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Ecthelion opened his eyes and realised the world was ending.
Around him people were screaming, and the clamour of weapons existed in the background like a constant sound. He could feel smoke burn in his lungs. It was the King’s Square and he rested against the King’s Fountain, not remembering how he had got there.
“Ecthelion, are you well?” Egalmoth suddenly appeared and Ecthelion had never seen him so dirty with soot and so untidy; but the heavy feeling of the other’s hand on his shoulder felt grounding in this strange fantasy.
Yes, the city is burning, and I am well, Ecthelion thought but had a hard time voicing it.
“No”, he croaked at last and then coughed. His lungs felt like ash or sand and he breathed loudly, like Tuor that one time he got sick and the whole city knew.
Egalmoth looked worried and Ecthelion wondered if they really had been friends. More shouts. They had shared mugs of ale in the taverns and sung along to the same songs and charged into the Nirnaeth Arnoediad together, but never had Ecthelion looked on the colourful and clever lord like a friend.
Yet, Egalmoth was concerned like one, if his grip on Ecthelion’s shoulder meant anything.
“Come on, get up, you need to drink”, he said and Ecthelion struggled to rise.
He should not have done that. Memories – oh, the Valar, the memories – rushed back and he realised why he had lay slumped against the fountain – his fountain - like an abandoned corpse. He remembered the charge, the screams that had up until then only been heard in his nightmares like echoes, the feeling of Orcrist in his hand and the stench of orcs against his face, like a warm but stinking steam. His people’s song and flutes and the familiar streets of Gondolin, bloodied and deserted. Blood.
“Egalmoth”, he said and clung to the other and the feeling of his ring mail in his grip, when another memory rose in his mind.
“Yes?” the other asked and Ecthelion heard shouts behind them, indicating orcs were pressing through the gates.
“Where is Glorfindel?” he asked despite the burning in his throat making his speech rasping.
Ecthelion had never been so afraid of an answer. What if Glorfindel was dead? What if their last time together had been that swift moment when they prepared for battle? What if his last sight of him would be golden hair and its tresses shining in sunlight and the face, brave, yes, but worried and sad? What if –
“He is here, I promise you”, Egalmoth reassured him, perhaps hearing the strain in the otherwise composed lord.
“Where – “
“Close. He has just not arrived yet. But he is alive. Now hurry, you need to drink.”
Alive, Ecthelion told himself, alive, alive, alive.
As Egalmoth helped him close to the water – oh, clear and fresh water, how many times had he not drunk it? – Ecthelion felt something settle inside him. The sky above them were darkening with smoke, the white streets were defiled with corpses and black filth, secrets were revealed, and the mountains encircled them like they had for hundreds of years. They had kept the outside at bay for so long, but now it had come to their doorstep.
He would not make it out alive. The world had arrived to them, but he would not be there to greet the new day. Glorfindel was near, but not here. Ecthelion wished he was, but at the same time wished he was as far away as possible.
“Egalmoth”, he croaked just before he was to reach down and drink the fresh water, which was not yet defiled. One last question from the sharp Ecthelion of the fountain, to the just as sharp lord of the Heavenly Arch.
Said lord, tired and dirty, smiled a weak smile at him. “Yes, Ecthelion?”
Let him doubt until we meet again, Ecthelion thought. One last cruel deed.
“Were we really friends?”
Raw hurt opened in the kind face – how had he not seen it was kind? -, but Ecthelion only turned and drank the water as the gates broke with thunder and orcs screamed and elves screamed, and weapons clamoured. The air vibrated with warmth and fire and the roar of Gothmog, lord of Balrogs, could be heard closing in.
“My mother always said I had a too hasty tongue”, Glorfindel told him as they lay in bed.
Ecthelion sleepily opened an eye. His muscles were sore, and not just from sparring, and the warmth of a summer’s day made him lazy. The sheets were warm and so was the body beside him. Glorfindel looked at him with a fond smile.
“Mm, really”, Ecthelion mumbled and closed his eyes again, not knowing and not caring where the conversation was going.
“I never cared.”
“Mm.”
A moment of silence.
“How were you when you were younger?” Glorfindel asked, and Ecthelion could feel the body turn towards him.
“Mm.”
“What?”
“Glorfindel, not now”, Ecthelion sighed and stretched a hand out to drag the other closer.
He could feel Glorfindel chuckle.
“No, apparently you have time for something else.”
Ecthelion did not bother to answer that, only moved closer, satisfied in the smell of his beloved’s soft hair and skin. Soon, he fell asleep, dreams filled with warm beds and lazy afternoons with sunlight floating into peaceful rooms.
