What happens when a Predator visits Middle-earth during the Fall of Gondolin?
Spoiler
Gondolin burned like a funeral pyre, the orange glow casting long, flickering shadows across once-pristine streets and thoroughfares. The air was thick with ash and despair, choking every breath as Ecthelion of the Fountain staggered forward, silver armor bloodied and battered from countless blows, his pale face streaked with soot from the raging inferno. Blood seeped through rents in his surcoat, marking where Orc and Troll blades had found their mark earlier in battle, when the two sides had slammed together like opposing thunderheads. The Lord of the Fountain moved with determination, grim and unyielding, driven by love for his city and its people, something far more powerful than pain or fatigue. He would defend Gondolin today—he would protect the Fountain—ere his last breath and the call of Mandos. With each step, the hulking form of the dread foe loomed larger, towering and vast in the fog of smoke and embers billowing and swirling about the Noldor lord. Yea, it was he—the High-Captain of Angband, Lord of the Valaraukar, its demon-claws wrapped around the haft of a colossal axe, the length of an Elf, blade's edge smiling at him, glowing like molten steel. Yea, it was he—Gothmog, slayer of Feanor, bane of Fingon, doom of two High-Kings of the Noldor. The Balrog towered between Ecthelion and the hallowed Fountain, heart of the city, where clear waters still flowed, their music pure and defiant even in the face of the ruin wrought all around. If the Fountain were violated, so too would the spirit of Gondolin be defiled—and with it, perhaps all hope for the future.
Ecthelion paused, steadying himself on weary legs. His shield hung heavy on his left arm, marred, soot-stained—but intact; his sword, Orcrist, gleamed faintly in the firelight, its razor-edges nicked but still lethal. He clutched its familiar grip tightly in his right hand, his grasp firm despite the weariness that started to weigh upon him. There could be no hesitation. There would be no retreat. He felt the pull of destiny—this was where he needed to be, here, now: protecting the King's Square, a final stand at the Fountain—his Fountain—against the greatest foe he would ever face.
***
High above, a strange being—a Hunter, but not of Beleriand, nor Arda—crouched on a jutting, blackened buttress, face hidden behind a gleaming metallic mask. The Hunter was ancient even by the standards of its long-lived race, an individual so honored he had earned the right to walk other planes. The Hunter watched the scene unfold below. The segmented armor strapped to his massive frame creaked as he shifted his weight on the outcrop. It was clear to the Hunter that this would not be like other battles he had witnessed today—this would be a contest of true champions, representing forces innately opposed to each other. These paragons would vie for supremacy and so walk the Path of the True Dominator. The Hunter found it difficult to look away. The smaller—much smaller—champion was in appearance not unlike some of the ooman warriors stalked by his people in ages past. But that appearance was deceptive. This silver-armored warrior possessed a combination of speed, strength, and toughness far exceeding that of any ooman. Earlier, he had spotted this warrior wielding its blade with a skill as graceful as it was utterly lethal, but now, to the practiced eye, the warrior's movements betrayed the creeping fatigue of prolonged struggle, accumulated wounds.
The other champion belonged to a species unlike any the Hunter had ever laid eyes upon. A hulking brute, it seemed to be composed of nothing but shadow and flame—swallowing light, radiating the heat of a furnace and the malice of a demon. What biochemistry or strange physics made this possible—was a mystery. But the Hunter had no trouble understanding this: the impending clash would shake the very foundations of this strange white city burning amidst snow-capped peaks.
***
Ecthelion circled Gothmog, his boots crunching against broken flagstones. The enemy shifted its stance, tracking him, watching him—almost beckoning him to come. Tension crackled between them, and then the Lord of Balrogs split the air with a demon's roar that would have cowed lesser warriors. Ecthelion charged forward with a sudden burst of speed, Orcrist flashing in the firelight as he angled a thrusting strike at Gothmog's midsection, testing the demon's defenses. The axe swept down like a meteor, tracing an arc of fire through the air, the speed impossible for its size. Ecthelion pulled his blow and leapt desperately aside, narrowly avoiding death before the battle was even begun. The Noldor lord rolled, and then sprang in from the side, slashing at his foe's exposed flank. The blade sliced across Gothmog's hide, drawing a howl of fury. Glowing ichor, like liquid fire, sprayed from the wound, sizzling as it hit the ground. Even so, the beast's counter-stroke was almost instant. The flaming axe came thundering down with such force that Ecthelion barely managed to raise his shield in time. The impact sent shockwaves through his arm, nearly knocking him off balance.
