Stories
It was a sorry group that fled
from the battlefield that day. Things had gone ill from the very
beginning. Aranwë Gidarion had stood with thousands of others in
the host beneath Turgon’s banner on the dread plain of Anfauglith
before Thangorodrim and waited patiently for the signal of his
commander to begin the impossible assault. Well, maybe not impossible -
they had allies that were supposed to attack from all sides and take
the enemy host from two sides with another allied host approaching from
the south. It was for word from the last mentioned that they waited,
and waited. But the signal had never come. Maglos, their ally, as full
of fire and vengeance as his father, had given the signal to charge
nonetheless and they had descended on their enemy like the Wrath of the
Valar themselves. Aranwë smiled grimly at the memory – it had felt
glorious in that moment. The fire of battle had burned in his veins as
hot as in any other on the field that day. But soon they found out that
what seemed a surprisingly small army was but a fragment of what
Morgoth had hidden and they found themselves outnumbered a hundredfold.
All seemed lost, their host reduced to Turgon with maybe three dozen of
his personal guard including himself when a breach was ripped through
their foes – like a storm, Húrin and Huor raged with their
soldiers amongst them until, in a second of respite, they met Turgon on
the field and they advised Turgon and his forces to retreat while able
to do so. They would defend them and prevent Morgoth’s soldiers from
following them as well as they could. The two men knew that it likely
meant their and their men’s deaths, but they were willing to pay the
price for they said that in Turgon “lived the last Hope of the Eldar,
and while Gondolin stands, Morgoth still shall know fear in his heart”.
And so, in the midst of battle, the small group passed like shadows
unhindered towards the Fen of Erech and finally back to Gondolin.
But Aranwë found no peace within the great city. The Noldo roamed
restlessly through the forest of Neldoreth, haunted by memories of the
battle, and finally found his way to the Havens where Círdan the
Shipwright ruled. That was now less than a year ago and for a short
while the Havens knew a semblance of peace. Then news had come
to Círdan of a massive Orc host approaching with foul machines
and siege weapons and in haste he sent seven ships out into the west to
request the aid of the Valar … but no help had come from there. Merely
the announced force arrived with death and fire and despite desperate
defense and valorous deeds not many had escaped, although rumour said
that amongst those who did was Círdan and Ereinion Gil-Galad,
Orodreth’s son. Aranwë himself, like
hundreds of others, had been captured
and enslaved, now toiling under in the Orcish mines.
A cruel tug on his chain recalled Aranwë to where he was and,
flinching under the whip lashes of the task master, he was driven to
one of the mine shafts that while wide enough to move in didn’t allow
for much air circulation, especially with up to twenty labourers every
one and a half metres with a cloud of dust and debris around them. He
praised the Valar that he was a Noldo who had first wandered to Valinor
from Cuiviénen and then survived the Crossing of the
Helcaraxë, so hardship, suffering and physical labour were no
stranger to him. Were it not for the constant whipping, the scarce food
and the taunting of the Orcs it wouldn’t even have had much effect on
his spirits. But – different from many others who had been born in
Middle-earth - he held the memory of the light of Valinor and the words
of courage that Húrin spoke there on that fateful battlefield.
They gave him hope and inner strength and never the light in his eyes
grew dimmer. And so, when he saw the light fade in the eyes of his
fellow slaves, Aranwë told them in quiet whispers about Valinor,
the Two Trees, the courage displayed in battle and thus upheld his
fellows. That had to happen in secret of course – had their captors
known about this, Aranwë was sure, he would have been “selected"
as “Guest of Honor” for one of the sacrificial rites in honour of
Morgoth. That happened now and again; always the weakest and most
desperate slaves were selected for those and that fuelled the righteous
fury of the Noldo.