The water of his fountain was cold and clean, and it felt like a wave of his youth washed over him when he drank. His youth spent in Tirion and Alqualondë alongside his brothers and sister, when life was easier. The only thing left of that time was his flute, which lay in its case in his house.
It will be gone at the end of this day, Ecthelion realised and it hurt in his chest despite the refreshing taste of the water. The last of me, and my music, and my siblings, and my times with Eärendil beside this fountain, playing his favourite songs.
Warm tears ran down his cheeks, falling into the water but too small to create any rings on the surface in the chaos around him. People screamed as Gothmog advanced towards the square. Egalmoth was gone and Ecthelion did not know to where. Should he laugh? Perhaps his words had, for the first time, hit its mark. Perhaps he should regret it instead, because now he was alone.
He did not want to die, but he knew without a doubt that he would. He just wanted to spend one more day in a city in peace, drinking ale with his captains and friends, laugh with Glorfindel and kiss him and play his flute one last time. He wished until it hurt.
But Ecthelion drank more water, feeling the strength return, before he rose.
One last time, he thought as he reached for Orcrist on the ground, still shining weakly in the dust. One last time, he thought as he reached for his helm, spiky and sharp and not far from the sword.
One last time, he thought as Gothmog stepped into the square, burning and raging like a nightmare.
“I was a middle-child”, Ecthelion told Glorfindel later in the afternoon, when he had slept for some hours. They still lay in bed, but Ecthelion was propped against the headboard and Glorfindel resting against his chest.
“Really? How many siblings do you have? You’ve mentioned a brother.”
“Mm, I had three siblings actually.”
Glorfindel looked up at him, surprised. “You never speak of them.”
“I never speak of my family, which you have complained about several times. Last time was just a few hours ago.”
“True enough, but I am an only child. These things are interesting to me.”
Glorfindel started drawing circles on Ecthelion’s chest and he smiled.
“To me, as well, but with family comes bad memories.”
“How so?”
“Have you never heard what happened to my family?”
“No”, Glorfindel said, then with a nudge: “You should tell me.”
“Hm.”
“You know about mine.”
“Everyone knows about yours. There isn’t much to know”, Ecthelion said without thinking.
Glorfindel nudged him again, but harder and Ecthelion was smart enough to understand what it meant.
He sighed, preparing himself.
“I had two brothers, one older and one younger, and an older sister. The oldest brother stayed in Aman. He thought it to be a ‘mad quest in a madman’s name’.” He snorted. “At the same time, he was the first one to learn the sword in our family. But I guess I can’t blame him; he had a wife and children and he and our father was far apart. Mother was always sad about it.”
“Must be lonely now, across the sea alone, without his family”, Glorfindel remarked but Ecthelion just snorted again.
“He knew what it meant. He knew we would not return so easily.”
“Still. I always imagine my parents being lonely”, Glorfindel said, voice quiet. “It always makes me sad.”
“Family tends to do that.”
Glorfindel seemed to snap out of something and looked at him again. “Yes. Right. What about your other brother? Your sister?”
Ecthelion stiffened as the painful memories returned after a long time spent in the dark. The faces were the worst; so familiar yet fading. He realised he had forgotten how his younger brother had looked.
“My little brother died on the Ice. Slipped through fast and without any chance of saving”, he answered, eyes closed as the memory made him shudder. He only remembered cold wind and a scream like all the others, but it was enough to make him feel hollow pain.
Glorfindel noticed and Ecthelion felt the other’s hair slide against his chest as he turned his head to look up. He sighed and continued.
“My sister served Fingon and went with him to the Nirnaeth. She was part of his guard”, he knew he did not need to say more for Glorfindel to know her fate. “Idiot is probably satisfied in the Halls, for nothing is better than to die in service, according to my parents. And her. She never thought much of what she left behind. She followed in family footsteps, one might say.”
There was sadness and anger in his voice. Sadness because he was left. Anger because a sister so easily had done it. He stiffened more when he next spoke, and Glorfindel flinched at the sharp edge in the voice.
“You see, my parents were loyal to Fingolfin and served him in Barad Eithel. They died in Dagor Bragollach in the defence of that damn fortress. Of course they did”, Ecthelion said and then bitterly added: “loyal to the end.”
“Of course”, Glorfindel whispered, many years later, with a people now homeless around him. He leaned against the mountainside and his armour, despite the soot and blood, gleamed in the sunlight. Golden hair free, he looked on the people walking, running, following a king’s daughter. He looked but did not see.
“Of course you did”, he repeated quietly, thinking of fate’s irony, then added: “loyal to the end.”