The Forgotten Tree

The Forgotten Tree

Chapter Three: Unnumbered Tears

A thousand years away Erestor’s dark eyes were cold like polished stone. He said, “I have seen the lands beyond the seven gates and they are nourished by blood.”

“What else did you find in those lands?”

“I found it difficult to see anything at all without my heart,” Erestor said.

“What of hope?”

“What of it? I protect hope where I find it – but hope is a memory captured in song. I remember hope in rare mornings when the sunlight covers my bed in golden warmth, the moment before I wake – and I think that I need only turn my head to find it. But when I turn, the bed is empty.”

*

The cliffs rose like white fortress walls to either side of the Pass of Sirion. Sunrise, heralded by distant trumpets, came slow and late – the sunlight trickled down from the eastern crags like the small falls that dripped from crevices in the rock, slowly, as if sunlight measured in drops could be collected like a bright sea.

Glorfindel guarded the march to the eastern side of the Pass. Ecthelion followed the river to the west, but close enough to be in Glorfindel’s sight when he glanced across the broad path. Behind them Gondolin’s army stretched out like a glimmering echo of the river. They had traveled slowly in order to reach the Fen of Serech on the appointed day. Their scouts returned with no great news each time they were sent out, as if every dark creature had been hoarded into Angband for their poison to be increased in a shadowy concentration. Contrary to logic, Gondolin’s numbers were safer marching toward battle than they had ever been during the Long Peace.

Through the proceeding night Turgon’s host remained silent in observation of the vigil. A quiet murmur of voices began when the trumpets of Fingon’s nearby army signaled the morning of Midsummer. If Glorfindel listened closely, which he did, he could make out the low song Ecthelion hummed as he rode.

Glorfindel’s horse knew the sound of Fingon’s army by its blood and long memory, and picked up its walk as the pass began to widen toward the plain. Soon, Turgon motioned for his Captains to join him up a steep path leading to Fingon’s watch upon Eithel Sirion.

The happiness of Fingon’s greeting, Turgon’s army arriving unlooked for, briefly overshadowed Glorfindel’s troubling sense of uncertainty. In battles past he had always had some idea of the dangers he rode toward. But years of being locked away in Gondolin had altered Glorfindel’s intuitive knowledge of Morgoth’s intentions.

“The ruin is more . . . ruinous than I remembered,” Ecthelion said as he joined Glorfindel on the upper watch of the Eithel.

Behind them, Turgon greeted his brother with much gladness. His two Captains stood apart and surveyed the glittering army below them on one side, hidden away in the Pass, and the dust curling in smoky shapes across the entrance to Thangorodrim on the other. The sky was increasingly dark from the soot that rose up from the peak.

“I cannot help but wonder why our old acquaintance wants all the lands from Mount Taras to Dor Daidelos if he’s only going to turn them all to dust,” Glorfindel said, speaking in their old tongue rather than the newer language of Gondolin, as they often did when they spoke privately.

Ecthelion laughed for the first time in weeks. “It seems clear to me that Morgoth likes dust and despair. . .”

“. . .and ash.”

“And ash, though I never thought I’d see the day that you tried to reason through Morgoth’s motivations. The utter ruin he carries with him seems more a casualty than a goal.” Ecthelion dismounted and Glorfindel did the same. Their eyes followed the black smoke of Thangorodrim upward.

“So, we are to wait,” Glorfindel said.

“We are to hold back and guard the pass.” Ecthelion’s horse rested his chin on Ecthelion’s shoulder. Glorfindel watched them both watch the sky.

“What do you feel?”

“I don’t feel anything, which is the problem.”

They stood quietly until Glorfindel suddenly remembered the day. “Many blessings for the new year,” he said with as much honest and constructed enthusiasm that he could muster.

Ecthelion’s smile was nothing more than a small quirk of his mouth. “We’ll certainly need blessings,” he said and turned back to the plain.

*

It was the smell of blood that Glorfindel would carry back with him to Gondolin. For four days Turgon’s army held back as the beacon in Dorthonion remained unlit. Maedhros and his supporters never arrived and rumor flew that the sons of Fëanor had all been slaughtered before their horses could reach the arid field of Anfauglith in the eastern distance.

