Tuor arose in the morning and saw the waves had ridden upon the land. Tuor looked down from the terraces to the doors and saw leaning against its wall among the stones and sea-wrack an Elf clad in a gray cloak sodden with the sea. He sat silently, gazing beyond the ruin of the beaches at the long ridges of waves. The last stars were fading in the West, and it was a cold gray morning with no sound but the sea.
Tuor remembered the words of Ulmo and a name untaught came to his lips. He called to the silent figure.
“Welcome, Voronwë! I await you!”
The Elf turned and looked up and met Tuor’s glance. His eyes were a piercing sea-gray and Tuor knew beyond doubt by those eyes that he was one of the Noldor. But fear and wonder grew in the Elf’s gaze at the sight of Tuor in his great cloak under which elven-mail gleamed. They stood searching the face of the other and then the Elf stood up and bowed low.
“Who are you, Lord?” he asked. “Long have I labored in the unrelenting sea. Tell me: Have great tidings befallen since I walked this land? Is the Shadow overthrown? Have the Hidden People come forth?”
“No,” Tuor answered. “The Shadow grows and the Hidden remain hid.”
Voronwë paused and asked again, “But who are you? Many years ago my people left this land and none dwelt here since. Despite your raiment you are not one of my people as I first thought, but are of the kindred of Man.”
“I am,” Tuor said. “And are you the last mariner of the last ship that sought the West from the Haven of Cirdan?”
“I am. Voronwë son of Aranwë, but how you guessed my name or business I do not understand.”
“I know because the Lord of Waters spoke to me yesterday and said that he would save you from Osse and send you here to be my guide.”
“You have spoken to Ulmo the Vala!” Voronwë cried. “Great indeed must be your worth! But where shall I guide you, my lord? You must be a King of Men and many wait upon your word.”
“No, I am an escaped thrall and an outlaw. There are none to wait upon my command. My people have been enslaved by the cruel Easterlings. But I have an errand to Turgon. Do you know by what road I may find him?”
“Many are outlaw and thrall in these evil days that were not born so. I deem that you are a lord of Men by right, yet even if you were the highest of all your folk, no right have you to seek Turgon. If I believed that you were truly sent by Ulmo and I lead you to the Gates of Gondolin, it would all be in vain. You could not enter in.”
“I do not ask you to lead me further than the gate,” Tuor said. “There Doom shall strive with the Counsel of Ulmo. As for my right to seek Turgon, I am Tuor son of Huor and nephew of Hurin. Those names Turgon shall never forget and am commanded by Ulmo. Will Turgon forget the words spoke long ago: Remember that the last hope of the Noldor comes from the Sea? When peril is near one shall come from Nevrast to warn you?”
Tuor was amazed again, for the words rolled off his tongue at their own accord. These words were known only to the Goldorim. Voronwë was even more astonished and he looked to the Sea and heaved a sigh.
“I wish never again to return to Gondolin,” he said. “I have vowed that if I ever set foot on land again, I would dwell at rest far from the Shadow or by the Havens or maybe in the fields of Nan-tathren where the spring is sweeter than heart’s desire. But if what you say is true, then I must go to my people. I will lead you to the Hidden Gates for the wise will not gainsay the counsels of Ulmo.”
“Then we shall go together, but mourn not, Voronwë. Far from the Shadow your long road shall lead you and your hope shall return to the Sea.”
“And yours also,” Voronwë replied. “But now we must leave it and go in haste.”
Tuor smiled and was about to give his thanks, but Voronwë sped away. It was difficult to keep to his tireless pace.
“Where shall you lead me and how far? What of the coming winter?”
Voronwe refused to be lucid and said only, “You know the strength of Men. As for me, I am of the Noldor and long must be the hunger and bitter the cold to slay one of those that crossed the Grinding Ice. I have a store of way bread and if you desire something with more protein, you may doubtless as an outlaw and hunter find it soon enough.”
“Maybe,” Tuor said. “But hunters tarry on the road.”
