Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dawn broke without warning, or at least without any warning that Glorfindel noticed. He sat back on his heels and threw aside a clump of bugloss. Its pretty but unwelcome blue flowers, from which he’d been trying to free the garden since before going out to war, crumpled under a tangle of white roots and soil. The familiar tasks of weeding and watering and all the rest of it might’ve been soothing if he remembered doing them. In the east the sky was a dusty blue even though he’d come outside to the full moon hanging high above him, and his body ached. The hydrangeas before him felt happier. Therefore work must’ve gotten done.

Hours ago, he’d left Ecthelion lying in their bed, on his back with his knees bent and the blankets pushed down to his waist, staring blank-eyed through the ceiling.

“Elentári above,” Glorfindel muttered to himself. He’d meant to go in after a brief walk. So Ecthelion had refused to take any more of that hated herbal paste for his pain, and so they’d argued about it. Glorfindel had still meant to lie in bed with him until the morning’s duties dragged him away—just as soon as he’d calmed down enough to do it.

Feeling sore and thirsty but also little able to care that he felt so, he couldn’t say that he was calm. Neither could he more than remember his anger. He had an hour, maybe, before he had to leave.

On the stairs, he removed his gloves and shoes. Walking through the living room, he took down his hair. Their bedchamber smelled of herbs, and a mortar and pestle were on the bedside table. In the bed itself, Ecthelion lay curled on his side with his eyes closed, one hand tucked against his chest. Asleep, Glorfindel thought, in that deep, truly unconscious way that the paste encouraged. He paused on the threshold, but it was too late. Ecthelion stirred.

Glorfindel stepped inside and went to his chest. “What are you doing over there?” Ecthelion mumbled. “Come here.”

“I’m going to smear dirt on the sheets if I don’t change. But if you insist…”

Ecthelion didn’t insist. Glorfindel donned a robe, leaving his dirty clothes pooled on the floor, and sat on the bed with his legs crossed in front of him. He put a hand on Ecthelion’s knee.

“You smell of it. Dirt,” Ecthelion said. “And sweat.”

“I thought I smelled of summer night air and flowers.”

“Sure. Come here.”

Glorfindel slipped under the covers. Ecthelion tucked his head against Glorfindel’s shoulder and reached up to catch one of Glorfindel’s frizzing curls between his fingers. His eyes didn’t quite focus, and he moved clumsily as he often had these last few days. It was the paste’s doing. But at least he wasn’t in pain. Then his body warped with tension, and now under Glorfindel’s hand he was pliant, relaxed.

“I’m sorry I left for so long,” Glorfindel said.

Ecthelion squeezed the curl and didn’t speak.

“It’s time for breakfast. What do you want?”

“I want to go up on the roof.”

Glorfindel blinked.

“To see them coming in.”

The greater part of Gondolin’s forces were still camped by the Gates. The day they’d made it at last through the secret pass, Turgon had sent Maeglin ahead with the wounded and kept most of his soldiers behind to guard the Gates in case their path had been marked. It hadn’t, or if it had, their enemy bided his time and there was no more use in lingering. Today they journeyed the final leg to Gondolin.

“Are you sure? The ladder will be difficult.”

“I can manage it.”

“But it’ll still be difficult, and tonight there’s the feast. You ought not to risk hurting yourself the morning before it.”

Ecthelion sat up. “If you don’t let me go now, I’ll go as soon as you leave. What will it be?”

“Let you?” Heat rushed through Glorfindel, and the pins and needles of frustration. “Is that how you see it?”

Ecthelion stood. His hand pressed against the footboard. For balance? Glorfindel thought of offering help but didn’t. As he lay there still, Ecthelion drew a white linen undergown out of his chest and stepped into it slowly, the bruises that patterned him from hip to collarbone and the bandages that wrapped his chest vanishing beneath it. At the door, he paused with a hand on the frame before moving out of sight.

The spell broke. Glorfindel scrambled after him.

Somehow they made it up onto the roof. Glorfindel left Ecthelion leaning against the parapet while he ran up and down the ladder, dragging up stools and a hastily prepared platter of fruit. Ecthelion sat on one of the stools, but he looked at the fruit and said, “I’m not hungry.”

Glorfindel wasn’t either. He picked halfheartedly at the wild strawberries and looked out over the parapet.

Their home was built into the south wall of Gondolin, giving them a clear view of the Gates in the southwest and the city of tents that had sprung up at the foot of them. Already the city was coming down. At Gondolin’s feet, another was being raised, meant for those of the late High King’s forces who had fled with the Gondolindrim and now had no way to return home and maybe no home to return to. Idril was somewhere down there supervising, and in a short time Glorfindel was due to relieve her. The tents had to be ready for this afternoon when Gondolin would once more threaten to overflow with people.

Glorfindel thought of that, of Gondolin as it had been less than a month ago, bright and joyful, as it had been for nearly four hundred years. Then he thought of the Lady Aredhel’s body buried in the palace gardens. Her spirit had long ago fled to Mandos and taken much of the people’s joy with it. Now so many more had followed her, and Húrin and Huor had gone nobody knew where. Glorfindel thought of Turgon’s words to them, his prophecy of Gondolin’s fall.

Glorfindel forgot the plain and the people moving on it. For a while he forgot everything. When he came back to himself, he looked at Ecthelion, who sat breathing next to him. Alive, and as likely to be alive in an hour as anyone else. Only a few days ago, it hadn’t been so.

