[Envinyatar]

Not all memories are fair ones . . .

As the servants of Morgoth swept up the sheer sides of rock upon which the city rested, his kinsmen had been set along the walls, their great bows raining arrows upon the advancing horde. But it was not enough, strong though their bow arms be and deadly accurate their aim. There were too many of the foul creatures . . . the Orcs . . . the Balrogs which drove them with whips of flame . . . and the dragons upon whose piled up forms the forces of the Constrainer climbed like ants . . .

They had fallen back, defending smaller enclaves in the city . . . falling back further, still, until they stood before the King’s tower, but to no avail. Morgoth would have his day, his dark shadowed army pushing their way over all the fair city, until the bright tower of Turgon was crushed beneath their malice.

His father had ordered Ondomirë to retreat to the house of the King’s daughter. ‘She gathers some of our folk to leave the city. Your bow and blade must be there to protect them.’ He hurried, fighting those foe who would bar his way with a savageness that nearly matched their own.

There were only a few of the Gondrolindrim that had managed to make it to Idril’s house; and even less were the Folk of the Swallow who were counted in their number. It was a frantic Ondomirë who searched the faces looking for any of his own family. There were none . . . no sisters . . . no children of their children. And those he spoke to, his voice barely under control shook their heads, their already sorrowful eyes turning away from his new grief.

Another of the warriors grabbed him as he had turned, thinking to make his way to his family’s houses. ‘All of Gondolin is burning now. None remain save the dead who bear witness to Maeglin’s treachery and even now their spirits gather in the Halls of Mandos. This is the last of the seed from our city. Come! We will see it to a fertile and more fair ground.’

Ondomirë recalled his last sight of Gondolin. The Tower of the King was in flames, matching the smaller fires set about the city. Hideous cries of triumph echoed in the smoke-reeked streets, replacing the sweet sounds of the fountains now stoppered up with the dead and dying. His eyes, that had begun to tear up at the understanding of all that was lost, now dried up, too. He put away the memories of faces he had loved; walled away the grief that would have slain him with its sharp blade.

And all these many years he had spent a warrior in the service of Gil-galad . . .

Gally’s chubby little hands tugged hard at Ondomirë’s braid. The little one’s eyes glittered mischievously and laughter, bright and melodious, as ever poured from the fountains of his youth played round the older Elf. A name came unbidden to Ondomire’s lips. ‘Rusco!’ he said aloud, causing the small boy to look up at him for explanation. Ondomirë smiled, holding the wriggling boy at arms’ length. ‘I knew a little foxling, just like you,’ he laughed, tucking Gally against his hip, his arm protectively about him. ‘He pulled my braid, too. Though your grip I think the stronger of the two!’ He looked down at the little one, his face set in a half serious look. ‘And do you know what I would do to him?’ Gally’s eyes went wide and he shook his head ‘no’. ‘I would tickle him!’ Peals of laughter issued forth as Ondomirë put action to words.

‘Enough!’ Ondomirë said, after a short while. He sat down, sitting Gally on the grass near him. ‘And who’s this?’ he asked, noting Isilmë had let go of Losrian’s hand and come near them. On her face was a certain longing to be included, though her shyness held her back. He patted another area on the grass, inviting her to sit near. Gally had already clambered up to sit on his knee and was clapping his hands.

‘Shall we play a little game? To pass the time until supper is ready?’

Ondomirë picked up a small pebble and put it in the middle of his left palm. Closing his fist over it, he hid the hand and his other behind his back and spoke a little nonsense rhyme. When it was done he pulled out both his hands to the front and showed the closed fists to the two children. ‘Pick the hand that has the rock and get a sweet if you find it.’ Little known save to his horse and the cook who kept him supplied with boiled sweets, Ondomirë always had on him a little tin of the sugary confections; a small, hidden weakness, of sorts. When neither of the children made a choice, he nodded to Losrian.

‘Perhaps your auntie will show you how to play.’ He grinned at her, his brow raised, and offered his closed fists to her. ‘Come . . . make your choice. There are sweets to be had.’