Tianwen·Magweth Pengolodh

The gates of the Gban creaked, and the orcs we had cut down like sick sheep fled to make way for new and stronger horrors.First came a veritable pack of wargs, howling and rushing, eager to taste our blood.We archers have our hands full, and as we draw arrows, the Balrog arrives.Twice the height of elven warriors, these ferocious demons wield flaming whips.Just to the side where the silver and black banner of Maedhros flew, chaos suddenly broke out.His elven armies were busy defending themselves against attacks from their so-called mortal allies on the other side.Turgon bellowed to Húrin, and they both affirmed the loyalty of all Húrin's men.

It is said that we would have won if the enemy had been only Orcs.And I will say that even against Wargs and Daemons, with such fury, we can still win.But the dragons came out for the first time in that battle, and they spit fire on us like they sweep up fallen leaves.In front of them, being fully armed means death.Mightiest of them was Glaurung, whose scales were like dull brass, and reeked, and grinned, and his wicked voice echoed on the battlefield: "Fool, dare you defy the King of Arda! The meat of your three races is just a tooth sacrifice for me." As soon as I heard Glauron's laughter, I couldn't help but feel fear in my heart.The stench in the abattoir became unbearable, and a darkness clouded my heart.That was the power of Glaurung in its heyday.When I recover, I don't have time to observe the general situation of the battlefield, so I can only be busy defending myself.We have sacrificed so many that even I drew my sword.My sword skills are not great, but I survived.

Finally, I realized that our army of Gondolin was separated from the main body of the elf army, and was forced to retreat steadily.We held our formation as best we could, and gathered around our lords—Duilin with his great bow, Exelion with his crystal-encrusted shield, and Glorfindel the blond and Maeglin the black, and Turgon—his brother Fingon was slain, and he was High King of all the Elves, and the host that pursued clamored for his head.

When we came to the foot of the Pass of Sirion, someone hoarsely called for archers to protect the generals for a meeting, and we staggered past.By then, more than half of Turgon's army, my comrades in arms, had died.There I heard Hurin's voice for the last time.He spoke for his people and urged Turgon to leave and defend our Hidden City for the hope of all peoples.The debate at the time was more intense than is usually recorded in much history.The final consensus is that Hu Lin and the mortals of Dor Romin led by him will be responsible for breaking the rear, and if possible, they will follow us to withdraw.Then Húrin advised Turgon that it would do Gondolin nothing but good if they ever allowed another Wanderer into the city.

I don't know if Turgon intends to open the gates to admit the mortals who survived the rear line.Because, you know, none of them survived.

They held back the black tide and fell one by one behind us.Our generals were obliged to use their authority to force the retreat of the people of Gondolin, for we heard Hurin's mighty cry in the echoes of the pass, and the cry of Huor's anguish when he died was heard in our ears.Afterwards, like the doomsday bells, his cry continued: "Aurentuluva! The Light must come again!"

Even when we were retreating, we couldn't help trying to hear his cry.It contains all the hope and all the despair, and it encapsulates the great sacrifice of all the good mortals that day--they gave up the short life and rushed to embrace their destiny.The troops at the end of us were still holding out hope, for we could still hear that loud and distinct cry, until there was this echo:

"Aurentuluva! Aurentulu—"

The cries of valor turned to cries of pain, then were drowned in the howls of trolls and the furious howls of Balrogs.It was the sound of ecstatic celebration from the dark side.Hurin was knocked down.

Instead of looking back to listen, we retreated quickly, with tears in our eyes—the first we shed, and many more to come after that terrible day.

Hu Lin intended to sacrifice his life, but he did not die.Those great legends tell that he was captured by Morgoth, and forced to sit on an enchanted chair.His punishment was to watch from there the doom that befell his kin and family.That's a long story, unfortunately.It is said that he was set free when he was old and hunchbacked, and that the sharpness of a hawk gave way to the sharp and pugnacious cunning of a crow.From his subsequent experience, I can at most say that he saw the woman named "Elf Brilliance" again, buried her in a tomb, and finally committed suicide by throwing himself into the sea.His soul is free from sorrow at last, and we elves are destined to endure the coming of the Dark Ages.The brief acquaintance of our two races lightened the burden of our respective fates, though as short as the noonday sun.