After some time the travelers decided to rest. Voronwë might have continued on, but Tuor needed to rest. They sat wrapped in their cloaks and spoke much together. Voronwë was very curious about him, and so Tuor told him everything. His fostering by the Elves of Mithrim, the long years spent in hiding in the Caves of Androth, his years in slavery, his escape, and his years spent searching for the Gate of the Noldor. When he mentioned Arminas and Gelmir, Voronwë laughed.
“Those two are known to me,” he explained, “Though if you were to ask others of them, they would not know who you were talking about. They are Noldoli, but they have traveled further than even the most footsore messenger. I suppose the best way to describe them would be to call them wayward adventurers and explorers. You will find one in Nargothrond and the other in Doriath, but they are most often together upon the road. They are never at rest. Perhaps they think if they searched throughout Beleriand, they could discover Gondolin too and then they could say they have dwelt in all Three Hidden Kingdoms. They will tell you if you ask them that they do Círdan’s work, whatever that is. Círdan is not a king or lord, only a mariner, and yet it seems to me that he has secret dealings with Ulmo perhaps, or the other Valar, and he sets great events in motion behind the scenes. They might not have been able to lead you to Gondolin, but I have a feeling that those two know much more than they let on.”
“I sensed as much. Arminas seemed like he was willing to tell me something, but Gelmir would never let him.”
Tuor questioned him about the road, but Voronwë was silent and would not speak of it. Tuor did not press the matter. Voronwë spoke more about the Havens and the land of reeds near the Mouths of Sirion.
“There the numbers of the Eldar increase. Many flee there in fear of Morgoth and are weary of war. But I did not leave my people by choice. Turgon sent out a few of his people to the Mouths of Sirion. There they built many ships, but when Turgon learned of the sacking of the Havens that lie away before us by the Enemy, he sent out new messengers. That was but a little while ago, yet it seems in memory the longest portion of my life. I was one of those few that he sent, being young among my kin. I was born here on the rich soil of Middle-Earth in Nevrast over two hundred years ago. My mother was akin to Cirdan himself- there was much mingling of the people then-and I therefore have inherited the sea-heart of my people. My father was Aranwë of the House of Fingolfin.
“Our errand was to Cirdan to seek his aid in ship-building so that some message or prayer for aid may come to the Lords of the West before all is lost. I tarried in Nan-tathren, for lovely to heart’s enchantment is that land, Tuor. There is the cure for sea-longing, save for those that Doom will not relinquish. There I might still dwell if Doom would only let me be, or Ulmo maybe. I built a raft of will-boughs and floated upon the bosom of the river Sirion and I was taken. A sudden wind bore me away down to Sea. I came last of the messengers to Círdan and of the seven ships that he crafted for Turgon all but one were full-wrought. And one by one they set sail into the West and none have returned and no news of them has been heard.
“The salt air stirred the heart of my mother’s kin so when the last ship was ready, I was eager to be gone. I thought if the words of the Noldor are true, in the West there is beauty beyond compare nor is there withering nor end to spring nor Shadow. But the Great Sea is terrible, Tuor, and does not love the Noldor. It may cause worse than sinking into the great abyss of water and so perishing. There is loathing, loneliness, madness, terror of wind and tumult, silence, and shadows where all hope is lost and all living shapes pass away. Many shores evil and strange it washed and islands of danger and fear infest it. I will not tell you of the seven years I spent at Sea. For in despair we fled from the doom that had so long spared us only to strike out from a place of strength and cruelty.
“As we espied the mountains of Taras the wind awoke and clouds of thunder came from the West that is shut against us. The waves hunted us like living beasts intent upon some malicious purpose. But I was spared, for a wave, greater and yet calmer than all the others lifted me up from the ship away and rolled to land. It cast me upon the turf and drained away, pouring over the cliff in a great waterfall. I cannot explain what happened.
“I had been there night an hour when you came upon me dazed by the Sea. Still I fear it and feel the bitter loss of my friends that had been with me so long and far beyond sight of mortal lands. But bright were the stars and at times the clouds of the West were penetrated. Whether we saw only remote clouds or glimpsed the mountains of Pelori, I do not know. Far, far away they stand and none shall come there ever again, I deem.”