Ecthelion’s eyes were half closed. His head drooped. “Ehtelion,” Glorfindel said, and Ecthelion jerked awake and overbalanced. In the next moment, Glorfindel was there, holding him upright with arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Ecthelion blinked, silent, for what felt like an age. “I’m never taking that paste again,” he said. “Why did I take it again?”

“Because you were in terrible pain,” Glorfindel said.

“I don’t care. For lack of pain, it trades my mind. I would rather the pain.”

Glorfindel tightened his grip, but Ecthelion shook his head and tugged himself out of it. “The world spins. I can’t stay awake. Worse, I can’t think. Laurefindel, I can’t stand—”

His voice broke. He looked at Glorfindel with large dark eyes, his anger washed away to reveal what was underneath it.

Glorfindel crouched in front of him. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Ecthelion said.

“You will get better.”

“I know.”

“If you’re feeling this badly, we shouldn’t be up here. You should be in bed.”

Ecthelion closed his eyes. He made no reply, neither in words nor in gesture.

Eventually Glorfindel rose. He placed his stool close to Ecthelion’s so that he might grab him quickly if need be, and he ate another strawberry. As it burst tart in his mouth, a horn blew: Turgon’s, announcing his homecoming from across the plain.

The early afternoon sun beat down from on high as Glorfindel slipped inside an austere stone building to find Duilin inside. He was already buckling on a light gambeson, and before Glorfindel had the chance to get out so much as a word, he said, “Thank the Powers for you, Glorfindel! I’ve been dying to hit something all morning. I’m honored it will be you.”

With an efficiency approaching violence, he fastened the last buckle and disappeared into the side room where the wooden training swords were kept. Glorfindel took his place at the cupboards to grab his own armor, stretching his neck to keep Duilin in sight. Yesterday, when Duilin had expressed the wish to work out some nervous energy, he hadn’t seemed quite like this. Glorfindel summoned up what energy he could in the hope of keeping up with him. “If you can touch me,” he called.

Duilin laughed. “Oh, I’ll touch you. Don’t you dare go easy on me. I’m winning fair and square.”

They went out to the yard. Whether thanks to the heat or the current lack of swordsmen in the city, they had it to themselves. Glorfindel tied up his hair. Then they stood a few paces apart and lifted their swords.

For all his bravado, Duilin wasn’t nearly as skilled a swordsman as he was a bowman, and in bout after bout, Glorfindel struck him without much effort. Normally they both understood this; normally Duilin didn’t mind or else after a few rounds asked Glorfindel laughingly to go easy on him after all. Today he grew frustrated and sloppy. Glorfindel humored him until Duilin nearly landed a hard hit to Glorfindel’s head.

Duilin staggered back at once. “What was that?” Glorfindel demanded. “Were you trying to give me a concussion?”

Duilin grimaced. “I probably need a break.”

“A break and a review of how not to kill your training partners!” Glorfindel said, pushing Duilin’s shoulder so that he stumbled. He stood there for a moment, breathing deep, and looked Duilin up and down. “Are you all right?”

Duilin stared at him.

“I mean it.”

“I know! Of course you do.” Duilin shook his head. “What a question. Are any of us all right?”

He could only mean it rhetorically, but still Glorfindel tried to think of somebody who was. Ecthelion was yet weak after a brush with death and in a constant miserable mood. Húrin and Huor were dead. Turgon seemed to think, maybe even with the gift of foresight, that Gondolin herself was on death’s door. There was perhaps Idril, who’d seemed put together that morning, but Glorfindel knew her and knew she was skilled at brave faces.

He hadn’t spoken for too long. “Exactly,” Duilin said.

“Still,” Glorfindel said. “You didn’t seem so worked up yesterday. Did something happen?”

“Only working with Maeglin all morning. I’ve never minded him before! But today I could do nothing right. Why have you arranged the tables like that? Have them do it again by my plan. Those are obviously not the right tablecloths, not for my uncle the King. That you should think you know him better than me! And has this silver even been polished?”

It didn’t sound unlike Maeglin, though filtered through the mouth of someone wordier. The more stressed he felt, the more he was prone to grasping for control. Glorfindel said, “Are any of us all right?”

Duilin cast him a rueful look. “I wish it didn’t make us worse to each other. If he was unusually unkind to me today, any other day I might’ve tolerated it better.”

“And not tried to kill me in your frustration!” Glorfindel said. “Did you try to kill him, too, or was I your first victim?”

“Was he my victim if he snapped at me first?”

“Maeglin doesn’t snap.”

“No. He looks into your soul and tells you, slowly and clearly, how you’ve done him and his uncle the King wrong.”

Glorfindel grinned. “You don’t need to hit something. You need to relax with people who aren’t out for you.” He looked up at the sun. The heat of it fell on his face and for a moment dizzied him. He wanted water. He wanted, too, to be home, though he wasn’t sure what awaited him there. “Why don’t you come over for an hour or two? I’ll have to check with Ecthelion first, but that won’t be a problem. Our place is on your way.”

“I’d like that,” Duilin said.

“Then let’s go,” Glorfindel said and then added, apologetic smile at the ready, “We do actually need to go a little out of our way. I went by the apothecary’s this morning, and by now she should have something for me to pick up.”

In the living room, Ecthelion sat at a low table situated near the cold hearth, straight-backed with his neck bent, looking down at the papers spread in front of him. No. Not looking. His eyes were shut, and his hand gripped the side of the table. His breaths were slow and deep but uneven.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I moved wrong. That’s all.”

Glorfindel sat down across from him. His hand drew Ecthelion’s away from the table, and Ecthelion squeezed Glorfindel’s fingers with such force they ached. He took another breath. Another. The shutters and curtains were closed against the baking sun, and in the dim light, all felt hushed. Ecthelion’s breath was all Glorfindel could hear.

Ecthelion’s grip eased. He looked up with clear eyes, aware as he hadn’t been those first few hours after he was wounded of where he was and of Glorfindel with him. Glorfindel let go of his own breath and lifted Ecthelion’s hand to his mouth.

Ecthelion shook him off. “You’re back later than I thought you’d be. How are the preparations going?”

“I stopped by the apothecary’s on the way home,” Glorfindel said. From his belt he unhooked a small drawstring bag, and out of it he took a glass bottle full to its cap with an amber liquid. “It’s a different formula for pain than the paste. Not as effective and harder to source, so they almost never use it. But it shouldn’t slow your mind as the paste does.”

Ecthelion held out his hand, and Glorfindel dropped the bottle into it. Ecthelion turned it over, watching an air bubble escape out from under the cap and run along the inside of the glass.

“The apothecary said to take two drops of it mixed into water four times a day, spaced evenly. She said it’s fine to mix into other drinks, like wine, but it’ll probably ruin their taste. Better to ruin water.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” Glorfindel found, with a pang of consternation, that he couldn’t tell what Ecthelion was thinking. “Will you try it?”

“Yes.”

Glorfindel tapped the table and rose. He made quick work of fetching three cups and water with which to fill them, courtesy of the copper spout in their private kitchen. At the table, Ecthelion measured out the drops while Glorfindel drank from one of the cups—and then drained it, startled at his own thirst. When had he last drunk anything? He couldn’t remember.

Ecthelion drank the medicine. Soon he cradled the third cup in his hand, which Glorfindel had meant for Duilin, as his jaw tensed. Bitter, the apothecary had called the medecine. Ecthelion drained the other cup.

His eyes closed. “You never said. How are the preparations going?”

“Before I get to that,” Glorfindel said, “I should ask if you’d mind having Duilin over for a little while.”

Ecthelion blinked open his eyes. “No. I don’t mind. But.”

“But?”

It took him a strangely long moment to find the words. Glorfindel tried not to assume it was the pain. It might’ve only been normal puzzlement. He certainly sounded puzzled enough when he said, “Where is he? Do you plan to send for him?”

“I brought him with me. He’s outside.”

“Laurefindelë.”

Glorfindel grinned. “He’s enjoying our lovely garden, which I work so hard to maintain. You don’t have to sound like I left him on the Ice.”

“It’s rude.”

“I didn’t want to invite him over without asking you first, not right now. Would you have felt better if I’d barged in with him on my heels?”

“Maybe.” Ecthelion pressed his hand against the table. “Let him in.”

“I will in a moment. Can I help you get somewhere first? Maybe the sofa?”

“I said let him in.”

Glorfindel caught Ecthelion’s eye and offered him a sheepish smile, waiting for Ecthelion to respond as he usually did by pinching his lips to keep from smiling and waving Glorfindel towards the door. Instead he sat there, fingertips turning white on the table, his eyes meeting Glorfindel’s darkly. Glorfindel faltered. “All right. All right! I’m going,” he said and went.

Outside, Duilin stood on the stone path, peering at the puffball bloom of a white hydrangea. “Aren’t they lovely?” Glorfindel said.

“Yes. A good addition.”

“You’re enjoying yourself then? Not cursing your host for being miserably rude, leaving you outside alone like this?”

Duilin laughed. “No! I don’t even know if you’re my host yet. What did Ecthelion say?”

“He demanded that I let you in right away. He thought I was being miserably rude.”

“I’m glad to hear it. The first part, anyway. I wasn’t sure he’d be feeling well enough to put up with my talking his head off.”

“I don’t know about that. You might want to focus on talking my head off.”

Duilin drew away from the flowers and meandered up the path towards the house, and Glorfindel matched his step. “How is he?” Duilin said.

Glorfindel said, “I wish I could do anything right!”

Duilin looked at him. Glorfindel forced himself to smile. “I’m sorry. It’s only… physically he’s improving, but his mood isn’t. And whenever I try to help him, I only seem to make it worse.”

“I see,” Duilin said, and they walked a few more steps before he added, “He’s upset with the situation, not with you. If it feels like you’re getting the brunt of it, you probably are! Who has he talked to besides you and the healers lately?”

“Nobody.”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t worry about it. Let him feel how he feels.” Duilin shrugged. “At least you know he’s not likely to take a sword to your head about it.”

Glorfindel’s smile was not so forced this time. But he still thought of Ecthelion on the roof that morning, eyes shut, ignoring Glorfindel until he retreated.

Inside, he left Duilin sitting across from Ecthelion and went out to the main kitchen to fetch leftovers from the lunch their cooks had made, as they made it every day for Glorfindel and Ecthelion and those who worked for their Houses, whether with ledgers or with brooms. Today it was a fish stew that Ecthelion particularly enjoyed, and the cooks sent it off with seconds for the Lord of the Fountain.

As Glorfindel placed the tray on the table, Ecthelion pushed aside the papers in front of him. “I’m glad you’re back, Glorfindel. Duilin has been telling me what a terrible job I’ve been doing with my composing this morning.”

“I have not,” Duilin said.

The papers were marked up with music, and at a glance there was nothing wrong with them, but on closer inspection Glorfindel saw the sloppiness, the uncertainty of Ecthelion’s hand which was so unusual for him, and when he ran it through his head, he almost winced. It was easy to guess what had happened: Duilin had offered a polite platitude, and Ecthelion had seen right through him.

“See?” Ecthelion said. The look he gave Glorfindel was ironic, a little pained.

“Not your best work, I must admit,” Glorfindel said and slid the tray to the middle of the table. “There’s a lot of food here. I hope we’re all hungry.”

Ecthelion surveyed it. “They’ve been indulging me,” he said with fondness and a hint of amusement.

Amusement! And in the past minute, he’d spoken more words at once than at almost any other time in the past few days. As they ate, Glorfindel noticed the lifting of his mood in the set of his shoulders and in his eyes, and most of all in his tone. The monotone to which he’d taken fell away, leaving Glorfindel to the displeasing realization that he’d stopped noticing it wasn’t Ecthelion’s normal way of speaking. In the space of an hour, Ecthelion became himself again.

After Duilin had left and Glorfindel had returned from taking the dishes out to the main kitchen to be washed, Glorfindel settled next to Ecthelion and said, “You seem in a better mood.”

“I am in a better mood.”

“Is it Tuilindo?”

“No. It’s the medicine. It’s better than the paste. Far better. The paste takes everything away. This is taking just enough.”

“I’m glad.” At Ecthelion’s sly glance, Glorfindel added, “I would’ve been glad if it was Tuilindo, too!”

“For me, maybe, but not for yourself.”

“And that would’ve been my problem, not yours.”

“Yes. You are noble like that.” Ecthelion looked Glorfindel up and down. “You’ll need a wash before the feast.”

“Are you telling me I still smell of dirt and sweat?”

Ecthelion leaned into Glorfindel, stiffer about it than usual but less so than might be expected, given the state of his chest. Glorfindel found Ecthelion’s hand and squeezed it, and he kissed Ecthelion’s hair. Ecthelion said, “I will, too. But I don’t want to walk to the bathhouse. We’ll have to have a bath prepared before our own fire.”

Finally Glorfindel understood what Ecthelion was saying. He kissed Ecthelion’s hair again. “I do smell of dirt and sweat,” he said, “now that I really think about it.”

Under Glorfindel’s hands, Ecthelion’s body was a miracle. The bandages and the gauze fell away to reveal the long wound, stitched closed, and the bruising that painted him in mottled purple and blue. Under the devastation, his chest rose and fell. Glorfindel rested a palm against Ecthelion’s ribs for two seconds, then four. Only a few days ago, he’d held his own crumpled tunic to this spot to hold Ecthelion’s blood inside him.

“Where have you gone?” Ecthelion said.

“Nowhere,” Glorfindel said. “I’m right here.”

Ecthelion hummed. His head tilted towards the bowl of water, and the accompanying washcloths and bars of soap, on the floor next to where they sat. Glorfindel picked up a washcloth and tested the water’s temperature with his hand. They didn’t speak as Glorfindel washed Ecthelion’s skin. Neither did they speak as, afterwards, Glorfindel applied fresh salve and gauze to the wound and wrapped Ecthelion’s chest until the worst of his injury disappeared under the bandages once again. “Your hair,” Glorfindel said.

“And after that, yours.”

“Yes. Though I don’t expect you to stay. You know my hair. It’ll take a while.”

“I’ll stay,” Ecthelion said, “because I’ll be washing it.”

There was a challenge in Ecthelion’s eyes. He expected Glorfindel to object. But why did he want the work? Because it would be work, if mildly physical then still physical, and in Ecthelion’s state, it would be painful and exhausting. “Ehtelion,” Glorfindel said.

“I am well enough,” Ecthelion said, “and if I’m not, you may bundle me to bed and scold me for overestimating myself. But until then, trust me!”

“I trust you,” Glorfindel said, “but—”

Ecthelion cast him a scathing glance. Glorfindel fell silent.

But he ought to be resting, not wasting his energy on Glorfindel’s hair. There would be time enough for that later—so long as he grew better.

For whatever reason, he badly wanted to waste his energy on Glorfindel’s hair.

“All right,” Glorfindel said. “First yours. Then mine.”

They already had the round wooden tub set up near the hearth and a bowl of water simmering over the low flames. Glorfindel poured the bowl into the tub to heat the water inside while Ecthelion put on his robe, and after Glorfindel confirmed the water was hot but not scalding, Ecthelion sat with his spine against the outside of the tub and leaned his head back. His dark hair dropped into the water and floated there. Glorfindel pushed it down. He poured water over Ecthelion’s scalp.

It didn’t take long, or not as long as Glorfindel’s hair, because Ecthelion’s was straight with the texture of silk. Glorfindel moved as slowly as he could manage. This, too, was a miracle. Had Ecthelion died, it would have fallen to Glorfindel to wash his hair for the burial, but he hadn’t, and now Glorfindel washed it for a feast.

He paused, meeting Ecthelion’s eyes, and used a thumb to trace his hairline.

Ecthelion said, “We’ve both been in a strange mood.”

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

“Neither would I. Still I grasp for normalcy. Do you understand? I want—”

Glorfindel worked soap into Ecthelion’s hair, massaging Ecthelion’s scalp with his fingers.

“I want to be well,” Ecthelion finished.

“You will be.” When Ecthelion looked away, Glorfindel thought carefully before saying, “I want you to be well, too.”

Ecthelion said nothing.

