cry of rage. Rog presses the attack, but with his leg still smarting from the whip’s first blow he stumbles and only swift shield-work protects him as the whip lashes out again. He stands his ground alone now as the Orcs draw away the rest of his house to their separate defeats. Gothmog’s whip strikes again and again, and ever Rog finds it harder to dart within its reach to land a blow of his mace on target. Finally comes a lash he cannot avoid, and he falls before the Balrog, unable to rise again.]
Gothmog: [sneering] So falls the Hammer of Wrath, [bends to retrieve his sword.] So falls Gondolin! [He raises his fiery sword above Rog’s incapacitated body]
Rog: [breathing his last] Yet Balrogs too may fall, and so shall you, Lord of Balrogs, when you enter my city again. [Gothmog brings down his sword and despatches Rog’s spirit to Mandos. Fade.]
* * *
[Fade back to Idril at her window, head bent, tears running down her cheeks in new despair, the sound of the crumbling of Gondolin's walls filling the air. There is a knock at the door of the chamber.]
Idril: [head jerks up] Tuor? [Eärendil stirs and awakens, then runs to her side. She clasps his small hand tight in her own. Blinking, she wipes away the last trails of her tears as she walks to the door and opens it, to reveal her cousin Maeglin and some of his followers.]
Idril: [in surprise] Maeglin? [coldly, in annoyance] What brings you here in this hour of war? Your House should be fighting on the walls as well.
[Maeglin ignores the rebuke, his dark, fathomless eyes glancing at the window. Outside, battle is now openly raging among Orcs and Elves, with the Balrogs standing tall and fierce among them, smiting down any that would contest them. He smiles at the sight – though it is more like a grimace of pain on his pale face than an expression of delight. Eärendil presses closer to Idril and she puts a protective arm about him.]
Idril: [points to the chaise longue and orders quietly] Go and sit there until I tell you to come.
Eärendil: [whimpers] But—
Idril: [shakes her head] Go, my little one. [Eärendil walks reluctantly to the couch and sits, turning to watch Maeglin and Idril with wide, frightened eyes. She turns to Maeglin, steely voiced] Why are you here? [Maeglin meets her fierce, angry eyes with a cool, level stare. Furiously she accuses:] Coward! Craven! All of Gondolin will perish without your House's aid!
Maeglin: [quietly] Idril, we have no time for this! Your home is lost, and your father and your husband charged me with your safety. There are dragons at the gate. We must leave. For the sake of your son. Would you deprive him of his mother, too? [His gaze flickers over to Eärendil, his face filled with both envy and longing. He moves over where Eärendil sits nervously.]
Idril: [incredulous] You would have us flee while our home, my father, my husband is in danger?! I would never— [Maeglin snatches up Eärendil easily in one hand, ignoring the boy's struggles.] Maeglin, what are you doing? Release him!
Maeglin: [turns back to Idril] Come with me now or I will carry Eärendil away myself and you will never see him again -- I swear this!
Idril: [hands outstretched pleadingly for Eärendil, her voice rising] Surely you do not mean to harm my son?? [Maeglin regards her emotionlessly, as the tears trail down her face. Eärendil weeps also, beating furiously but without effect at Maeglin as he holds him away from his mother… In grief and anger Idril strikes Maeglin hard across the face.]
Maeglin: [lunges and grips Idril by her by unbound hair and wrenches her backwards.] Stop this, Idril! I do not want to hurt you! I am doing this for your protection! I love you!