Then Voronwë sighed and Tuor again pressed the matter of the road, but the Elf was silent, for night had come and the stars shone white and cold.
Voronwë roused Tuor soon after and set out upon their long journey. None saw them, for the shadow of Ulmo was upon them. Voronwë chose their path and Tuor followed, asking no vain questions but noted they went eastward and never south. He became puzzled, for he believed the rumors that Gondolin was hid far from the battles of the North.
At the end of an arduous night, they halted in Narog. Voronwë looked about in grief and dismay. Where once the fair pools of Ivrin had lain with trees they saw a land burnt and desolate. The trees were uprooted, the stone marges of the pool were broken so that the waters were gone. A reek of decay rose like a foul mist.
“Alas! Has the evil come even here?” the Elf cried. “Far from the threat of Angband, yet Morgoth gropes ever further.”
“It is as Ulmo said,” Tuor said softly, understanding at last some of what was spoken to him. “The springs are poisoned and my power withdraws from the waters of the land.”
Tuor and Voronwë could not bear to remain near the ruin of Ivrin and sought a hiding place. They did not get much sleep, and the night brought only grinding frost. The Fell Winter had begun so the companions were tormented constantly by the snows. For nine days they endured slowly and painfully. They came to the stream of Malduin and discovered it had been frozen black.
It was long since the wanderers found any food in the wild and the way bread was not going to last much longer. They needed it now more than ever, for they were always cold and weary. The bite of the Fell Winter was beginning to tell even on Voronwë, one of the Noldor.
One day they awoke to find themselves covered in snow. Tuor shook himself of the evil ice powder and threw snowballs at Voronwë to rouse him.
“Death is near to me if not to you,” he said angrily.
“It is ill to be trapped between the Doom of the Valar and the malice of the Enemy,” Voronwë answered, still buried in snow. “Have I escaped the jaws of the Sea only to lie under the snow?”
“How far is Gondolin?” Tuor asked. “You must forgo your secrecy with me. Are we going straight and where? If I must spend my last strength, I would know to what avail it would be.”
“I have led you as straight as I safely could,” Voronwë said after a long pause of thought and he rose out of the snow. “Turgon dwells in the North, though it is believed by few. We are near his city now, but we still have many leagues to go.”
“I thought myself the hardiest of Men once, and I have endured many winters’ woe in the mountains, but I had a cave at my back and fire then. I doubt my strength to go much further. Let us go as far as we may before hope fails.”
“We have no other choice,” Voronwë replied, “unless it were to lie down here and seek the snow sleep.”
They toiled on, thinking that they would rather face the servants of the Enemy than the fell winter. As they went they found less snow, and suddenly they were aware of voices. A company of Orcs were encamped in the midst of the road, huddled about a wood fire.
“Now the sword shall come from under the cloak,” Tuor muttered. “I will risk death for that fire and even the meat of the Orcs would be a prize.”
“No!” Voronwë said. “Only the cloak shall serve. This band is not alone. I can see the flames of other posts. You might bring a whole host upon us!”
Tuor ascended to his feet and Voronwë sprang up and tackled him. He was much stronger than he looked and Tuor was completely caught off guard.
“Hearken to me, Tuor!” the Elf said harshly. “It is against the law of the Hidden Kingdom for any to approach the Gates with foes at their heels. I shall not break it neither for Ulmo nor for death. Rouse those Orcs and I leave you!”
“Then let them be,” Tuor answered, brushing him aside.
“Follow me.”
He crept away and then stood a while listening intently.
“I hear nothing moving on the road, but I do not know what could be waiting for us in the shadows.”
“I have strength left only for the shortest road,” Tuor said breathlessly. “You and I must trust to the mantle that Ulmo gave to me. Now, for once, I will lead!”
He seized Voronwë and stole to the border of the road. The Elf argued relentlessly until Tuor clasped him close and cast the mantle over them. Then suddenly the wind paused and a cry rose up. A horn was winded and there was running feet. They had been scented and the hunt was on.
“You have roused them!” came Voronwë’s muffled voice.
“We have not been spotted yet!” Tuor replied.