Late the first day, Glorfindel waited, hidden by trees, with others of his house and watched the slaves of Angband cut the hands and feet – and too slowly, the head from blind Gelmir, taken prisoner so many years before. Reflexively Glorfindel’s hand tightened on his sword; he took a step forward and he truly thought that if his lord allowed him to go, he might solely make a difference. Yet he was commanded to wait.

Fingon’s army rushed forward and Turgon’s stayed back. So for four days, Glorfindel charted their progress by the smell of spilled blood. The blood of man smelled like metal, the blood of elves like a felled tree, the blood of orcs like decay, as if they’d expired some time before a wound was opened.

And when would the blood stop? Before leaving Aman Glorfindel only knew death through rumor of Oromë’s hunt and the ritualistic madness of the festivals in Oromë’s honor. When Glorfindel first drew his sword in the cool anger of defense once he’d crossed the Grinding Ice, he was bewildered to find how deeply easy it was for him to kill. His hands were gifted with a foresight of movement, a quick and lethal knowledge that he did not know he possessed until the killing was done.

Because of his hands, the blood-blackened, lethal accuracy of them, Glorfindel immersed himself in tending vines and had neglected to take a wife. If his wine stored memory, transferred it by touch and breath - Glorfindel preferred to keep his thoughts safely confined to the rambling, voiceless fruit. The exiles could only question so much and even the blameless on these shores carried guilt. Until he returned home, for Glorfindel truly believed the waters leading home to Aman would be open again to them some day, his hands would work to protect the living.

“I cannot listen to this massacre and not want to rush forward,” Pellas said as worked his way through the undergrowth to the place where Glorfindel stood. Pellas was second in command of the Golden Flower’s guard, and had been raised as a brother to Glorfindel. He brushed a leaf from his sleeve and peered with his Captain through the trees.

“The Pass must be kept safe and our King is as wise as his brother who we will follow to the ends of the world. What is being said?” Glorfindel and Pellas crouched down on the loamy ground and lowered their voices.

“That we’ve been tricked, that Maedhros is in league with Morgoth, this from the younger ones who have never met the sons of Fëanor. Those who served under your father fear Maedhros is detained or worse,” Pellas said. His voice was quiet, like the rush of the river, a sound that gave Glorfindel hope even though their worries were greater than the sum of every battle they had witnessed together.

“And the remainder, I suppose, are excited to fight together with the Second Born. They’re curious to witness things they’ve only heard about.” Glorfindel had felt the same way when he heard the rumors that flew after the Battle of Sudden Flame and the death of Fingolfin.

“You ask questions to keep me occupied,” Pellas said with a smile, “I have no more knowledge than you, and you know our hearts. Give me a task to distract me from madness.”

“Be the eyes that watch behind us, as you always been, for me and for my father.”

Pellas nodded, rose and turned back into the evening shadows and lingering smoke that filtered through the withering trees.

So Glorfindel continued to watch, still and bright, straight as a sword as he waited to join the battle. The fighting continued through the nights. Glorfindel used the cover of darkness to seek out Ecthelion, to meet with Turgon, to trade news.

“Where is Maedhros?” Glorfindel asked on the third night.

“I’ve heard nothing, Ecthelion said. “For his sake, he’d best be dead.”

They stood hidden by a dense hedge of fragrant evergreen, the scent of the trees sharp like Elven blood. Unnatural fires burned in the distance toward Angband and the air took on a new sense of carnage and scorch.
Ecthelion’s mouth was made for music but his words often lacked a chord’s harmony of hope and longing. Glorfindel expected the truth from him, however bleak. For this reason they complimented each other in battle like morning and evening. Sometimes Ecthelion’s pragmatism went too far – such as this night. He shifted uncomfortably and tried again for hope.

“I think Maedhros will come,” Ecthelion said, “but too late.”

“The pass must stay guarded,” Glorfindel said.

“If we’re all that’s left, we cannot hold the pass long.”

