Tales of East

Burden of Souls Part 5

The Valar had abandoned his people. They had refused Valinor to all the sailors he had sent. In return, he had refused to bow to Ulmo's warning. He had stood up for his people, his scattered kin, and his precious daughter. Why should his people have to leave their homes when the Valar offer them no alternative?

He had not given up the closest thing to a home he had offered to his kin. Increasing patrols, maintaining the secrecy to his very best, and making Gondolin Tirion on middle earth. He had done everything possible. He had done this all in the hopes of peace. Yet, he had failed and led his people to the very fate he had tried to shield them from.

Hence, he stood till the end. High King Turgon stood on his tower as he saw his daughter, Idril, leave with her son and her husband. Her red-rimmed eyes and trembling posture visible even from afar. He had failed again. He had failed to stay back with her. Somehow Turgon knew that in a few hours his daughter would be an orphan.

It was clear that the end of the House of Fingolfin had come. It had come just like the arrow that pierced Argon's heart on the icy planes of Helcaraxe, it had come just like Eol's poisoned dagger for his sister, it had come just like Gothmog's fiery Whip for Fingon.

Death or the thought of a never-ending void did not scare Turgon. Maybe in death, he would be free of his own judgment. Maybe Mandos' doom would free him of his own condemnation. He had felt it in his bones ever since that day in his father's study or before that.

It had been there way before that now that he thinks about it. Was it the day his father praised Fingon and left him wanting for the same? Or was it the day his mother had to stop reading him tales by his bed because little Aredhel would not calm down? He could not remember clearly but a persistent voice in his mind always whispered these thoughts in the calm of lonely nights.

It got better after he met Elenwë. The voices in his mind had vanished ever since Elenwë had graced his nights. The world that seemed to go on without him seemed to have paused for him to catch up. It was as if his life that felt titled off the axis was suddenly pushed back into its place. His grandmother had been so proud of his choice. The presence of another Vanya had made her feel at ease. In a way, Turgon could understand Indis' joy.

He and Elenwë had made a home in the bustling city of Tirion. It was not as lofty as the King's Tower in Gondolin. Yet, it was the house where they had made Idril, counted months before her arrival, and welcomed her into the world.

Ever since that incident during their time crossing Helcaraxe, Turgon had felt an unbearable yearning to be surrounded by the walls of that house. He had felt it when he held Elenwë's frozen body. There was no warmth in it. He tried to warm up the cooling corpse to no avail. A familiar sense of desperation from his childhood clouded his mind. It was so familiar just like the voices that had plagued his mind.

With a broken marriage bond and an infant, Turgon had crossed the unmoving ice of Helcaraxe. He hadn't just lost his wife; he had lost his youngest brother to the twisted creatures of Melkor. Somewhere along the journey, it seemed as if they had lost their father as well. They probably had lost Fingolfin the moment he had seen the first glimmer of fire from the nether shores. The world felt numb again. The numbness, however, did not take away the unrelenting grief. It followed him everywhere he went.

He had almost lost his mind when his eldest brother Fingon risked everything to rescue the High King Maedhros. It had been too dangerous. His father... how could Fingon do that to him? No, his father needed Fingon. He needed his eldest son to do what Turgon had failed to do all this time.

Turgon had panicked. The voices were drowned in his sobs. He had spent ten nights wandering the woods looking for any signs of his brother. Lingering whispers of doubt told him that his brother had been caught by the dark foe. Fingon, the brightest son of Fingolfin, had been twisted into the dark mutated creature likes of which had killed Argon. Turgon hated Maedhros at that moment. He hated his step-uncle for stripping away every semblance of joy from his life.

Fingon had returned. He had returned victorious like a shimmering hero. His brother had rescued the High King. He had done what Maedhros' siblings had not had the heart or bravery to do. His brother had gone to the stronghold of the dark lord when the rest of the Feanorians huddled in their forts. Fingon had once again made their father proud. And once again hope seemed to ignite like the Sun and the Moon that graced the sky.

Arda had been like that. It gave hope in the slightest form and then took it away without an ounce of mercy. A handful of joyful moments were sprinkled in the doom that Mandos had written in their fates. His father had died at the hands of Melkor, his brother died fighting the fallen Maia Gothmog, and his sister died at the hands of her husband. But Turgon lived.

He lived to witness all those moments. He had seen each one of his family succumb to the unknown. Over the year the voices had not quieted down. They had grown louder with every passing second. They mocked him every time his efforts to reach out to the Valar ended up in another shipwreck washed ashore.

Looking at the battered bodies of his kin, he could not help but feel that it had been all for nothing. They had no chance of peace. Not when they were forsaken by their own gods. In fact, it was one of those gods who had led to all of this in the first place.

He hoped Tuor would give his people the peace he himself had failed to give them. Yes... Tuor... even the Valar had blessed the child of the man who had wed his daughter. He would look out for everyone. He knew that with the certainty of a dying person.

His faith in Tuor had not been baseless. He had seen Hurin and Huor, the warriors of men, fight with courage unseen before. They had sacrificed themselves for the sake of him and his people. Turgon believed if Tuor had even a fourth of their valor, he would be successful in the task of protecting the Gondolindrim.

Flying drakes circled the towers while raining fire on Gondolin. Below him, he could see the surviving members of his house fighting thousands of foes that thronged the once-safe valley. Smoke from the dragon's fire blackened the sky and the gleaming walls of his city.

At once, he could understand what his father and his brother would have felt. With doom looking him right in the eye nothing seemed to scare him anymore. Was this the madness that the line of Finwe was known for? A crazed smile formed on Turgon's face as he saw the drake fly toward the king's tower.

If he were to die, he would rather die mocking death. "Great is the victory of the Noldoli!" King Turgon's scream rang loud in the valley overrun by chaos.

It was not the voice of a frightened elfling or a stubborn king. It was the voice of a frightening warrior. In the halls of Mandos, the spirit of Fingolfin had trembled on hearing his son's voice. For years, Fingolfin had repented in the hall only to hear the roar of his son's last words. A mixture of pride, grief, and anticipation gathered in Fingolfin's mind as he waited for his son to arrive in the halls. He had spent past years reminiscing about the days of the past.

He had caressed each memory with care and re-lived every one of his mistakes. Somehow, he had wronged his son Turgon. He had wronged him so terribly without even realizing it. Now the anxious spirit of a father waited in the solemn halls of Mandos. He waited for his son's fea.

Middle earth had been anything but kind to them. So, Fingolfin waited for his secondborn. This time he would look after his son better. Make sure that not even an iota of darkness lingers anywhere near him.

Buried under the debris of the collapsed tower, no one was aware of King Turgon's mangled body. There was no one left to lament the fall of the High King this time. There was no one left to honor the dead of Gondolin. No one was there to clean Turgon's bloody face as he counted his last breaths.

Unknown to anyone the king fell from his tower. His tower had collapsed on a discrete building behind the palace. A building not known to many. One that was built in extreme haste a few years ago. It had been a symbol of Turgon's revenge. The poisonous voices in his head had rejoiced at the very thought of that building.

High King Turgon had never visited the building. He had turned his face away from the child Glorfindel had carried from the battlefield. He had never bothered to listen to the child and his sole prisoner had never tried to plead with him either.

Now that, he looked at it. The cells shrouded in dark seemed so welcoming. It felt so peaceful devoid of the loud noise of Arda.

In the dark cell made by his orders, Turgon closed his eyes for the last time on the land of Arda.