Desperately he stumbled and crept up a slope and into a bracket with Voronwe at his side. They spoke no word and panted like tired beasts. Tuor drew Voronwe close as the cries of their hunters grew faint and he slept. Voronwë climbed out from under his arm and watched over him until there was no trace of the Enemy. Then he led Tuor on, still angry.
“That was a near miss,” he said. “Without the mantle of Ulmo, we would have been found!”
“At least then I might have grappled for a fire.”
Voronwë was about to argue more and suddenly laughed, “Well it is a good thing that you did not!” he pointed to the North. “For there is the Echoriath and the Eagles guard the air above us. At our feet is the road.”
The road went up an inclination and Tuor stumbled many times on stones until he almost lost his temper.
“If this is a road, it is an evil one for the weary!”
“It is the road to Turgon.”
“Then I am even more amazed. It lies open to anyone! I expected a great gate and guard!”
“That you have still to see,” Voronwë corrected. “This is but an approach. I said road, but none have passed it for more than three hundred years. Would you have known it was the way to Turgon if you did not have me as your guide? You would have passed it by, and it is not unwatched. Thorondor keeps constant vigil to it. If we were Orcs, we would have been scooped up by his folk and cast down upon the rocks.”
“Will no news reach Turgon of our ‘approach’ sooner than us? If that is good or bad, you alone can say.”
“Neither will it be good or bad,” Voronwë said. “We are not Orcs, but we shall need a better plea than that to convince the Guard to let us pass. Then we shall see the power of Ulmo. It is in that hope that I agreed to socour you, and if it fails then surely we die more than by all the perils of the wild and winter.”
“Death in the wild is certain for us and death at the Gate is still in doubt. Lead me on still!”
He led him to a shallow cave and there they ate the last crumbs of food and wrapped themselves in their cloaks and still could not sleep. Then they crept back into the Dry River and crawled under brambles and came to the feet of a cliff and entered into the opening. There was no light, but Voronwë knew the way. Tuor put his hand upon his shoulder, bending a little. The roof was low and uneven. They went on little by little and then Voronwë halted in his tracks and listened. Not even a drip of water could be heard.
“Where is the Guarded Gate?” Tuor whispered. “Have we passed it already?”
“No, but it is strange that we have come so far unchallenged. I fear some stroke in the dark.”
But even though they whispered, their voices echoed in the great space and as they died, Tuor heard a voice speak through the darkness first in the High Speech and then in Sindarin.
“Do not move!” it said. “Or you will die be you friend or foe!”
“We are friends,” Voronwë answered.
“Then do as we tell you.”
Their voices echoed and then were silent. The companions were still and Tuor was more afraid of the unending silence than anything he had faced on the road. Voronwë was not breathing.
At last there came the tramp of feet and a brilliant star pierced the darkness and Tuor knew it was only the beam of an elven-light. He was in a paralysis of fear while the light held him.
After a moment, the voice spoke again, “Show your faces!”
Voronwë cast back his hood and his face shone in the ray of light as if graven in stone and revealed his beauty.
“Do you not know who you see?” he said proudly. “I am Voronwë son of Aranwë of the House of Fingolfin, or have I been forgotten in my own land after so few years? I have wandered far beyond Middle-Earth and faced the perils of the Sea, yet I recognize your voice, Elemmakil.”
“Then you will also remember the law of your land,” said the voice. “Since you departed it by command you have the right to return, but not to lead with you any stranger. By that deed your right is stripped from you and you are to be led as a prisoner to the king’s judgment. As for the stranger, he shall be slain or held captive by the judgment of the Guard. Lead him here!”
Voronwë led Tuor to the light and many Noldoli stepped out of the darkness and surrounded them with drawn swords. Elemmakil looked at them with a look that was both intent and wistful.
“This is strange of you, Voronwë,” he said, shaking his head. “We are old friends. Why then would you be so cruel as to set before me this choice between the law and our friendship! If you had led any other of the other houses of the Noldor, that would be enough, but you have brought a mortal- one of alien kin- instead! He may never go free knowing our secrets. I should slay him even though he may be your friend and dear to you.”