As they traded blows in the dance of life and death, Ecthelion knew his shield-arm had been damaged, jarred, likely fractured. He ignored the pain and fought on, his strikes quick and calculated, each one aimed at bleeding Gothmog, weakening the demon to exploit vulnerabilities later. Yet the Balrog's strength was overwhelming, and it had already made Ecthelion pay for his aggression. Every swing of its axe threatened to sunder steel and shatter bone. Sparks flew as Noldor steel struck against demon-iron, each clash ringing out like a bell tolling over a dead city. Ecthelion ducked under a horizontal swipe, rolling to the side and coming up behind Gothmog. In one fluid motion, he flicked Orcrist toward the inside of the Balrog's knee, hoping to impede the demon's mobility. The blow failed to bite deep but caused his foe to stumble. Seizing the chance, Ecthelion lunged again with Orcrist, aiming for the demon's torso. Gothmog twisted away, the tip of the blade raking a gash across Gothmog's lower chest, rather than plunging in square.
Enraged, Gothmog unleashed a flurry of attacks, each more brutal than the last, as if fury lent each blow ever greater power and speed. Its axe carved through the air in a flaming blur, forcing Ecthelion to duck, to dodge, to roll. Then came a blow as Ecthelion righted himself, blood and sweat mingling on his brow. The axe struck down like a lightning-bolt. Ecthelion had to use his shield, a thing of beauty—but also durable, as only the finest Eldar craftsmen could produce. Against Gothmog's axe, it was not enough. The blow obliterated the shield in an explosion of burning fragments; Ecthelion cried out as his shield-arm broke beneath the impact, completely useless now. Gothmog pulled back, the furnace doubling as its fanged maw twisted into a malevolent sneer. Sharp pain shot through Ecthelion's arm stabbing into his chest, but the Lord of the Fountain gritted his teeth and forced it down, dropping the shattered, smoking remnants of his shield to focus entirely on his sword, Orcrist, goblin-cleaver—and cleaver of Gothmog ere the day was done. Left arm hanging limply, his right gripped Orcrist tightly, guiding it with a surety and practiced skill honed over centuries—nay, over millennia—of relentless drilling.
In the corner of his eye, Ecthelion saw the beginning of a sweeping backhand that would bisect him below the waist if he did not move. He leapt forward, over the lateral arc of the blow. The demon had overcommitted, could not pull back in time. Ecthelion powered forward, Orcrist's counter aimed at the Balrog's midsection. The blade sank deep into demon-flesh, eliciting a roar of pain. But the cursed thing was quick, so very quick—Gothmog kicked out, catching Ecthelion in his cuirass, sending the Lord of the Fountain sprawling. He landed hard on shattered flagstones, Orcrist skittering out of reach. For a brief moment, he lay there, stunned, as the High-Captain of Angband advanced, raising its axe to finish him. Summoning every ounce of strength, Ecthelion rolled to the side just as the axe came hurtling down, embedding into the ground where he had been a moment before. As he rolled, his hand found Orcrist. The Lord of the Fountain would not die swordless. Scrambling to his feet, he crouched back into fighting stance, but his stamina was waning—his speed bleeding out. He could not sustain this much longer.
The Lord of Balrogs clutched his abdomen. He had slain many Elves this day, countless foot-soldiers, several of their captains, hacking them down, burning them as they screamed—their gleaming banners he trod into the mire of their blood. But this Elf-lord had hurt it, and more than once. Even so, he had wounded this Elf more than it had wounded him. Now the game was drawing to a close. This victory for Melkor would be savored. After agonizing death, this Elf, this Noldor, would supply its skull for tribute to the Dark Lord. Gothmog advanced implacably toward his prey once more; the flames of his axe flared into greater hunger, anticipating the blood and pain to come.