Soapy water slipped through Ecthelion’s hair. Once it ran clean, Glorfindel helped him sit up and caught his hair in a soft towel. He dried it as well as he could, then took up a comb and sat behind Ecthelion, his legs crossed, his shin resting against Ecthelion’s hip. His hand grazed Ecthelion’s waist before rising to section his hair.

“All yours,” Glorfindel said at last, setting down the comb. Ecthelion began to turn, and Glorfindel shifted so that Ecthelion only had to turn halfway to come face to face with him.

He looked at Glorfindel for a little while without speaking. Glorfindel lifted his hands to the front of his own robe, meaning to take it off, but Ecthelion reached out and folded his fingers around Glorfindel’s arm. He leaned in.

“Ehtelion?”

His fingers were warm where they touched Glorfindel’s face. His lips were warmer. At first Glorfindel kept still—too still, because Ecthelion began to pull away. Glorfindel followed him, grabbing his waist to keep him where he was and to steady himself. Gently, he reminded himself, as he kissed Ecthelion properly.

They eased out of it together. Glorfindel kissed the corner of Ecthelion’s mouth. “Ehtelë,” he said and did it again.

The last time they’d kissed, they’d stood at the edge of the plain of Ard-galen only hours before Turgon ordered them onto it. Glorfindel had been watching the horizon, flat as he’d not seen it for hundreds of years, when Ecthelion had taken his hand and guided Glorfindel’s attention towards him. They’d known well that one or both of them might not return alive. Glorfindel had thought himself prepared.

Now, Ecthelion said, “Enough,” and Glorfindel subsided. Ecthelion smiled at him and cupped his cheek. “Off with your robe. The water is getting cold.”

Glorfindel dropped his robe to pool on the floor. He stepped into the bath and sank into the water, no longer hot but still warm enough to be pleasant. He reached for the ties holding his knot of curls against his scalp.

Ecthelion caught his wrist. Glorfindel lowered his arm and let Ecthelion’s hands bring down his hair.

That evening, Glorfindel led Ecthelion to the carriage that would take them to the palace. Ecthelion submitted to being helped into it, and he settled with his hands in his lap and the diamonds in his hair flashing in the summer sun. Glorfindel paused for a moment to talk to the driver. Then he climbed in after Ecthelion and settled beside him.

Ecthelion looked away, out, down the winding streets lined with white stone buildings. More people than usual walked them, and as the carriage jolted and began to move, a man and a woman lifted their arms towards it, waving. Their other arms were linked between them. Glorfindel wondered if they were husband and wife, brother and sister, friends. If she’d spent sleepless nights worrying. If she believed that though the battle was lost, all would now be well, because they were locked safe behind the mountains where Morgoth couldn’t touch them. If he believed that, too.

Ecthelion returned their wave. Belatedly, Glorfindel did as well. “I’m glad to get out,” Ecthelion said.

Glorfindel said nothing. Ecthelion nudged him. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” Glorfindel offered Ecthelion a smile. When Ecthelion didn’t appear convinced, he said, “Have I told you your hair is stunning tonight? I’ve been thinking it.”

“Don’t brag,” Ecthelion said, but his lips turned up into the ghost of a smile.

In the palace there was a feast being prepared for all the captains of the army and their families, but the lords and ladies were to dine privately with the King. The carriage took Glorfindel and Ecthelion to the private gardens, from which they entered an antechamber already crowded with their friends.

For the first few minutes, all either of them did was field great enthusiasm for Ecthelion’s recovered health. “And frankly, you’re looking better than ever!” Rôg said with greater enthusiasm than most and lifted his hand as if to pound Ecthelion on the back. Glorfindel started forward, but Rôg’s hand slowed at the last moment and landed gently on Ecthelion’s shoulder.

“It’s Glorfindel’s doing,” Ecthelion said generously even as he eyed Glorfindel with what Glorfindel thought was exasperation. Rôg eyed him with what he thought was sympathy. He could use that.

“Join us in the dining room?” he said and let his hand settle on the small of Ecthelion’s back. “I’d like to sit down.”

Usually at these functions everyone waited in the antechamber to greet the King and his kin. But that habit wasn’t so ingrained as to have become ceremony, and Rôg seemed to understand why Glorfindel was really asking. Ecthelion did, too, but in front of Rôg, he made no protest, and together the three of them headed for the dining room.

The room wasn’t large, not for the palace, but at need it seated two dozen people at a long table draped with a red tablecloth. At the head would sit Turgon with Idril on his right and Maeglin, like Aredhel before him, on his left. Glorfindel took his usual place two chairs down from the head at Idril’s right, and Ecthelion sat next to him. The others trickled in after them. Across from Glorfindel and Ecthelion and a little farther down, Egalmoth’s wife Rothurin settled into a seat without Egalmoth in sight.

“Rothurin,” Glorfindel said. “Is all well with Egalmoth?”

“As far as I know!” Rothurin replied, sounding much less the sensitive wife worrying for her husband gone out to war than Glorfindel had ever managed himself. “I saw him briefly, but he couldn’t stay for long. He’ll be coming with the King, I expect. Then you’ll see why he couldn’t stay yourself.”

Before Glorfindel could make much more than a half-baked attempt to wheedle it out of her, Turgon arrived. The lords and ladies stood, and Turgon nodded to them. Trailing behind him, as usual, were Idril and Maeglin, but behind them were Egalmoth, looking well as Rothurin had predicted, and an Elf Glorfindel didn’t recognize. He was tall with hair the color of ink, which made Glorfindel think of the Noldor, but the shape of his face was distinctly Sindarin. He might’ve been both. His eyes were dark of the light of the Trees.