“Dear?” Voronwë mused. “I should think not. He is rather boorish and has only complained upon the road…”
He teased a smile from Tuor, despite their predicament. Elemmakil and the others were not amused in the slightest.
“But in the wide lands many strange things may befall you and you may be given tasks unlooked for,” Voronwë became grave again. “What I have done, I have done under command greater than the laws of the Guard. The King alone should judge me and him that comes with me.”
Then Tuor’s fear vanished and he spoke up at last, “I come with this Elf because he was appointed to be my guide by the Lord of Waters. I bear from Ulmo an errand to the son of Fingolfin and to him alone will I speak it.”
Elemmakil was, of course, astonished and asked, “Who then are you? From where did you spring?”
“I am Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador and kindred of Hurin. These names are not unknown in the Hidden Kingdom. From Nevrast I have come through many perils to seek it.”
“From Nevrast? It is said that none dwell there since our people departed.”
“It is so yet I came from there. Bring me now to Turgon.”
“In matters so great I cannot judge,” Elemmikal admitted. “I will lead you to the light where more will be revealed and I will deliver you to the Warden of the Great Gate.”
Therefore he led them through the ancient six gates to the seventh and newest gate, called the great, the Gate of Steel that Maeglin wrought after his return from the Nirneath. No wall stood there but two towers of great height, seven stories. Between them was a fence of steel that would not rust but glittered cold and white. There were seven pillars of tall steel ending in spikes with cross-bars of steel between. In the center was an image of the helm of Turgon set about with diamonds.
Elemmakil struck upon a bar and the fence rang. Riders answered from the tower and strode toward them. At their head was Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountains and Warden of the Great Gate. He was clad in silver and was one of the highest and noblest lords of Gondolin.
Elmmakil saluted and said, “I have brought Voronwë Aranwion returning from Balar. Here is a stranger that he has led here and he demands to see the king.”
Ecthelion turned to Tuor and drew his cloak about him and stood silent. Voronwë glanced at Tuor, for it seemed his stature increased so that the peak of his hood towered over that of the helm of the Elf-lord. After a long silence Ecthelion spoke very gravely.
“You have come to the Last Gate. No stranger who passes it shall ever go out again save by the door of death.”
“If the messenger of the Lord of Waters go by that door,” Tuor answered, “then all those that dwell here shall follow. Lord of the Fountains, do not hinder the messenger of the Lord of Waters!”
All those that stood there marveled at Tuor and the words of his voice. Voronwë heard a great voice emanating through him as though from far off and Tuor felt that he was only listening to someone else speaking. Slowly awe filled Ecthelion’s face and went to the fence and laid his hands upon it. The gates opened inward and Tuor passed through.
Upon either hand stood a host of Gondolin. All the seven kinds of the Seven Gates were represented. Tuor’s cloak fell away so that they all could see the hauberek and shield and sword that they had all seen as Turgon set them upon the walls of Nevrast years ago.
Ecthelion said, “Now no further proof is needed. Even the name he claims as son of Huor matters less than the truth: That he comes from Ulmo himself.”
Then Ecthelion gave orders for the sounding of the signal and trumpets were blown on the towers of the Great Gate that echoed in the hills. Then came an answer from the trumpets of the city walls. Ecthelion dismounted his gray horse and offered it to Tuor and Elemmakil brought another for his friend Voronwë. The guard surrendered his horse to his superior Ecthelion.
“I understand that you wished to see the king,” the Lord of Fountains said. “Now you shall have your desire. Thus far Voronwë has been your guide. Now I shall lead you to the throne as your guide, if you will have me.”
“Lead me on!” Tuor answered.
Then they rode to Gondolin. The streets of that city were paved with stone curbed with marble and fair houses and courts amid gardens of bright flowers. There were towers slender and beautiful that rose to heaven and carved of white marble. Squares were lit with fountains and there were many aged trees where birds flitted about.
The greatest of the fountains was that which stood before the king’s palace. The tower was the loftiest and the fountains shot twenty seven fathoms into the air and fell in a singing rain of crystal. On either side of the doors were two trees, one of gold and the other silver, images of the Trees of Old. Their names were Glingal and Belthil.