Idril: [whispers, choked with tears] And I hate you! [Maeglin cringes as if the words have struck him as well, then he turns and drags her along behind him. Idril fights and screams for help as they pass his soldiers at the door of the house. But they do nothing, standing motionless in the corridor as it echoes with Eärendil's sobs and Maeglin's steady footsteps. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to North Gate: At the loss of Rog and his battalion dread falls more heavily upon the defenders, and they give ground even further into the city. Penlod perishes there in a side street with his back to the wall, along with many men of the Pillar and of the Tower of Snow. Morgoth’s forces claim the fallen gate and surge up a great part of the walls on either side, thrusting great numbers of the archers from the Houses of the Swallow and the Rainbow to their doom; the bodies of dead Orcs and Elves are piled high around the Gate and walls. The streets have become crimson rivers, the blood slowly flowing over the smooth pavement and splashing onto the heavy boots of the running Orc hordes now rampaging through the heart of the city. We hear screams of pain and terror, sobbing children, people calling for loved ones that they have become separated from, naked fear and desperation in their voices as they search. We see soldiers shouting as they frantically try to rally, knowing that they are hopelessly outnumbered but determined to buy enough time to allow at least a few innocents to escape. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to Glorfindel and the House of the Golden Flower defending the Great Market, to the south of the City. They wait behind barriers thrown up along the streets. The fire-drakes swoop low, barrelling along the road that connects the Lesser Market with the Great, and their flames rip through the barriers, igniting the storehouses that front the marketplace. Glass windows shatter in the heat and walls blow outward; the force of the explosion knocks over most of the defenders and pins those nearest the blast under the debris. A soldier screams as a chunk of burning masonry strikes him, Glorfindel hesitates, the heat and press of Orcs pouring over the shattered barricade keeps him from going to the injured Elf.
Glorfindel: Retreat! Withdraw towards the King’s Square… [to his second] Where are the reinforcements I sent for?
[An Orc snarls into view, disappearing in a spray of gore as Glorfindel’s sword cleaves its head in two; he kicks the body aside without even breaking his stride. Camera sweeps over bodies splayed in the streets, some Orcs but mostly Elves, hewn down or overcome by the heat and fumes and trampled.
A warrior running beside Glorfindel takes a flaming arrow between the eyes and goes down, grunting as he falls. The others cannot stop for him; the Orcs are at their heels, tearing at the corpses of those who fall behind. Turning a corner, we see warriors running toward them. They are wearing the silver and sable of the Men of the Harp. Their leader catches Glorfindel by the arm and holds him for an instant.]
Soldier of the Harp: [panting] Talagand did not tell us… that we…were needed. He…he held us back. When we found out we came anyway and left him cowering in his bed.
Glorfindel: [snarls] More treachery this day. It is even as Idril said, he is Maeglin’s coward. [catches his breath] The Great Market is lost. Do not go that way…
Soldier of the Harp: Where is the rest of your troop?
Glorfindel: [gestures to handful of Elves with him] This is my troop. All that escaped with us have gone ahead to the King’s Square; we are perhaps half the number we set out with.... [ Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to steps leading up to battlements overlooking the Vale of Tumladen on one side, and the courtyard of Idril’s house on the other, the silvered lanterns and jewelled lamps still hang for the forgotten festival. Still carrying Eärendil, Maeglin drags Idril roughly up the steps and out onto the battlements. The cold wind sweeps through their hair and clamour of the battle is terrifyingly loud. Releasing his hold on Idril’s hair, Maeglin stands overlooking the battle, his features strangely softened by the eerie red light.]
Idril: [scathingly]Do you care nothing for your people?
Maeglin: [starts and turns] They— [jerks his free hand furiously at the dying Elves below with a gesture filled with contempt] —are not my people. They must all die, regardless. Otherwise, my name would be disgraced, and they would seek me in vengeance.
Idril: [struggling to understand] What do you mean?
Maeglin: [shrugs] I told the Enemy how to find Gondolin... I told Morgoth himself.
Idril: [horror-struck] You monster! Now I know why you changed so drastically since you were lost in the mountains! All of a sudden kinder and willing to join in the merriment of the people which you shunned for so long, yet all the time concealing your treacherous heart! [looks down upon the raging war, trembles with newfound rage.] That so many should die and so many should grieve…Why, Maeglin…why? What was your price?
Maeglin: You have scorned me, avoided me, and rejected me when I would have given you everything. How I craved to taste your sweetness, to make you mine by the bond of marriage and love. And yet, that Mortal stole you away from me. My life is laid in ruin, and yet all I want is you. Even now, my beautiful Idril, you are the only thing I can think of…. [smiles ominously] …and I will have you when all others are dead and gone.