Glorfindel smiled despite his thoughts. “The fires are new.”

“The fires seem familiar.”

“I know,” Glorfindel said. “Let us go find Turgon and reason with him some more.”

*

“Morgoth’s reserves have been unleashed,” said Turgon. He knelt on the bare, sandy floor of his tent beside the river and used his finger to trace a detailed map in the dirt. Glorfindel and Ecthelion knelt with him and the three combined their knowledge of hearsay and fact in order to draw a picture of the past days of battle.

“The fires have taken shape. What else do you think waits in Angband? I doubt the last rush emptied Morgoth’s reserves.” Glorfindel met Turgon’s gaze across the crude map and they made their decision in silence.

Turgon gracefully rested his palms against his knees and he turned to Ecthelion for the same grave and quiet discussion. Their choices hung invisibly and heavily in the air between them. They each came to the same conclusion.

“We will ride at dawn,” Turgon said. “Have you enough time to prepare?”

“We are prepared. We have been prepared,” Ecthelion said before his lord had truly finished.
Glorfindel nodded in agreement and smoothed the map with the flat of his hand until nothing remained of it but river sand and pebbles.


*

No historian has ever been able to describe the heat of a Balrog. The sun’s heat was too bright a metaphor; it eased the winter and replenished the lands in the summer. The fire of a forge shaped metal into art. Hearth fire brought food and stories. Even the fires that came from the sky and burned forests, the fires that crumbled cities in battle, were inadequate comparisons for a Balrog’s heat.

Morgoth’s creatures burned in black flame that fed more flames with its burning, a furnace of grotesque fire that devoured itself only to grow stronger.

Balrogs were wise and cunning, undefeatable – not for their fire, but by the strength of their ancestry, the intimate knowledge of their opponents’ fear.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion rode behind Turgon toward Thangorodrim and though they had only heard the tales of the Balrog that defeated Fëanor, they knew immediately what blackened, glowing fire issued from Angband as Morgoth released his cruelest weapons.

On that day, the day that would come to be known as the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, neither Glorfindel nor Ecthelion came close enough to a Balrog to see the creature’s eyes, but they would often dream of those spiritless, bright voids when they returned to Gondolin.

They hacked their way through to Fingon, who had retreated across the plain. It always seemed, since the exiles left Aman, that hope and despair arrived simultaneously. Maedhros appeared, galloping with his army toward Fingon and Turgon’s retreating hosts. As if the flame of Maedhros’ hair had to be matched, Morgoth sent out Glaurung, the oldest of his dragons.

Glorfindel’s golden armor was wet from blood, both orc and Easterling. His gloves were slick, yet his hands were as true as ever, cutting paths where he could make them to keep the numbers away from Turgon and his guard. Glorfindel watched Glaurung slither like a jewel-armored snake between the armies of Fingon and Maedhros.

As he watched, Glorfindel could not help but think that Glaurung was beautiful with his poisonous green scales and his knowledgeable red eyes – mesmerizing in his beauty. He wondered how something so lovely could be so lethal, but as his sword reached forward and twisted in a motion he knew like breathing, he realized that he didn’t admire Glaurung so much as understand the dragon’s skill.

The day wore on. Maedhros’ army was stifled by treachery and they retreated, fleeing as suddenly as they had arrived that morning. The battle around Glorfindel lulled as Morgoth’s allies gathered to chase the sons of Fëanor. Glorfindel, unable to call an army back however much he wished to, took advantage of the lapse in fighting to seek out Ecthelion. They had not strayed far from each other throughout the day.

Ecthelion’s hair had come loose from its ties and fell across his shoulders in slick tangles. His eyes were fiercely blue, eerily bright against the blood that stained his face.

“Fingon’s army cannot last much longer,” Ecthelion said. “It is easier for us, we’ve rested for four days. Do we retreat like Maedhros?”

Glorfindel formed an answer but had not time to give it voice as Maeglin rode up between them.

Maeglin, Turgon’s nephew, would have been of greater use if he had stayed back as regent of empty Gondolin. Yet, he was there with them at Angband and Glorfindel and Ecthelion had successfully avoided him until then.
Maeglin’s beauty was marred by ambition. He spoke, always, as a superior would speak to his servants. Long accustomed to Turgon’s favor, the lords of the Golden Flower and the Fountain could not, try as they might, greet Maeglin with anything but disdain. The cycles of contempt amongst the three of them grew stronger every year.

“Planning your retreat?” Maeglin asked.

“I have not seen you today, Maeglin.” Ecthelion pushed his horse forward against Maeglin’s younger mount until the space between them grew uncomfortable. Maeglin backed away.

Glorfindel’s horse was jostled as the point was made, and snapped, ears pinned, at the closest target – the flank of Ecthelion’s mare.

“I have been serving my lord as messenger,” Maeglin said. “I carry his word to you now. You will not turn back like that traitorous, red haired coward.”

“We did not say . . .” Glorfindel interrupted.

“I heard what you said, and so will Turgon.” Maeglin stared at Glorfindel as if sternness gave his words greater gravity.

“Don’t try to reason with him,” Ecthelion muttered.

Morgoth’s reserves returned across the plain. The battle would resume very soon, though the clank of metal and the roar of flame had not ceased.

“You’re to guard the rear,” Maeglin said, “but no sneaking off.”

“Who will protect our lord and our King?” Glorfindel asked. His horse strained against the bridle, ready to move off toward the next surge.

“When I hear the order from Turgon’s mouth, I’ll change position, but not until then,” Ecthelion said.
“You refuse orders?” Maeglin smiled as he asked.

Luckily Morgoth’s army answered the question for them. There was no time to rearrange their ranks. Within moments Glorfindel and Ecthelion were separated by a phalanx of orcs. Maeglin fled, but neither saw which direction he headed toward.

Pellas, ever the eyes behind Glorfindel’s back, called out in alarm to his Captain. Glorfindel’s horse kicked out as he turned, striking down an orc that staggered toward them. He searched out Pellas’ face in the midst of the confusion and found him just as his second in command took down an Easterling whose ax fell short its mark, Glorfindel’s head, as the man stumbled to the ground.

Glorfindel breathed in so that he might shout his thanks – and Pellas would have nodded in return if an arrow had not found his throat. The words were stolen from Glorfindel’s mouth as he watched Pellas slump against his horse’s neck. His blood flowed in a beautiful pattern, like ancient symbols coloring the bereft animal’s coat. Glorfindel’s gratitude turned to lament and he dismounted so that he might fight his way through the gore-thick ground to grab the reins of Pellas’ horse. He eased his body down and felt the last heat of Pellas’ spirit.
“This is not our last meeting,” Glorfindel said and kissed Pellas’ gloved hand.

The two horses kept watch and waited as Glorfindel continued forward, there was no time to lose himself in grief, working his way toward Turgon who fought beside his brother. A heap of golden – armored bodies grew in front of the gates of Thangorodrim. The flames of Balrogs and dragons smothered the air and Glorfindel thought he knew the smell of blood and fire like a dream he could not place.

The Dwarves of Belegost arrived in time to save the armies of the King – the heat could not pierce their armor. Leaping through carnage, so thick he could not tell elves from men and orcs, Glorfindel’s guard followed him until he spotted the familiar outline of Ecthelion’s horse, her once grey coat ruined. Glorfindel did not know that he held his breath until the panic in his chest subsided as he saw that Ecthelion still lived. They came near each other and Ecthelion’s horse used her body as a shield that allowed them to work their way closer to Turgon as Glorfindel followed.

“Mount up behind me,” Ecthelion yelled as he offered his hand for Glorfindel to swing up. They leapt and pressed on through the wall of bodies, both living and dead. Turgon’s distinctive colors came into sight just as Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, cut a flaming path dividing them from their king.

Yet Glorfindel could not help but feel that there was hope as long as Ecthelion fought near him, in front of him in the saddle – spurring his horse forward as Glorfindel’s sword tore through the beasts that assailed them from all sides.

“There is an opening,” Ecthelion said and they leaned forward together to chase it. They were almost there when Ecthelion slowed his horse.

“Go!” Glorfindel exclaimed. “Why are you holding back?”

Ecthelion did not reply. Bewildered, Glorfindel craned his neck to look past Ecthelion and his sight was filled with the white flame that flew up as their king received his death blow from the blade of Gothmog’s axe.

“It cannot be,” Ecthelion murmured.

And yet it was. They watched together as the High King’s banner fell to the ground and silence covered the plain. Too many times since their journey from Aman had they witnessed the death of a king.

“Ecthelion, we must find Turgon,” Glorfindel said, his sword arm heavy and the other clutched tightly around Ecthelion’s waist.

Ecthelion gave no reply, nor did he turn his rein to find their lord, the new king. He could only stare at the towering height of Gothmog.

Glorfindel reached up and turned Ecthelion’s head toward him so that he could speak into his ear, “Send the horse forward. We cannot protect Turgon if our bodies are laid to waste. There is still blood left in us to fight.”

Ecthelion moved as if to speak, but he said nothing. The fierce light of determation returned to his eyes, clear as water, and he urged his horse forward at Glorfindel’s bidding. They arrived at Turgon’s side in time to hear the words of the man called Huor. Hope would come from Gondolin, he said. They must live to fight another day.

Turgon summoned his Captains and nephew with a bitter, grievous motion, as if his hand held the weight of the Noldor.

“Glorfindel, Ecthelion,” Turgon said. “Protect us as we retreat.”

“But, my . . . king,” Ecthelion started.

“We have no choice. Gather what is left of my brother’s army and guard us as we retreat to the Pass. These men have offered their lives so that we might see an end to all our suffering – both of our kind.”

Again Ecthelion tried to argue, but Glorfindel gripped the hand that held the left rein of Ecthelion’s horse and turned back to their guard.

“Make a path to my horse,” Glorfindel ordered the ranks that remained of the Golden Flower from his place behind Ecthelion. He looked back over his shoulder as they rode away, and he committed the faces of both men, Huor and Húron to his long memory.

They found his horse beside Pellas’ and Glorfindel dismounted as Ecthelion galloped back to the ranks of his House. Glorfindel took the grief-lonely reins of his second’s horse so that he could guide the stallion behind his own back to Gondolin. They retreated from the ruined plane and Ecthelion and Glorfindel found themselves following Maeglin’s orders as they guarded the rear so that Turgon, the new High King, could return with his diminished army back to the hidden city.

As they approached the cool waters of the Sirion, Glorfindel felt the heat of the Balrogs behind him and he thought, how strange it was to be leaving a battle unfinished, so contrary to his nature. He felt pulled to that heat as if he were caught by a flaming whip and it seemed to him that one day, unexpectedly, the whip would pull him under.

They traveled for a day without resting. When they paused, it was only a brief stop to bathe what they could of the scorched blood off of them. The river turned black; the waters smelled of death. Broken harnesses and dented armor, their numbers were reduced by half.

No one conversed as they rode; they spoke enough to relay orders, nothing more. Occasionally Ecthelion rode up beside Glorfindel and they moved together silently down a familiar path. They never needed words to know their hearts. Turgon led the march with his gaze fixed toward his secret city, his hope, and so straight did he ride that all who saw him knew that his determination belied his grief.

Pellas’ solemn horse followed Glorfindel. The silence bred reflection and Glorfindel longed to say something light, something that would bring a smile to any anguished face around him, but he could not find words sufficient to relieve them of despair. Glorfindel had never felt so useless, nor so bereft.

Unfinished,, Glorfindel thought – his leg brushing against Ecthelion’s; their horses marched side by side –unfinished. He felt it would be better to die in battle than to have seen treachery and the death of another King, to be forced to flee in order to save the next King – it would have been better to die than to feel the regret of being able to do nothing.

Necessity quickened their steps as they moved higher up the pass. The stars kept gentle watch, the night sky a comforting shroud that made travel easier. The day hours gave too harsh a light in which to view the tarnished brilliance of what was left of the two armies.