As Idril and Maeglin took their places, Turgon gestured the stranger towards him. “This is Penlod,” he said, “a captain in Fingon’s army and the most senior who survives. Though we won’t take council tonight, you ought to meet him, and he you, because he’ll be representing his people when we take council going forward.”

Penlod inclined his head and then looked about the room, meeting the eyes of each person in turn. He clasped his hands in front of himself. “A pleasure.”

Glorfindel doubted that. The shadows under his eyes gave away that he hadn’t been sleeping, and his smile seemed false. There was no blame in the feelings or in the lying, but it made Glorfindel more attentive to the way Egalmoth stood close behind Penlod, the way Penlod leaned towards him.

Turgon sat, and the rest of the room followed. Penlod was placed between Maeglin and Egalmoth and so directly across from Glorfindel. As Egalmoth spoke to Rothurin, Glorfindel introduced himself and Ecthelion.

“So you’re Ecthelion,” Penlod said. “Your friends have been worried. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

“Thank you,” Ecthelion said. “All of us here tonight are fortunate.”

“Yes. The most senior of the survivors of my people I may be, but that is not very senior.”

“Those of us in this room aren’t the only fortunate ones,” Idril said. “Your people are fortunate to have you.”

Penlod inclined his head again. “Thank you, lady.”

Egalmoth and Rothurin returned their attention to the table, and under their guidance, the conversation grew more natural and turned towards lighter subjects. As the first course arrived, Egalmoth explained how he and Penlod had met in the camp at the Gates and discovered at once that their fathers were both of the Falathrim, but that only yesterday they’d discovered they were kin. “Our fathers are first cousins,” Egalmoth said.

“So Egalmoth has been my guide today,” Penlod said. “Everyone has been welcoming, not least the King and his family, but I’m glad to have kin here as well.”

Ecthelion set down his fork. “We might be kin, too, though more distantly.”

“It is on the same side of the family,” Egalmoth said. To Penlod, he added, “Ecthelion’s mother’s grandmother and mine are sisters, but while mine stayed on the eastern shores, hers sailed across the Sea.”

“You mean your father’s mother?” Penlod said to Egalmoth, and the three of them began to compare family trees. Rothurin exchanged a smile with Glorfindel over their heads before she turned to the people farther down the table.

Idril said, “How is he? I mean truly.”

She wasn’t looking at Glorfindel or even at Ecthelion. She was looking at Turgon and Maeglin, who seemed deep in council with each other, but from her expression Glorfindel could glean nothing of her opinion on this. “Better,” Glorfindel said and explained about the medicine.

The night passed as if in a dream. Glorfindel made small talk with Penlod and with Idril, and he tried not to hover over Ecthelion. By dessert, Ecthelion had fallen quiet. When Glorfindel found his hand under the table, Ecthelion humored him with a pat as if to tell him to stop worrying. “I’m well,” he said. “I could use some more medicine.”

He’d taken some just before they left. By the healers’ instructions, it was too soon for another dose. Glorfindel pulled the bottle out of his gown, which had more space for pockets than Ecthelion’s, and handed it over. Ecthelion measured it into his wine. Glorfindel thought of making a joke out of it and didn’t.

“I’m going out to the gardens,” Idril said suddenly. She touched Glorfindel’s wrist. “Will you join me, cousin?”

Glorfindel looked at Ecthelion. “I think I’ll survive,” Ecthelion said dryly, and with a huff, Glorfindel rose.

Did they spend half an hour, an hour, more out there? Later, Glorfindel wouldn’t be able to say. He felt strange sitting on a bench surrounded by lush blooming rose bushes as the sun sank behind the mountains. He knew the gardeners of the palace and knew the woman who cared for and loved its roses, and he thought about her for a while.

Idril, standing a few paces away, said, “We both needed air, I think.”

“I was all right,” Glorfindel said.

“Were you?”

“I was. How are you?” Glorfindel cast Idril a glance. “I mean truly.”

Idril laughed. “Little cousin,” she said.

Glorfindel was only half a dozen years younger than her, and as children, she’d called him that imperiously, meaning to assert the authority the scant difference in their ages afforded her. Tonight she said it with some reprimand buried in her voice. “I am like you,” she went on. “You don’t believe Ehtelion isn’t lost, not in the end. Am I wrong?”

Glorfindel said nothing.

Idril joined him on the bench. “At the beginning,” she said slowly, “I doubted my father’s project. I’d heard the Doom as well as anyone. I’d seen it come for my mother. Where could we flee? Nowhere. But sometime in the last few hundred years, I blinded myself. Well. That is no more.” She paused. “And you see it, too.”

Around a closing throat, Glorfindel said, “Yes.”

“I’m glad. Somebody must. The King doesn’t.”

“Does he not? That’s not what he said on the battlefield.”

“I know. Then Huor said what he said. His words have the weight of prophecy, I’ll give him that. Perhaps they’re right. But my father was right, too. Ondolindë will fall. What will we do when it does?”

It was the question Glorfindel had asked himself again and again since he’d come through the Gates to see Gondolin standing, against all odds it seemed, ready to succor the people fleeing the devastation outside the walls of her mountains. He’d kept it locked beneath his tongue, because his only answer was that they would fall with it, and that was not the hope anyone needed.

He and Idril fell into silence. A minute might’ve passed or an hour before Glorfindel noticed any time passing at all. Eventually he became aware that the world had darkened. “Shall we go inside?” he said. “I should check on Ehtelion.”

