AU: Turgon dies on the Helcaraxë instead of Elenwë, Elenwë becomes queen of Gondolin, Gondolin still falls. Warnings for character death ^^

The sky above the Hidden City was a dull red, stained with black smoke, the sun setting in a wrack of tortured clouds above the mountains. Below, on the plains, the gleam of dark metal was dimly visible through the thick haze, choking smoke from the burning land rising and clinging to the white walls.

Aredhel's sword was heavy in her hands, her every step painful––they had beaten Morgoth's hosts back from the gates an hour ago, but with heavy loss. There was a steady pain beating somewhere below her right hip, where her armor was crushed inwards; the bloom of red there was worrisome, but she couldn't afford to worry about that now.

She stumbled over to the edge of the battlement, where a blonde elf leaned over the ramparts, her helmet tucked under one arm and silver armor shining fire-red in the light slanting through the western clouds. Elenwë's sword was unsheathed and lying on the rough stone in front of her. Her eyes were fixed on the hosts outside her city, waiting to destroy them all.

"Your majesty," Aredhel began, and Elenwë interrupted with a quiet, bitter laugh, whirling to face her.

"No, not of this, not of a dying city, Iressë." She gestured to the flames on the horizon. "How much longer until their next assault?"

Aredhel joined her at the edge, resting her elbows on the stone and burying her face in her hands. "An hour at most. Egalmoth thinks they're waiting for night to fall." She looked up at Elenwë, tried again. "Your M––Elenwë. There's no way we can hold the city, not again, we don't have enough soldiers––" Not enough bodies to throw in front of the Orcs, not enough swords and shields and soldiers with beating hearts, there aretoo few of us, and nothing we can do––

"Hold it," Elenwë whispered, and her voice was too low for Aredhel to tell if it was an order or merely an echo. Then, louder: "This was supposed to be a safe place."

"It was a safe place." And was no longer, and in some ways that was entirely her fault––Maeglin had betrayed them, had been the one to lead Morgoth here––

(And the pain on his face when he fell into her arms, sobbing as he had as a child, mother, I'm sorry, he hurt me and I couldn't––but he had told her, had begged for forgiveness, and Elenwë was not her former husband, would not throw a repentant traitor from the mountainside.)

Elenwë nodded. "Where is Maeglin?" she asked, as if she had read Aredhel's mind, but there was no blame there, no bitterness. Aredhel sighed.

"Standing before the doors, waiting for the first Orc to batter its way in." There had been a desperate, violent light in her son's eyes (and she had nearly called him by another name, when she saw him with that black sword in his hands) and she knew her son would not return, could not allow himself to return.

We will all die, and he wishes to pay for what he did. Is that so wrong?

(Yes, yes it is, he is my son––)

"Iressë?"

"Yes?"

"When they––when they break in, and they reach the palace––" Elenwë met her eyes, stark need mingling with difficulty there, and Aredhel wanted to take her in her arms, hold her and tell her it would be alright (but that would be a lie, and they both knew it). "I want you to take Idril and anyone else you can find and leave."

"Elenwë."

"Don't argue with me, Iressë, I am your Queen." Elenwë drew herself up, eyes flashing, hand clenched around the hilt of the sword that still lay on the battlement. "I cannot allow everyone to die. Some portion of my people must escape."

"You can't possibly expect me to just leave you––"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you to do. There's a passageway through the mountains, you know the one." Elenwë clasped Aredhel's hand, desperate. "Idril and you can lead them out, Iressë, please."

"Then you come with us," Aredhel pleaded, feeling her slipping away––the distance in Elenwë's eyes, the same as in her son's, the same as in everyone's that had ever left her.

"And leave my city undefended?" Elenwë shook her head. "It is my duty as Queen to defend this place until my last breath. I will not leave here."

She opened her mouth to protest, to tell her that there was no need, that no one expected her to stay and fight for a city that had fallen a long time ago, had been doomed to fall since Turgon had begun building it, but there was something in Elenwë's eyes that made her stop.

She knows that already.

"Elenwë," she whispered, reaching out and clasping Elenwë's hand in hers, noting distantly that she was smearing the queen's skin with blood and grime. "I––I will protect your daughter." And Idril would be a wonderful queen, but she rather thought Elenwë knew that, too.

"Thank you." Elenwë rose up on tip-toe and pressed her lips to Aredhel's, the kiss brief and tasting of bitter loss. Below, there was a great explosion, the fire of Morgoth's forces battering at the city gates and breaking them, the silver and steel splintering into a million shining shards of what once had been.

Her son was already dying, she knew, and all the rest with him.

(And the last time she had lost so many had been that day, her return, when the spear meant for her son had struck her brother and she had known what that spear could do but it was too late––and she had spat in Eöl's face when he had begged her for leniency, and never once looked away when he fell.

She could see the black flood rushing up, spiking iron and guttural cries reaching up even here, and heard the soft click as Elenwë lowered her visor. When she turned back, she could see the soft glint of blue through the bright steel.

"Go," Elenwë whispered, and there were footsteps on the stairs now, a horde approaching. Aredhel almost stopped, almost threw herself in front of her queen (would have died for her, wanted to), but instead turned and darted up and out, towards the looming mountains behind the palace, pain shooting through her leg with every step.

The world was blurring around her, and she cursed under her breath and swiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She only encountered one Orc on her way up, and that one fell before it had time to level its axe at her, but she could hear more coming up behind her.

She cannot hold them for long, a soft, cold voice in her pointed out.

Elenwë would hold them for as long as she could, and take down many when she finally fell. That knowledge did not comfort Aredhel in the least.

Idril was waiting on the mountain, just outside the passageway, with her hand on the lever that would bring a hundred tons of rock crashing down to block the way out. The last of their people was filing into the passage, following each other down into the blackness.

"Are you coming?" she asked, and Aredhel found herself shaking her head.

"I'll cover your retreat."

Idril nodded, then turned and followed her people into the passageway. Aredhel waited, hand on the hilt of her sword, watching the Orcs below approach.

I will not leave you, Elenwë. You can order me from your presence, but I will not desert you entirely.

The first of the Orcs had gained the mountainside ledge, snarling and brandishing a black spear. She knocked it aside with one gauntleted arm and it fell from the cliff, screeching. The ones behind it paused, daunted by this, and she spat, "Afraid of one lonely elf, are we?"

The foremost Orc snarled and started towards her, its companions following suit. She took a step back, groping for the lever on the wall beside her with her free hand and felt the ground rumble, earth and stone crashing down behind her and burying the entrance to the passage, a cloud of dust rising about her.

She drew her sword and pointed it at the next wave of Orcs, and the one behind that, and below that, the city she had always hated burning with the one she loved.

This one's for you, Elenwë.

The first Orc fell in a spray of black blood, sinking down and twitching at her feet. She shouted to the ones below, furious and terrified and no longer truly caring if she died, because by now there was nothing else left.

"Come and get me, spawn of Morgoth!"