****

At this time, desserts on silver plates and iced drinks in goblets had been delivered, and the nobles listened, sipped and chewed.After Pengolod fell silent, they clapped politely.

Startled, Pengolod came back to his senses.He talked so deeply that he almost lived through that terrible moment again.

Minas Tier nodded: "A splendid example indeed. Through Hurin we can all see that even then mortals admired and sacrificed for the Elves."

Cirjatan added: "Father, indeed. I am glad that mortals were famous even then for valor in battle, though we have but one life to live even now." He told Pengolod The other side bowed slightly, "Master Elf, thank you for your teaching. Since I have been reminded of my fate of mortal death, if you don't mind, I am going to make the most of this beautiful summer night. Laurin Kui Ma'am, will I have the honor of asking you to walk with me in the moonlight?"

"Lord Cirjatan, of course you do. There's one thing about his story that I don't like." Laurynqui pouted, pointing her chin towards Pengolod. "He admitted that he was afraid."

Cirjatan laughed heartily. "Ma'am, what's that? That just means he did fight, and the stories he told were true, more true than many." He glanced at Pengolod ——Is the gaze mocking, or understanding?Accompanied by two other maids, they walked out of the hall proudly and gracefully.

Minastir seemed pleased with Cirjatan's last words: "Lord Pengolod, you see, my son didn't mean anything when he questioned you earlier. You know, now that the festival is over this week, , we sometimes get less formal. I think I'll take Cirjatan's advice. Enjoy tonight. Honey?" He held out his arms to his wife and ordered the following servants, "Go to Queen's Moon Hall." Everyone present stood up and left one after another, and the servants saw that tonight might end earlier, so they began to clear the table with relief.The social hour of the night was apparently over.

Pengolod hadn't touched the last dish because he kept talking.He left the food on the table and went to his room.He was dazed at remembering the sad events, and he was tired, as if he had been working for a week—he had been busy for a week.Minas Tier may have been honored to have an elf by his side, but he filled Pengolod with various roles at his whim—sometimes counselor, sometimes guest of honor, with increasingly onerous nightly bard quests .Between the reverence of Minastir and the arrogance of Chirya tanks on the one hand, Pengolod felt painfully that he had become the focus of friction between father and son.

The stories he told brought back all the war weariness that had driven him from Middle-earth in the first place.He knew Húrin, he had heard Húrin's dying cry.Such a detailed description is like reliving that moment.Only tonight did he understand the restlessness Húrin had felt in Gondolin—what it was to be revered for too long as an alien.He looked out, looking at the beautiful scenery under the moonlight, but was unhappy.Kirjatan was right.what am i doing here

Before he had time to think about the reason, someone cleared his throat behind him.He turned to see a servant of the king standing there, holding a tray of sweets and a crystal goblet of iced drinks. "Your Excellency, here is a snack for you," he said. "Shall I put it on the table?"

Pengolod just watched him as he did so.He was not here attracted by emissaries from Minastir.He longed to eat common meat in Alfwine's shop again, drink Romenna's red wine, and talk about it all with his friends.Would Alfwine notice that many people died in his stories and ask him if he knew any of the war dead?He'd hoped so, but maybe not.Yet from his past experience of telling stories at that mundane table, he was sure that Alfwine would wait until he too had finished his meal for the day before asking, like a host and an equal guest, rather than one. A nobleman who lets his servants take care of his guests and only cares about his own entertainment.

Pengolod noticed that the sleeves of his white robe were turning gray due to the constant movement of hiding his hands, and getting dirtier every day.He frowned.Sending the clothes to be cleaned will attract more hospitality from Minas Tier.