The days, the weeks, were counted by hoof beats and the quiet music of the Sirion as it narrowed through the heights. There was no time to tally the living as they made their way back to Gondolin and Glorfindel dreaded the task. He felt the missing amongst them like a misplaced thought, as if they should be visible if he only knew how to look for them.

And then, like an unasked for gift, Turgon opened the Secret Way leading back into their city. A murmer rose up to break the silence of footfall and rushing water. Glorfindel and Ecthelion took their places to either side of the guarded entrance so that they might know if any spy followed. They kept watch as the army passed into the dark tunnel. Glorfindel’s horse shifted restlessly from the waiting, one small bell remaining in his mane chimed as he moved; Pellas’ horse quietly beside him. Ecthelion’s horse stood still as a painting.

Turgon’s most beloved Captains counted each one who passed them. Ecthelion did not look to their faces; he stared beyond them to the trees. Glorfindel smiled as he counted, pleased to find whatever familiar face he could returning to the city. It was later said that all who saw Glorfindel that day remembered why they followed their King, even to death – and the memory of Glorfindel’s smile stayed with them until their own end, or farther still, across the sea.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion sat on their horses, bright sentries to either side of the hidden gate, for hours after the last Gondolithrum passed. They waited in vain hope that one, just one more, would emerge from the lonely valley. No one else arrived.

As the cool evening shadows closed around them, the two Captains dismounted and led their horses into the caverns. Ecthelion spoke old words to the gate, wrapping it in vines and secrets. His voice sounded ill-used in the darkness, broken as if he wept. But Glorfindel had never seen tears on Ecthelion’s face; he was as hard and reliable as stone. One only witnessed the curious workings of Ecthelion’s heart when he was caught up in song.

They led their horses in silence through the black tunnel. There was nothing to be said. For so long had they known each other, they did not need speech to tell their thoughts. The tunnel echoed all around them with phantom sounds, the hoarse murmur of the mountain, the water dripping down the carved walls. In the real and imagined sounds they encountered on the path, Glorfindel heard the voices of the dying on the plain of Anfauglith. Glorfindel walked in the lead and he placed his hand on his horse’s neck to feel the shift of its muscle, a true weight near him that grounded his fears. Elves were not created to move beneath the earth.
Ecthelion began to sing lowly, softly. The song he sang was from the days that they were young and happy in Valinor; Glorfindel had not heard it in a very long time. Their horses sensed the peace deeply rooted in the sound and began to quicken their pace. Ecthelion’s voice lifted their feet, urged them to move along past the darkness of the Secret Way. His voice pressed them onward toward the city.

They finally made their way through the long tunnel and mounted their horses again under the glittering stars. Glorfindel felt he could have lost an age in the dark passage, so long had the journey seemed.

Forward they went, side by side through each of Gondolin’s gates guarding the tight pass. The guards opened each way for them in silent reverence. The guards knew their King, but they loved their Captains. Glorfindel and Ecthelion did not shut themselves away in the city as the other lords did. They knew everyone by sight and name. As they passed, the guards cried silently in relief that the two Captains returned and would rest safely in the city that night. As long as Glorfindel and Ecthelion stood, Gondolin would stand – and some hope would remain in the shadows.

Past the gates, the vale of Tumladen stretched before them. Its long meadows and rushing streams led to the foot of the city. Gondolin glowed in the night, calling to them though their hearts were heavy. The joy of returning home coursed through their horses, and the happiness flowed through the reins of even Pellas’ rider less horse following behind them. Their hooves pulled freshness from the ground, an energy that moved through their weariness, burning like the first call of the hunt on a winter’s morning. So they raced forward across the vale, their horses necks stretched low to the wind. They chased the city as if it were an ever-moving mark that might disappear into the mist. There was joy in their horses’ rhythm, joy that could only be found in the uncertainty of the gallop – of not knowing what would happen in the next stride, but moving forward nonetheless.

At the foot of the tall stair that led to the city’s great gate, horsemen took Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s mounts, and the lonely horse that followed, leading them to the stables to make them comfortable for the night. Side by side the two lords tried to wipe the delight of the race from their faces as they climbed the many steps.

