Fundraising Challenge - The Hobbit

Fallen

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Everywhere Turgon looked, he was there.

 Every frightened face, every soot-streaked surcoat...

 Turgon gritted his teeth and gripped his sword a little tighter.

 How could he?

 How could he?

 His blade flashing in the cold night air, the Elf-king left a trail of death behind him such as never had been seen.

 Goblin, orc, troll... all fell before his rage, all fell as swiftly and sweetly as corn before the thresher.

 He sang loud and long as he slew- a song of gore and guilt and grief.

 His men had begged him to go, but he had ignored them.

 They had all had his face.

 How could he leave Gondolin when he was still alive?

 The sword struck left and right, up and down, back and forth...

 Eventually the Elf-King lost count of how many lives he ended.

 All that mattered was victory now- victory and vengeance.

 A goblin ran screaming at him- it had his sister-son's face.

 An orc shrieked as he ran it through- it had the voice of his own flesh and blood.

 A troll writhed beneath him, coughing up black blood as he twisted mighty Glamdring in its throat- the beast had the eyes of his betrayer.

 His city burned, but Turgon did not care.

 He was a whirlwind of horror and havoc, bright blade craving slaughter as it carved through the foe.

 All that mattered was finding him.

 All that mattered was blood and fire and rage, death and madness and revenge.

 Dimly, he was aware that his people ran- that they fled, that they abandoned him in his hour of need.

 He did not care.

 Still the sword flashed bright and bloody in the flames of the fallen city, still it cut left and right and up and down and everywhere, still it proved a deadly whirlwind as his city thrashed and screamed and died around him.

 Suddenly, the Elf-king had a moment of respite- he never knew why.

 Suddenly, he was free from battle and bloodshed.

 A moth fluttered before him as he drew his sword from the riven skull of yet another goblin, and he was entranced.

 He knew he should not care- knew that such beauty was denied to him, he who had let fall the great and glorious Gondolin...

 ...but still he marveled.

 The moth flickered and flapped in the dancing flames of his city, and suddenly the Elf-king knew his folly.

 He was beaten- his people were beaten- they had always been beaten.

 Gazing at the moth, he dropped to his knees, entranced.

 Nothing was perfect, nothing was pure...

 In his mind's eye he saw the whole world burning as the Black Enemy rose in triumph over it all from horizon to horizon, cacophonous laughter bringing all of Ilúvatar's song crashing to a hideous, hateful end.

 Hot tears ran down his face, but he felt them not.

 It was useless- even he, mightiest of his race was corrupted, abandoned, betrayed...

 Something roared in the distance, huge and hateful, and Turgon lifted his head one final time.

 Was this it?

 Was this the moment that the Black Enemy finally struck him down, or was this where he would finally find redemption, absolution, retribution?

 Was this...

 An agonizing bolt of pain lanced through him from behind.

 The Elf-King gasped in horror and slumped to his knees, agog at the cruel black blade now jutting from his chest and piercing his heart.

 This was not fair.

 This was not right.

 This was not...

 Turgon's head drooped, and his goblin assassin screamed with glee.

 Falling to his knees, the Elf-King coughed up mouthful after mouthful of bright red heartsblood.

 This was not fair.

 This was not right.

 He tried desperately to regain his footing- tried desperately to stand and fight one final foe more, tried desperately to at least die on his feet- but the goblin twisted the sword in his back, and he fell face-first into the blood-and-ash-and-tear-streaked flagstones, his blade- mighty Glamdring, the Foe-hammer itself- clattering forgotten and forsaken from his grasp.

 He who had been mightiest of all his kind, of all his kin…

 Now he lay gasping like a landed fish as his blood pooled forth around him, slain by treachery and trickery, by faithlessness and foulness...

 The goblin planted a foot on the small of his spine before twisting the knife again, cackling loud and long as it did so….

 …and it did so with Maeglin's voice.

 The Elf-King's vision faded to black, and as it did so all of creation grew a little darker.

 So fell Gondolin.

 So fell Glamdring.

 So fell Turgon.


This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

   
   
   

In Challenges

Story Information

Author: Aruthir

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 06/15/13

Original Post: 01/25/13

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