As Tuor stood before the fountains, the Royal Family stood upon one of the great balconies. A swift messenger had been sent to alert them that someone of great import was on their way for an audience. This was their first glance of the man making such a fuss in Gondolin. Turgon, Maeglin, and Idril stood together and gazed down as Tuor and Ecthelion made their approach.
“He wears the armor of Nevrast,” Idril said. “That can only mean one thing, father. He is Ulmo’s Messenger. I fear for Gondolin and her people.”
“Oh, Lady,” Maeglin placed his hand over hers, “Do not be troubled. The armor proves nothing. We must never be so quick to assume that. He may have stumbled into Nevrast and taken the armor by chance. Or he could have even stolen the armor from the real messenger.”
“I doubt that,” Idril said, pulling her hand away.
Turgon laughed, “That indeed would have been Ulmo’s mistake if he sent out such a poor messenger that would have the indecency to die upon the road and robbed. I have no doubt this is the long awaited messenger, but who is he?”
Tuor stopped before the great fountain, admiring the beauty of it. Ecthelion told him that it was custom to drink of the waters and ask for Ulmo’s blessing before entering the king’s tower. Tuor removed his helm and filled it with water from the fountain’s pool and drank. He was terribly thirsty from his long journey. He had never tasted such sweet water. Then he filled the helm to the brim and poured the waters over his head. At once he felt refreshed in body and spirit.
Idril watched his movements very carefully, as did Turgon and Maeglin. As soon as he removed his helm, Maeglin, with his sharp eyes, realized what he was. He gave out an outraged cry.
“A Man!” he said the word as though it was a curse. “There must be some sort of mistake. Why would Ulmo send us a human? It cannot be so!”
“Ulmo does not make decisions without careful thought and with purpose,” Turgon replied. “If his messenger is human, then I would call that strange, but not unlike Ulmo. He loves the Second born and the First born alike.”
“He is tall with golden hair,” Idril said with a smile upon her face. Though her eyes were not as far sighted as Maeglin’s, she could make out most of Tuor’s features. “He bears the resemblance of the House of Hador. They have always been friends to both the Eldar and to Ulmo. He is taller than even Ecthelion! He might be the tallest person I have ever seen.”
“He will be here soon. Let us be ready.”
Turgon left the balcony. Maeglin turned to follow him and realized Idril had not yet moved. She continued to watch Tuor, forgetting everything else in that moment. He looked familiar to her. Maeglin waited a moment for her to remember herself, but he grew impatient and could not understand why she would look so long at a man. He began to feel annoyed and angry but did not quite know why, not yet. He placed a hand on her shoulder, startling her.
“Dear, Idril,” he said, “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. Forgive me, I will be right there.”
To his surprise, she was blushing. He found that very odd. He had never seen her cheeks color before, and of course, it made her look beautiful. He left the balcony but glanced back to make certain she was on her way. She gave Tuor one last look and followed after Maeglin. She was anxious to see the Messenger of Ulmo much closer.
At last Tuor stood before Turgon son of Fingolfin and High King of the Noldor. Upon his right was Maeglin his sister son and on his left was his daughter Idril Celebrindal. Turgon appeared as the tallest child of Iluvatar, save Thingol, and he was robed in white with a belt of gold and a sword in an ivory sheath.
“Welcome, Man of the Land of Shadows,” he said in greeting. “Your coming was set in our books of wisdom and it has been written that there would come many great tidings in the homes of the Golodrim when you were to fare here.”
Ulmo once again set power in Tuor’s heart and majesty in his voice. “I am bidden, father of the City of Stone, by him that makes deep music in the Abyss, and knows the mind of Elves and Men, to say to you that the days of Release draw near. There have come whispers to the ears of Ulmo of your city upon your hill against Morgoth and he is glad, but his heart is wroth and the Valar are angered seeing the sorrow of the thralldom of the Noldor and Men. Therefore, I have been brought by a secret way to bid you number your hosts and prepare for battle or gather your people and flee down Sirion to the Sea, for the time is ripe.”
Then suddenly the mantle of Ulmo that Tuor had carried so long and so far vanished.
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