Ecthelion, at last, spoke. “Unbelievably, we return home.”

“Are we to mourn or rejoice?” Glorfindel raised a hand in greeting to the Golden Flower guards who peered down at him from the gate. “Everyone’s watches will be doubled.”

“Their watches were doubled while we were gone,” Ecthelion said.

The Fountain guards greeted Ecthelion with less exuberance but their happiness to see his return was undeniable. It had always been that way, the differences between their Houses. Ecthelion’s family showed their emotion through music. Glorfindel’s wore their feelings openly like a seal upon their chests.

The city glowed in the light of many lanterns and the radiance of the trees that stood to either side of the entrance to Turgon’s palace. Near the Main Square, Alda found them, her clothes stained with blood from the wounded that she had treated before the two Captains returned. The night seemed to move through her and her lovely face and dark eyes held the memory of better times.

Ecthelion’s joy found him at last when he saw her, nor could Glorfindel contain his pleasure, for she was as close to him as a sister. Alda embraced them both and laughed as Ecthelion looked around them as if someone would appear from beneath a tree.

“You’ve returned though there are many who did not,” Alda said, taking Ecthelion’s face in her hands. She glanced over Ecthelion’s shoulder and smirked. “And you too, bright lord, we’ve missed you both – though you stink like the evils you chased. I’m shocked the guards let you in.”

She laughed to keep herself from weeping but the smile fled as she and Ecthelion studied each other. Alda’s hands traced the familiar shape of Ecthelion’s face as if life could be captured and made safe by touch.

After long moments, Ecthelion broke their gaze and looked about the square. “Where is our son?”

“I could not find him,” Alda said. “He will arrive when you least expect it. Until then, let me take you home and then I have more work to do.” She took Ecthelion’s hand to steer him away from the square.

Ecthelion turned and called to Glorfindel, “Until tomorrow!”

“Yes, until then,” Glorfindel said and turned toward the northern wall of the city. He found himself alone for the first time in a very long while. The usual bustle of the streets was replaced by the dark silence of mourning and the duty of seeing to the wounded. Glorfindel looked forward to a bath and his bed. He knew the sun would rise in the morning and he would begin his duties, as he had for so many years. He would visit his vineyards – that thought filled him with happiness, and he would try his best to not think of those who were no longer there to enjoy the taste of that year’s wine.

His house was lit from top to bottom to welcome his arrival – Galor had seen to that. Glorfindel entered to find the familiar scent of his home which only seemed to remind him that he must visit the families of those who had been lost, a dreaded task.

His steward helped him remove his light armor that would be polished to golden brightness by morning. He gave the steward his ring, the seal of his House, so that it too could be polished and the shadow of death wiped from its golden jewel. Galor was nowhere to be found, which was very much like his advisor. Galor had served Glorfindel’s father and would prefer to greet his newly returned lord when the morning’s brightness tempered old memories of losses – and Galor respected Glorfindel’s privacy, knowing that he would not be ready to speak of the battle until he’d found rest.

Gladly, no one else found Glorfindel as he walked to his rooms. The fires were lit and he sat before the one near his bed and allowed his eyes to roam the signs and symbols carved into the stonework of the mantel. For some hours he sat there, working the knots from his hair and staring into the flames.

Fire was always constant, he thought. Wind – the wind was there with him as the armies fell and it was with him as he rode home across Tumladen. Wind changed its shape, but stayed the same. Water. Perfect water was constant. Glorfindel felt he could rely on water as he’d come to rely on the Fountain; water soothed flames.

He rose and walked into his garden. He removed his shirt and knelt beside the pool that was crowded by branches and vines. Lilies floated on the surface of the water. He turned, lay upon the stone and lowered his head until his hair floated all around him. He stayed like this for a very long time, watching the stars, his hearing muffled by the water.

In time he moved and bathed fully, washing the dirt of travel and death from his body and his mind. The waters of Gondolin held many mysteries; the waters kept secrets and eased the mind of sorrow. The waters were very much like Alda.