***
From his vantage point, the Hunter had keenly followed the course of the duel below him. Combined with his earlier observations, it confirmed his understanding of those fighting in this alien city of white stone. The silver warrior and his comrades fought with discipline, courage, and a sense of unity. Their movements were coordinated, their strikes deliberate, their sacrifices made without hesitation. They carried themselves with dignity and resilience, even in the face of overwhelming odds. These humanoids radiated nobility, honor-bound to protect their home and people, no matter the cost. In stark contrast, the forces commanded by the shadow of living flame—these were inherently vile and sadistic, especially the small ugly creatures that attacked in hordes and fled from stronger opposition, unless they were funneled by hulking, leathery-hided humanoids or lesser kin of the flame-wreathed shadow locked in combat below. This vile army seemed to revel in unnecessary cruelty, especially against the weak. The shadow-champion itself exuded malice and hate, every swing of its axe carrying the intent not just to kill, but to maim, humiliate, and terrify. Like the forces under its command, the shadow delighted in chaos and destruction, savoring the screams of pain and death, even those of unarmed females and juveniles unlucky enough to stumble into its path. This was not hunting or even war—it was craven, the deliberate butchering of the outnumbered and the defenseless, slaughter for the sake of slaughter.
The Hunter felt what his kind called Paya's Bond with the silver warrior. Yet, he also sensed the inevitability of the outcome. The warrior was nearing the end of its strength, and the demon-thing's power seemed insurmountable. The Hunter was unsure whether to intervene. Yautja tradition frowned upon stepping into the battles of other species, but the Hunter was an ancient of his kind. Over centuries that grew into millennia, he had seen things that made him question the absolute wisdom of tradition. Still, he understood that a warrior could yearn for glory in death as much as in victory. To rob the silver warrior of such fate might be seen as dishonorable. Yet still, there was honor, and there was justice...and there was also something else—a subtle pull, an inexplicable urge that whispered to him, urging him to act. Was it the will of Paya, the Shining Warrior, or simply his own instincts guiding him? He did not know, but the feeling was undeniable.
***
Ecthelion heard the sound of his own labored breaths reverberating inside his silver helm. He was nearing exhaustion. Gothmog had pressed him with a flurry of axe-strokes, and he had dodged them desperately, trying to slip in a few counterattacks when he could. But he was too slow now; the result of a poorly timed attack would be fatal. In truth, Ecthelion was unsure whether the demon-lord was pulling some of its blows, toying with him cruelly, allowing him to live longer so that he would be worn down, tired and weak enough to be captured or tormented. Another axe-swing, another, and then Gothmog feigned a clumsy overhead, drawing Ecthelion into a parry. As he raised Orcrist to block, the demon turned its grip and lashed the axe sideways, too fast for the Noldor lord to evade. The glowing blade cleaved into Ecthelion's sword-arm, severing muscle and tendon, but not following through to sever his limb. Ecthelion cried out in agony as Orcrist fell from his grasp, leaving him unarmed and seemingly defenseless. He stumbled back—this was the end then.
Perhaps it was folly to think he could best the High-Captain of Angband, but the Lord of the Fountain regretted nothing. Out of loyalty and love for Fingolfin, he had willingly departed Valinor, braving the shattered ice-wastes with his Noldor kin, slaying the fell servants of Morgoth under a night-sky illuminated by a million glittering stars. He had gasped in astonishment and wept in sorrow and awe when he learned of High-King Fingolfin's mighty deed. He had mourned for Fingon the Valiant after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He had transferred all of his love and devotion to Turgon and the City of Gondolin, even moreso when the former was crowned next High-King of the Noldor. If presented with the same choice a hundred times over, love would have driven him to the same decision every time. He regretted nothing.
So Ecthelion would not relent; he could not give up. Every breath, every step he yet took was for his People, his City, his King. His arms were stricken: one completely shattered, and the other in agony after the kiss of a demon-axe, veins burning with liquid fire. He was without shield, without sword, but he not without blade of a kind. The Lord of the Fountain had not lost his helm, which meant he could still drive a metal point into accursed demon-flesh. The High-Captain of Angband was powerful, but it was arrogant, which bred carelessness. Its back was to the holy Fountain, where cool waters might quench even the demon-flames of a Balrog. Ecthelion tensed every muscle of his body, legs bracing for a final charge and then a leap; his survival was secondary to the damage he could inflict before falling.