[Idril gasps, turning deathly white. Suddenly, from below a wordless cry of wrath and fury sounds from a familiar voice. Camera angles down and we see Tuor below in the courtyard, his eyes taking in the scene above him, the banner of the Swan whipping elegantly in the bitter wind as Tuor's warriors crash among Maeglin's, who have been guarding the citadel. Maeglin looks down upon the courtyard and his expression changes from suffering to malice. ]
Eärendil: [lifts his chin defiantly, meeting Maeglin’s eyes] If you hurt my mother, Father will come and kill you…
Maeglin: [calmly] I will not hurt her, but you should fear more for yourself… [he draws a long, shining dagger from his belt.]
Idril: [screams] No!
[she runs towards him trying to save her son, but Maeglin strikes a hard blow to her head with the flat of his blade. Idril falls back against the parapet. Sobbing, she crawls on her hands and knees towards Maeglin. He raises the glimmering blade high to stab Eärendil, who is crying in terror and reaching in vain toward his mother... The blade plummets downward, seeking Eärendil's heart.
Suddenly, Eärendil twists his head, sinking his young teeth deep into Maeglin's hand. Maeglin doesn't cry out, but staggers, The dagger still plunges downward in a weakened blow, and glances harmlessly off Eärendil's hauberk. Eärendil wriggles to the ground. He runs to Idril, hugging her tightly. Maeglin turns to them, venomous with anger, and advances steadily toward where they kneel together on the ground, Idril shielding Eärendil with her body. Thinking that this is surely the end of them both, Idril tries to bury Eärendil's head in her shoulder, but he slips his head out of her grip and points behind her.
Eärendil: [in elation] Ada! [Idril looks up to see Tuor, a dire light in his eyes and a look of cold fury fixed on Maeglin. Sword in hand, he walks almost lazily towards the dark-haired Elf. Maeglin whirls round, sword in hand. Tuor’s first blow nearly overbears Maeglin, and he staggers slightly but parries it successfully; the rhythmic thrust and counterthrust of swordplay continues, each knowing the other means to kill him, both seeing the same determination in the other’s eyes; they fight on with dogged determination, equally matched in both martial skills and rage. Tuor is slightly stronger, but Maeglin has the greater agility of the Eldar. All around them the city is burning, the masonry cracking and crumbling in the heat of the fires. Suddenly something slams forcefully into Maeglin from behind, and he staggers forward, thrown momentarily off balance; before he can recover, Tuor grasps Maeglin about the wrist of his sword hand, and Maeglin barely has time to struggle before his arm is wrenched into an impossible contortion. With a dry crack, the arm is broken, and Maeglin's sword clatters to the floor. Eyes full of rage, Tuor loosens his grip upon Maeglin's hand, though holds him by the front of his tunic.]
Tuor: [grimly,] No…I will not give you a warrior's death, Maeglin. You do not deserve one. Instead, you will die as a traitor and a murderer dies, for that is what you are. A murderer, thousands of times over! [He pushes Maeglin backwards, up against the battlements overlooking the rows of sharp, jagged rocks below. Maeglin looks quickly over his shoulder, seeing the steep precipice below…we hear the words of his father in his mind:]
Eöl: [voiceover Here may you yet die the same death as I... [Maeglin goes slack in acknowledgement of his fate. With a feat of sudden strength, Tuor lifts Maeglin up over the walls and throws him over the edge, onto the blades of rock that wait below. Idril hides Eärendil's eyes and looks away as well, even though Maeglin falls soundlessly. His body strikes the slope three times, before being pierced by the sharp rocks. Cut to Tuor standing over his wife and child. Eärendil leaps to embrace his father, laughing with delight. Tuor smiles gently down upon his son, then raises his gaze to Idril. She tries to smile as well, but all she can do is weep as he clasps her to him. Fade.]
End of Episode
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There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes