Chapter Text
It was evening when he stopped in front of the King's Fountain.
The water sprung up as merrily as ever, shining like bits of glass and crystal high in the air, and the space within a foot of it was slightly cooler than the outside. He stood there and let the thin mist settle around him. There was blood caked in the chinks in his armor, especially in his gauntlets where the knuckles split, and he knew he ought to wash it away – not before it dried, of course, because it already had, but before it turned black and green with rot. How long had it been since he'd had time to clean himself? He wasn't entirely sure, and that in itself was a frightening thought.
It took a bit of aimless staring at the water, but at last, he peeled off the gauntlets, set it down, and then took a seat himself. His joints creaked as they had not since the Helcaraxë. The stone edges were wide and high enough that no one could accidentally fall in, but not so much that he couldn't reach out with cupped hands and touch the water. It shivered lightly against bare skin. He felt some of his strength return just from that, and absently he remembered singing. . . He'd sung of the very steadfastness he felt now, had sung it into the water whenever he had passed by the Fountain and had a moment to spare. Without realizing it, he flinched.
Water fell from his fingers. He brought his right hand up to his lips, fingers splayed, and rubbed away some mud and what was likely orc-blood.
He was tired. Immensely so.
Most of his blades he'd left with his squire to be cleaned, but there was one he had not drawn even once: a small knife, barely four inches long and slender like a needle. It was the same as those many of the soldiers had carried to war; a way out, should grief and fear not be swift enough. They all of them had known the city must remain hidden. He hoped that none of those knives had been used, in the battle now lost, but had to reluctantly acknowledge he did know better than to hold foolish hopes. At least his would not be used to take a life.
He flicked his wrist, opening the particular compartment in his vambrace, and the knife slid easily into his grip. With his left hand, he tugged at the leather strap beneath his chin, took off his helm, and set it next to the gauntlets. He'd braided his hair up with pins and white ribbons, each of which he now either loosened or cut until it could be torn free. Even with the helm his hair was a tangled mess, possibly worsened by his careless ministrations. A small pile of shredded clothe and crooked pins grew beside him.
When his hair finally tumbled free in a ragged, single plait, he gathered it up and gave it a critical glance. After picking it apart with his fingers for a while, he decided it was as good as he’d ever get, and flipped the knife in his hand. Vaguely he became aware his mood was fey. There was a curious weight bearing down on his shoulders, and his vision seemed entirely too focused. A few soldiers of the Fountain had followed him here, either because they sought his reassurance or that of his presence, but none had tried to stop him yet beyond some worried mutters.
It was rare that he went bareheaded in public. Well, he thought, it would not be so rare now.
He drew the knife above his grip, right across the nape of his neck. The blade had always been sharp enough to split hairs.
There was a horrified gasp. He leaned over the edge of the fountain, dropped what he'd cut off, and then swept in the rest of the ornaments for good measure. The hair and pins sank quickly into the depths. The ribbons took longer – but when he began to hum, melted as if they’d been made of salt and sugar.
He sang the same tune he’d always sung, a bit fascinated himself at the way the strands of hair faded into the darkness, the same song he'd screamed into the bleak sleet – somehow, to call it water seemed much too mild for its horrors – beneath the Ice and the waves of Nevrast, the darkness of Nan Dungortheb, into the black depths of his dreams. The King's Fountain fed all the other fountains and springs in the lower city, where the wounded and defeated lay in mourning. He could not sing of healing for the blood on his hands (quite literally), but he could sing of strength, of endurance, of standing one’s ground when all else fell to ashes – and he was glad, morbidly, that now was the hour when his song was needed.
He had not sung upon the battlefield. He could not. He was not a powerful singer by nature, and what he did he managed by dint of the fairness of voice. But he was a patient man nonetheless.
The song reached its end, and he let it trail off with an odd feeling of peace. It was done, then, his tithe of tears in the sea of Tears Unnumbered, and perhaps he could now find the rest he had been evading since he'd passed through the six gates. Had it only been a handful of hours since their return? It was evening now, the Sun a red circle of fire between white towers and mountaintops. He stood up. His people would be waiting, those soldiers nearby not the least of them.
And he stumbled.
"Careful, Fountain," said a familiar voice.
Hands gripped him, held him steady. Through layers of cloak and armor and knitted fabric, Ecthelion thought, numbly, that perhaps he could feel the pulse of life. He realized a moment too late that his head had fallen forward, his brow resting on hard metal plate. He had not flinched.
He stepped backward, too tired for any embarrassment. Soon other hands were upon him, alongside concerned whispers. Soldiers in silver and white. Boys he could name out of memory. He stifled a sigh, raised his own hand to signal them off, and drew it across his face. It did nothing for vertigo, but his vision cleared somewhat, enough to recognize the lord in front of him. “Well met,” he said, feeling the bitterness of that sentiment all too well, at the same time the lord exclaimed:
"What in Elbereth's name happened to your hair?"
Of all the things, hair. Strangely enough, his mood lightened nominally after that. He hesitated a second before answering, dragging his eyes down to check for injuries in a manner that had become instinct to him.
"Fear not, Laurefindil, I shan't cut yours off."
"You cut it off yourself?" Glorfindel demanded.