***
To the Hunter above, the silver warrior's intent was clear. It planned to drive the spike on its helmet into the shadow. If it connected, it might even topple the demon-thing backward into the waters behind it. A desperate gamble, one that would surely result in the warrior's death—but it might also end his foe. If the warrior were a Yautja, this would be a mighty deed, worthy of song and recorded with honor. But the Hunter sensed that for the warrior, this was not about glory, but the desire to defend its home, to protect its brethren from torture and extermination. The Hunter made his choice.
***
Something huge and heavy struck the flagstones between Ecthelion and Gothmog, like a boulder falling from the sky with earth-shattering force. Ecthelion gazed upon a towering interloper, startled by its sudden appearance. The figure was clad in strange, segmented armor the color of dark moss—wielding some sort of double-ended spear, twin-blades wickedly serrated. Like something designed by Orcs but crafted with the skill of gods. Unfamiliar runes, etched into the stranger's armor and its weapon-haft, glowed ruby-red, and its hair was strangely thick and tendril-like, snaking from the back of its head and adorned with gleaming metallic ringlets. The stranger must have stood a head or two taller than the Noldor lord, but even so, it—whatever it was—paled before the monstrous frame of the Balrog Lord. For a moment, time itself seemed to freeze as the Balrog and the newcomer faced each other, sizing each other up. Then, without warning, the ends of the newcomer's spear suddenly crackled with black lightning and exploded into motion, whirling with impossible speed.
The strange spear, more like a halberd, clashed with the Balrog's axe, sparks flying as blades coursing with dark energy smashed against black iron wreathed in demon-fire. Gothmog roared in frustration, swinging its axe in a wide arc, but the newcomer dodged with fluid grace, evading the attack and countering with a thrust of its halberd: a jagged blade found home, drawing a spray of burning ichor as it pierced the Balrog's side. Gothmog retaliated with a torrent of strikes, each carrying enough force to shatter stone. Flames pulsed from the demon, engulfing the square in waves of heat. The stranger pressed forward, undeterred. His movements became faster, more aggressive, as he relentlessly pressed the Balrog Lord. With a deft twist of its wrist, the stranger conjured some sort of spell upon the halberd, causing its crackling blades to blur and hum, as though trembling at furious speed. The weapon became a smear of black lightning as the stranger swung it in wide arcs, forcing even the High-Captain of Angband to retreat momentarily. Gothmog's eyes now burned with hatred as it regarded this interloper. With a great sweep of its axe, it forced the stranger to leap back, imposing more space between them. The demon sprang forward then, infernal axe carving through the air, the flaming blade meteoric in its descent.
The stranger met the charge head-on, its halberd moving with preternatural precision. Two blows—one driven by alien sinew, the other by infernal fury—collided in midair, an explosion of sparks showering the combatants. The stranger gave ground, twisted away before the demon's advance. Then the battle renewed in earnest, as the ground cracked and splintered under the fury of the blows being exchanged. Gothmog was relentless now, pushing the stranger back step by step, and then the demon let loose an ear-splitting roar. A wall of searing heat poured forth from its fanged maw, a concentrated blast-furnace threatening to cook the stranger where he stood. But it leapt impossibly high, somersaulting over the Balrog, its halberd slashing downward in a vicious overhead strike that bit deep into the demon's shoulder, drawing out a yowl of pain. The maneuver was not without cost. By the time the stranger had landed, Gothmog had twisted around, predicting where the stranger would be. The Balrog Lord had anticipated this. It unleashed yet another furnace-roar with a heat and fury beyond the last.