“Go ahead of me,” Idril said.

Glorfindel didn’t want to leave her alone, but he couldn’t deny his princess, so he went. Winding through the dark gardens, he heard voices: the gathering had moved outside.

And then a shout. Ecthelion’s.

Glorfindel rushed forward. A turn around a hedge revealed the patio where the lords and ladies had gathered and the steps down to it from a stone porch. On those steps sat Ecthelion, hunched, his gown in disarray. “Ehtelion!” Glorfindel exclaimed, and the crowd parted for him. He barely noticed them. He barely noticed Turgon crouched next to Ecthelion until he eased himself away as Glorfindel knelt.

Ecthelion’s breath came shallow and uneven. He didn’t look up from his lap. “What is it?” Glorfindel said. He looked for blood. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s all right. He only fell,” Turgon said. To Ecthelion, he added, “It will pass. Breathe through it.”

Ecthelion nodded. Glorfindel waited, his own breath caught in his throat, until Ecthelion lifted his head. He didn’t meet Glorfindel’s eyes. His gaze slipped behind Glorfindel to the crowd.

“Better?” Turgon said.

“I’m all right. I’m sorry,” Ecthelion said and shifted his legs under himself as if to stand.

Glorfindel rocked his weight forward, placing his hands on Ecthelion’s knees. “Not yet. Take another moment.”

A muscle in Ecthelion’s jaw jumped, but he didn’t resist. Neither did he look at Glorfindel. His gaze flickered downwards and to the side, and when Glorfindel took his hand his fingers were limp. How much pain was he in? Glorfindel began to think about the stitches, about the violence of the fall.

“Has a moment passed?” Ecthelion said.

“Glorfindel,” Turgon said, and his tone had Glorfindel leaning back. Ecthelion pushed himself up.

Glorfindel stood with him. He touched Ecthelion’s shoulders, his arms, restless and alert for any unsteadiness. Behind him, the crowd began to cheer. Glorfindel whirled around, holding Ecthelion by the waist, and gave them the smile they wanted.

It wasn’t going to come from Ecthelion, after all. He was stiff under Glorfindel’s hand, and his face was stone. He said, “I think it’s time to leave.”

For once they agreed. “Yes,” Glorfindel said. “Please! Let’s get you home.”

In the carriage, Ecthelion wouldn’t allow Glorfindel to touch him. “Don’t be embarrassed,” Glorfindel said. “There’s no reason to be. No one thought poorly of you because of it, especially since they know how you earned your wounds. Some of them owe their lives to you.” He paused, waiting for Ecthelion to speak, to turn and look at him, but Ecthelion was silent, sitting tucked into the corner with his head turned towards the passing buildings. His gown was dark. If there was blood, it would be hard to spot. “We ought to call the healer. I’m worried about your stitches.”

“We’re not calling the healer.”

“Why not?”

“I refuse to interrupt anyone’s night for your fussing.”

Glorfindel bit his tongue until he could speak out of anything but anger. “It isn’t fussing,” he said. “You fell. That might well have reopened the wound.”

“I feel fine.”

“At least let me check. I’ll only call the healer if I see a problem.”

Ecthelion didn’t reply. Glorfindel stared at him, unable to look away but not sure why. Maybe to make sure that Ecthelion stayed alive, that he stayed sitting upright and breathing.

When the carriage rumbled to a stop, Glorfindel reached for Ecthelion’s arm, but Ecthelion shook his head. He climbed stiffly to the ground, and Glorfindel hovered behind him as he made his slow way through the garden and up the stairs to their door. When he paused just inside with his hand on the wall, Glorfindel waited with him.

“You cling like a burr sometimes, don’t you,” Ecthelion said.

“Sit on the sofa,” Glorfindel said, “and I’ll fetch the supplies.”

“You cling, but you don’t bother listening to me when I speak to you. If I told you that I was going to bed now, never mind your fussing about my stitches, what would you say?”

“What are you talking about? I’m not calling a healer on your request. Now go sit on the sofa.”

“No,” Ecthelion said.

Glorfindel stared at him. “Do not act like a child.”

“Does it matter if I do? You’re already treating me like one.”

“I’m treating you like I don’t want to wake up next to you in the middle of the night to find you bleeding out!”

“As if that would happen! I fell, Laurefindel. I wasn’t stabbed again.”

What was the look on Glorfindel’s face? Ecthelion’s own face changed in response to it. “If you’re really so worried,” he said, “then I’ll check myself. But I don’t want you clinging anymore tonight. All right?” Glorfindel said nothing. “Laurefindelë. All right?”

“All right,” Glorfindel said.

Ecthelion nodded, then turned on his heel and left.

Glorfindel rested his head against the wall, the gems in his hair digging into his scalp where they were pressed between it and the stone. He thought of going out to the garden. Of sitting on the sofa with a bowl of strawberries. Of following Ecthelion. Would Ecthelion be able to wrap his bandages again? Glorfindel didn’t know. He’d always been the one to do it.

What if Ecthelion lied? Glorfindel wanted to trust him but found, with a lurch in his stomach, that he didn’t. If Ecthelion said he had checked but he had not, then Glorfindel might wake in the middle of the night to blood on his hands. And that was if he was even allowed in their bed that night. If he wasn’t, he might find Ecthelion in the morning, cold and unwakeable.

On some level he thought Ecthelion was right, that he was being paranoid. The healers weren’t worried, not like he was. But they’d been wrong before. They’d been so sure Aredhel would live.