It was only then that Ecthelion realized Glorfindel’s hands were still outstretched, the arms bent as if worried Ecthelion might stumble again. And for all the exaggerated horror about the state of his hair, he was suddenly and quite unexpectedly reminded of the moment, barely hours ago, when Glorfindel had screamed Leave them! Leave them, Fountain, we must take the flank!. . .
He clenched his teeth before he could fall further back into his memories. (And he'd only just begun to feel calm again!) But, still, his sight and the height of his horse had been enough to see the battle at its worst – Fingon's proud banner trod down into the mud – the flames leaping from Gothmog's ax – and at a hurried backward glance, the bright children of the House of Hador before they were swallowed by fog and distance. And he had heard them long after that. His memory was sharp, even for one of the High Elves. He wasn’t sure when he would be able to sleep again.
Blood was caked in the knuckles of his hands. He felt it, even as he felt droplets of water dry off from fingers sore but clean.
"I'm fine," he said, and knew Glorfindel had no reason to disbelieve him.
Glorfindel considered him with a remarkable lack of pity. "May I?" he asked, reaching out. His hands were bare as well. In the time Ecthelion'd spent in a daze, Glorfindel had changed out of his armor, although he still smelled rather distinctly of sweat. Ecthelion frowned, but let his fingertips brush the jagged edges of his hair. He'd made sloppy work of it, he knew. There was a bit that still hung down to his hips, while most cleared his shoulder in a slanted line. The right – his right – side of it was a good inch shorter than the left.
It wasn't self-consciousness, not exactly, that had him balking at the touch. At least, not one for his appearances. Glorfindel looked as haggard as if he'd seen the inner workings of Angband itself, and much as Ecthelion sympathized, it was also one less thing to care about. No, but he was – ashamed – that Glorfindel, of all people, had seen him dazed, and not a little bit lost.
They'd been friends before Aredhel. Strange how things had changed since.
"If you want," Glorfindel started, and then seemed to rethink his words. "I suppose you have your men."
Ecthelion would have answered, except one of his soldiers, who had as of yet remained silent, spoke up in a tone far too flat to be neutral: "He does."
Ecthelion sighed.
"Senya," he said in gentle rebuke. The particular soldier bowed his head, and Ecthelion bit down on a pang of guilt. He'd been the one to encourage loyalty among those of his house, after all. He spared another look at Glorfindel, realized only then that he was probably on his way to the palace, and in the end, pushed him away with a flat hand against his breastplate. Glorfindel retreated willingly enough.
That curious weight he'd felt earlier seemed to have somehow migrated to his chest.
He looked up and met Glorfindel's eyes. "I should see to the Gates," he said, "and I’ve no doubt you have better places to be."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Quite sure, thank you."
A clear dismissal, if there ever was one, and Glorfindel took it with his usual grace. There was a slight furrow between his brows, though, the sort that spoke weights about precisely what he thought of Ecthelion's answer. For a second there, Ecthelion was. . . The word for it, he supposed, was furious. Quietly, numbly, awfully furious. His anger had always been a slow spreading of the ice, a pond freezing over on a winter morn, and the silence stretched out and out until he was certain something would be torn. He was a patient man. Glorfindel had a unique way of testing that patience.
If he'd had better skill with words, he might have offered up a scathing comment about hypocrisy. As it was, he simply picked up his helm, signaled the soldiers to follow, and walked past Glorfindel, down the road to the South of the city where the rest of his house would be resting. He would have to see how many could be spared for the Gates. . . That would be a distraction, at least.
"Wait!" Glorfindel called out. Ecthelion turned back, deliberately slow, at pains to keep his face clear of emotions – and saw that Glorfindel was naked with those.
It almost stopped his breath short, to see such honesty at display. In any case, it did take the wind out of his sail. The sudden absence of rage left him more staggered than even its coming had, at the same time it felt as if nothing had happened at all. Evenings in Gondolin were always cold, and he realized too late his sleeves had been dampened. Something chilling, near the veins of his wrist.
The open concern and doubt, even guilt, in Glorfindel's eyes had the sort of brutality fit for the battlefield. Perhaps it was so because they had stood upon one not so long ago, but even as he thought that he knew it to be wrong. Glorfindel was never anything less than refreshingly direct.
He found he couldn't stand it any longer.
"Farewell, Flower," he said, his mind lurching. Glorfindel nodded doubtfully. Ecthelion drew a deep breath, and with as much dignity as he could muster (which was rather little), fled down the Road of Pomps.
It occurred to him, somewhere along the way with his soldiers hurrying to match his stride, that this had been the first time in years they'd spoken without malice. He had been too tired, and Glorfindel. . . Too worried, if Ecthelion was being fair. Such a bleeding heart. They had not been friends for a long while now. He had missed it more than he'd thought. And since he was a patient man, though slow, and was not in the habit of ceding his ground, he realized in foul temper what should have been obvious from the start. The encounter had rattled him so badly because he'd missed Glorfindel.
He stopped abruptly in the middle of the road. One of the soldiers almost stumbled into his back. Waving off the stammered apology, Ecthelion dropped his head into his hands – funny how exhaustion would be excuse enough for oh, so much of his behavior today – and let out a long groan.
He'd missed him.
By the Valar, he was fucked.