***
The thing of shadow and flame was quick, far quicker than anything its size had the right to be. It fought with a bestial fury tempered by malevolent cunning. When the Hunter landed after striking from above, he did not expect the demon-thing to twist around so quickly. The heat wave carried on its roar struck him full-on. It was as if he stood at the mouth of a plasma thruster, the sound and fury and heat snapped his battle-focus, staggered him for moment that seemed to stretch on endlessly. At this distance, a moment of vulnerability would be enough for the demon-thing to end him with its massive axe. But he wondered why he felt no blow. Then the demon roared again, but this time in pure pain. When he snapped back into focus, the Hunter saw that the silver warrior, legs twined about the demon's own thigh, had plunged its helmet-spike into the demon's flank. The thing stumbled, the armored weight of the warrior dragging down its leg. Bellowing in rage, it lifted its axe high to cleave the stubborn warrior refusing to let go. But the Hunter knew a window of opportunity when he saw it. He pounced toward the hulking demon, propelled by legs able to launch him forty feet into the air. The tip of his glaive punched straight into the demon's chest: the glowing Yautja runes etched along the haft flared brightly as the vibro-blade cleaved deep into the foe's center of mass. Dark plasma that had crackled along the blade was now writhing and detonating inside the demon's body.
***
His strength flickering, Ecthelion let go as Gothmog released a deafening howl melting into a shriek. Those windows within the King's Square that had so far survived, now shattered explosively, sending shards flying through the air. The stranger wrenched its weapon from the Balrog's chest, blade trailing an arc of burning gore, as if tearing out the heart of a black sun. The High-Captain of Angband convulsed, and then for a brief instant, the demon flared brighter than a star, illuminating the square in eye-searing light—but just as suddenly, the light seemed to implode, sucked back into a dark core of hatred and unlight, before the Balrog's entire frame dissolved into smoke and embers; they wafted in the air to be quickly swallowed by the choking miasma.
Silence fell over the square, broken only by the distant cries of battle and the whoosh and crackle of a city in flames. Ecthelion on his knees, tipped over to his side, his strength finally giving out. He heard footsteps crunch toward him, and then the stranger loomed over him. It was wearing a fearsome battle-mask, like the sturdy warriors of Belegost were wont to do...but design was strange, radiating an otherness that had no place on Arda. Ecthelion could not see the true face behind it, but felt a warrior's gaze bore into him, weighing him, judging him. The wounded Noldor lord managed to sit up, and then struggle to his feet. It was a struggle with his damaged arms, but he willed himself to stand.
His savior was huge, towering over him, but in the manner of a fellow warrior, not a monstrous beast. It reached to its hip and drew forth a dagger of strange design, two tines with harpoon-like serrations along the outer edges. It balanced the weapon on its clawed palm. The gesture was universal: take it. Ecthelion slowly reached out his sword-arm. With Gothmog's defeat, the agonizing burn crippling that limb had greatly receded, although there was still much pain. He took the proffered blade, and instinctively knew the proper thing to do next. With a shaky, bloodied hand, he removed his helm; blackened ichor still coated the once gleaming spike that stood atop it. He made a similar gesture, and the stranger took his helm. It looked at it, then looked at Ecthelion, before inclining its masked head. The stranger then looked the Lord of the Fountain up and down once more, before spinning on its heel, back turned, walking into the battle-fog.
"Wait!" Ecthelion called after it, "You have my thanks, friend. But who are you? What are you?"
The stranger stopped, and turned to face Ecthelion again. A swirl of embers and smoke billowed between them. The massive warrior thumped a gloved fist against its chest, standing tall and proud—then its fingers danced swiftly across a strange, chirping vambrace, before it simply melted into the air. Ecthelion's keen eyes thought he could still see the warrior's outline, but exhausted in both body and mind, he was not sure if it was real or imagined.
The Noldor lord sank back to the ground, surrounded by ruin, his mind reeling. Who—or what—had intervened? What manner of being walked Beleriand unseen, wielding weapons beyond mortal ken? One of the Maiar not known to him—some lieutenant of Morgoth which had rebelled against him? No, it could not be...and why had it chosen this moment to act? He heard the sounds of battle emanating from the direction of the King's Tower. He needed a few more moments to gather strength, and then he would seek out other survivors—see how he could continue to aid the city's embattled resistance. Even in his dire condition, he would still be of use: he could feel flesh and bone knitting together even in his shattered shield-arm, such was the blessing of the Trees. As the fires continued to consume Gondolin, Ecthelion felt a creeping sense of unease settle over him. Fate had been altered tonight, of that he was sure. Whether for good or ill, he could not say. But as he gazed into the smoke, he knew one thing: the course of destiny had been shifted.