Glorfindel turned his cheek into the stone. He should’ve followed Ecthelion. He could still follow Ecthelion. But what would he be met with? Anger that he cared whether Ecthelion lived or died?

That didn’t matter. It was what he must do. He pushed himself away from the wall and made his way to the kitchen. He should bring Ecthelion water. His hand gripped an empty cup, but it wouldn’t do. It was dirty, used earlier that day during Duilin’s visit. He set it aside and found a clean one. The spout’s handle jammed.

Water sprayed everywhere. With a curse, Glorfindel dropped the cup and leaned his weight onto the handle to stop the water. All fell silent. Glorfindel stared at the cup on the ground. He needed to pick it up, so he crouched. Then he sat.

“Laurefindel?”

“Ehtelë,” Glorfindel gasped. A hand touched his arm. This wasn’t right. Ecthelion was hurt. “I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not. Will you look at me?”

Glorfindel looked. Ecthelion smiled at him and dropped a rag onto his hands, using it to dry them. He knelt with his knees in the water. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Glorfindel swallowed. “I don’t want you to die.”

“You don’t want me to die, so you’re sitting in a puddle on the kitchen floor.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. You scared me. I was going to bring you water. But.” Glorfindel gestured helplessly at the mess.

Ecthelion wasn’t paying attention to that. His eyes searched Glorfindel’s face, and after a moment, he pulled Glorfindel in. His hand rubbed circles into Glorfindel’s back. The spout settled in Glorfindel’s vision, and the window beyond it, too. He hadn’t realized before that he was struggling to see what was right in front of him.

“I’m still unhappy with you,” Ecthelion said, “but I’m also sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“I’m sorry, too,” Glorfindel said.

“What for?”

Glorfindel pulled away, though not so far that Ecthelion couldn’t keep his hand on Glorfindel’s waist, grounding him. Then, shamed, he pulled away farther so that Ecthelion’s hand fell to his thigh. “For sitting in a puddle on the kitchen floor! You’re hurt. I can’t afford to fall—”

“You still don’t understand, do you?”

Glorfindel made no answer.

“Do you think I want to die, either?” Ecthelion said. “Of course not. I’m no coward. If someday I’m called upon to give my life, I will. But. I scared myself. I’ve never known before how fragile I am.” Ecthelion’s hand squeezed Glorfindel’s leg, and when Glorfindel laid his own hand over it, Ecthelion gave him a pinched look. “I feel like glass. I wish I didn’t. It’s made harder when you treat me like any moment I might shatter.”

Glorfindel curled his fingers around Ecthelion’s warm hand and leaned in again. Ecthelion’s ribs, his stomach, moved with his breath against Glorfindel’s body. He did seem like glass. How could he not? But all the same he had survived. “I’m sorry,” Glorfindel said.

“All right. We should talk about it, but not tonight. Tomorrow, when we’re no longer sitting in a puddle on the floor.”

Tomorrow seemed an age away. Glorfindel said, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I was in so much pain,” Ecthelion said. “That medicine really is helping.”

They looked at each other. Ecthelion smiled wryly, and Glorfindel kissed him, close-mouthed but firm. He climbed to his feet and lifted Ecthelion with him.

Ecthelion slipped away to check his stitches while Glorfindel cleaned the kitchen. Then they readied for bed. They changed into sleeprobes, undid each other’s hair, and sat on their bed with their legs tucked under the covers. The moon was full and rising in the east, and through the window over the headboard it threw its light across the room. Glorfindel traced the moonlight dappling the sheets with his fingers and thought long and hard about whether or not he should speak, but if he couldn’t say it to Ecthelion, then he could say it to nobody.

“That’s how I always dream of dying,” he said. “Shattering. At the bottom of some cliff.”

He hadn’t yet asked Ecthelion what he thought of Gondolin falling, if he thought Turgon’s words foresight or pessimism, so he didn’t know what Ecthelion was going to say. Perhaps he would tell Glorfindel his thoughts were only dark fancies.

Ecthelion said, “I dream of drowning.”

Glorfindel breathed in. He leaned into Ecthelion and let the world fade out. “Do you remember? In Valinor, we,” he said, and then he couldn’t continue.

“I think of Húrin and Huor. They lived with it all their lives, and now they’ve gone into the dark, and I can’t believe it’s all bad for them. Even if it seemed so, they never feared it.”

“Never in front of us, you mean.”

“Then if they did fear it, they knew how to live with it. We’ll learn. And then we’ll go into the dark, and what we think of it won’t matter anymore.”

It was a different dark than the one Húrin and Huor had gone into, of course, and Glorfindel and Ecthelion had chosen it as they had not. But the choice was made. The Doom was upon them, and when their spirits finally fled to Mandos, they might well never see the world outside its walls again.

“Or so I can only hope,” Ecthelion said. He lay back into the pillows. Glorfindel lay down with him. He didn’t dare lie on Ecthelion, but he drew close and rested his head on Ecthelion’s shoulder. His fingers traced the bandages on Ecthelion’s chest.

Ecthelion stopped him with a hand on his elbow. Glorfindel smiled sheepishly. “You are glass, I think. So are we all! I’m sorry. I’ll endeavor not to treat you any differently than anyone else.”

“Go to sleep,” Ecthelion said.

Glorfindel couldn’t imagine sleeping anytime soon. All the same he turned his face into Ecthelion’s shoulder and closed his eyes, and he breathed in time with Ecthelion as his chest rose and fell under Glorfindel’s hand.