After uncounted weeks and months Aranwë knew he had to do
something about their situation. He could see his people suffer no
longer and started to devise a plan, with cunning he didn’t know he
possessed. He learned, through shrewd and hidden observation,
where the taskmaster kept the black powder, when and who were brought
into the mines to open new tunnels. With a few other like-minded
prisoners in which the fire still burned or had been re-awakened by
himself, Aranwë managed to accumulate a not small storage of the
vile stuff. Then, one day, the time seemed perfect. Since most of the
guards normally present at the slave encampment were away on a raid in
one of Morgoth’s wars and only a small group of orcs went with them
into the mines, Aranwë himself gave the thumbs up and set off an
explosion. Carefully planned, he let himself be buried under a few
rocks feigning injury and his fellow conspirators alarmed the guards.
The moment they were in the tunnel, the captured Elves were upon them
and used the rocks piled on Aranwë as weapons, who in no time was
back on his feet and joined in the fray. The Orcs, completely surprised
and unprepared for the events, were sent to the Long Halls of Waiting
faster than they expected. Their armour was taken and their weapons
found new owners. Now four of the conspirators donned the armour and
took the guards’ places. Aranwë jumped back into his role as
“injured but re-usable" slave and was half dragged, half carried back
to the hovels that served as quarters. Because of his weight and his
stumbling gait their path led zig zag through the camp during which
they gathered more weapons and bits of armour. The remaining guards of
the camp didn’t suspect anything – they thought their “colleagues” were
just “having a bit fun” with an uppity slave. They were soon to learn
how wrong they were. Once weapons and armour were distributed among the
Noldor, they outnumbered the guards by far and managed to overwhelm
them easily enough. Inwardly jubilant and burning with their newly
regained freedom, the Noldor (about 300 of them) blocked the two main
tunnels of the mines so that the Orcs would have to clear away the
rubble if they ever would hope to use them again and fled south.
The first fire of freedom and heat of battle passed quickly enough and
despair wanted to take hold of the refugees, but again it was
Aranwë who held up their spirits. Where it was necessary, he took
the hand of individuals that seemed to need comfort the most while he
spoke to them. Eventually he started to reach into himself without
thinking much about it and pour warmth into the mind of his opposite
who, soon afterwards, felt renewed and with new courage, plodded on
over the dread waste of Nan Dungortheb. They reached a swiftly flowing
river that was identified by one of them as the river Nindab, which
they took as guide. Endless miles they marched through the wild forest
of Brethil and the Marshes of Sirion. No-one can say what the survivors
of the slave mines suffered on that long march. Eventually they
followed the secret narrow path that led down past the falls of Sirion
and in a last effort came into the green forest of Nan-tathren and the
wide river delta that formed the mouth of Sirion. But as they finally
reached the shores of Avernien near the Bay of Balar, the ragged party
was spotted by a scout of Master Círdan, Lord of the Isle of
Balar, who signalled to send a ship with supplies and saw them to the
safety of that blessed spot.
As the leader and initiator of the daring journey it fell to
Aranwë to report to Lord Círdan and Prince Gil-Galad. At
the end of the report Gil-Galad looked long into Aranwë’s eyes.
“Something is different about you, my friend; the fire that burned hot
in you once grew into a warming light. Am I not right, Aranwë
Gildarion?”.
"Yes, Sire, how do you know?” Aranwë looked in surprise at
Gil-Galad.
The Elven Prince smiled at him knowingly. “I can sense it, Aranwë.
I can sense it because I have felt it before. What changed it if I may
ask?”
"Words of courage, Sire, words I heard spoken upon the field of
Anfauglith spoken by Húrin of Dor-Lomin to your kinsman Turgon -
that and the memory of Valinor in the first days that I saw there. That
kept me going, and kindled the flame in others.” Aranwë
smiled humbly at Gil-Galad, the exhaustion showing in his face.
The Elven prince’s face lit up. “My heart warms at your words, my
friend. I can see a future for you in this and your gift will be direly
needed in the time to come. Rest now, my friend, but this I promise to
you – this was but the start of your career”
The End
Sources used:
The Silmarillion by J. R. R.
Tolkien , chapter “Of the fifth battle”, English paperback edition 1999
published by Harper Colins
Map of Beleriand in the back of the German Hardback Edition “Das Silmarillion, Hobbit-Presse/
Klett-Cotta Verlag, 9. Auflage, 1989
Characters: Ereinion Gil-Galad, Aranwë Gildarion
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