It was very late into the night when Glorfindel returned to his room and wrapped himself in a robe. He left the door to the garden open and moved closer to his bed. He felt that sleep just might find him –

– if not for the thing already asleep on his bed. “Erestor!” he said.

Slowly, Erestor opened his eyes, but he did not stir.

Glorfindel took his hand and tried to pull him awake. “How long have you slept here? Your father has returned and you were not there to greet him.”

Erestor sat up. His black hair was in disarray and his eyes, fathomless like his mother’s, seemed confused. “You’re back,” he said.

“Of course I am and, like I said, so is your father.”

Erestor ignored him. “I had a dream. It was terrible – Galor was dying and he grabbed a necklace that was around my throat. Your ring hung on the necklace. I could not find you but I searched and searched. You were there – I know it – but I could not see you.”

Glorfindel laughed and sat on the edge of the bed. “We will not be telling Galor of this dream.”

“Oh no, of course not.”

It always shocked Glorfindel to return from anywhere to see Erestor again. He was supposed to be Ecthelion’s young and endearing son, forever that – not fully grown and filled with mysteries like his mother. However, right was right and: “Sons, good sons, should be present to greet their father who just returned from war.”

Erestor dismissed the chiding with a flick of his hand. “He has mother. You have no one but Galor who is afraid to see you until the morning brightens the city. I stayed up talking with Galor tonight and he told me that you would return soon, so I thought I would wait for you – but you were long in coming and I fell asleep.”

They sat like that for a while watching the fire glow and listening to the fountains.

At last Erestor asked, “How bad was it?”

“We have a new High King,” Glorfindel said, which was enough. He could not say that Morgoth’s creatures had piled the dead in a mountain that rivaled Thangorodrim, nor could he tell Erestor that he and Ecthelion were ordered to stand by and hear the dying, unable to assist or bring mercy until the very end. And the end . . .he could not say what they accomplished.

“I’m sorry,” Erestor whispered, seeming to know Glorfindel’s black thoughts without having to be told. “You must not be consumed by sorrow. We need you whole and well.”

Erestor’s knowledge of the world stopped where the mountains started but Glorfindel thought, when he looked at Erestor, that Ecthelion’s son probably knew more about the order of things than himself. Of weapons and blood, Erestor knew little. Glorfindel hoped to keep it that way as long as he could, but it was time for Erestor to learn the secrets of the sword he’d left for him.

“Your father has missed you,” Glorfindel said.

“I missed him too.”

Again, they sat for a while not speaking.

And I missed this, Glorfindel thought. In their years together, watching the unlocking of Erestor’s remarkable mind and the light of his spirit, they had become friends, at times closer than the friendship that Glorfindel shared with Ecthelion for he need not infer Erestor’s heart when he offered it so openly. Erestor did not hide any joy or misery behind a stony countenance. Erestor hid nothing – nor had he anything to hide.
Glorfindel and Erestor were equals in silence and speech. In time, Glorfindel hoped that they would become equals in battle, as long as Erestor did not have to use those skills beyond the safety of the city.

“I will be going soon,” Erestor said.

So involved was he in his thoughts of Erestor’s safety that he did not, at first, know what Erestor meant. “Where are you going?”

Erestor laughed. “Home – where did you think I meant?”

Glorfindel smiled at his own confusion. “I’m not certain.”

Erestor rose from the bed. “Lie down and I will sing to you, and hopefully kind dreams will find you.”

Glorfindel did as he was told. Erestor sat down beside the bed and looked out into the garden. No music could compare to the songs of the Fountain. It had always been so. Their songs worked magic tinged with a voice of sorrow that reflected a time to come and the times that had passed. Their songs seemed to know that soon, as their kind reckoned time, there would be no equal songs left in those lands. Erestor’s song that night did not bring images with it, only quietness like still water. The fountain in the garden seemed to lower its voice so that it could listen.

As he drifted into reverie Glorfindel thought, Erestor waited here to bring me this gift. When he opened his eyes again, it was morning and Erestor was gone as if his song was simply a lovely dream filled with hope – a dream that made Glorfindel long to keep Erestor’s voice in a secret place where no dark thing could touch it.