For Saruwatari, who asked for Ecthelion and music, and for the Spoonies in my life, who remind me daily to be brave and enjoy what I have now.
He sat gazing out at the restless sea, the crash of the waves and cries of the birds wheeling and diving for tidbits washed up by the storm a counterpart to the turmoil in his mind.
Re-born, fëa once again housed in a body that was perfect, free of the visible scars.
But the marks of memory, those still lingered. He felt them, every place the fire had touched his skin, melting it, melding it to his armor. Every lash that had scored his skin, the acrid stench of his hair and flesh burning in the inferno he had embraced.
The pain of the memories had been eased in Mandos, but Ecthelion remembered. Oh, he reveled in the feel of gritty sand between his toes, and the sharp tang of the sea. Silver eyes closed and he lifted his face to glory in the rush of the wind against his skin, tugging at his clothing and hair.
And the music of the sea… That he had not heard since Vinyamar, since leading his House from the shore to the hidden mountains and the city that would be both prison and protection for the next four hundred years. The Echoriath had music of its own. Wind had raced down the mountains, through the passes and played through the streets of Gondolin, pushing leaves into swirling dances and sending the pennants snapping in the cool air. It had set the waters of the fountains dancing, splashing silvered sunlight across the courtyards, and forming rainbows in the mists.
The elves of Aman thought he missed it, Gondolin. Thought he mourned for a place that had been home for such a short time, and the glory of the white city.
He had hated it. If not for his friends, his people, his lord, Ecthelion would have remained in Vinyamar, by the sea and been well content. But he had responsibilities, and an oath to his lord that bound him to follow and protect.
Gondolin had been a prison. One that Ecthelion had despaired of escaping until the man came. Tuor, with Ulmo's blessing upon him and the scent of the sea in his hair and clothing. Tuor, who had voiced the Vala's warning, and for a short time Ecthelion had hoped they would escape the mountains.
No, he didn't mourn the city. He had died for it, that was penance enough.
And yet, it had taken so much from him. It seemed cruel that now, here in Alqualondë, re-born, re-embodied, healed and whole, that peace still eluded him.
"I thought to find you here."
The rustle of skirts blended with the notes of the wind, and he gave a nod, not needing to look to see who had joined him.
"You're much like her, your mother, you know." Pushing silver hair behind an ear, the woman turned her head to gaze at her grandson's profile. "Oh, you look more like your father's family, the height and that black hair. That's his blood." She brushed black hair from his face, letting her hand linger on his cheek. "But the eyes. No Noldo has stars for eyes."
It made him snort and shake his head. Ecthelion slanted a glance at her, full of affection and something else.
"What? Too poetic, lad? You've been away, that's all. Forgotten how we sea folk like the music of words, the flow, the tempo and trills." Eyes exactly the shape and colour of his own held his gaze. "Your grandfather would have you back on the ships, and your father would have you in Tirion." Hands strong with ages of shaping wood and notes found his hand and squeezed it. "I would like to know what Ehtel wants."
Ehtel. He sighed and shook his head, gaze tracking as if pulled to the sea again. Westward. There he had been Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountains. Here, he was Ehtel. Son of a stonewright, grandson of a shipwright. But always, as before, as then, between two worlds, son of shore and son of tradition.
"You're the son of your mother and my grandson as well."
A slight smile. She always did know what he was thinking. It had been annoying when he'd been a younger man. Now it was comforting to know someone still knew him this well. Ecthelion squeezed her hands, fingers finding the calluses and tracing them. On the fingers, those were from stringed instruments. On the sides of the fingers, that was from the woodwinds where the instruments were balanced. His own hands had been callused as well, but in a pattern that spoke of working with swords and staves.
Now his hands were soft. No calluses at all.
"Ehtel." One hand came up to touch his face, to call his attention back. "Will you stay silent forever?"
He leaned into the touch, helping it to ground him in the here and now. His mind tended to drift, and much of his memory was still something he shied away from. Too many memories were painful yet.
"I miss your voice, Ehtel." Thumb stroking his cheek, she studied his face. "Your sweet voice. Can you not sing one song for me?"
Sing? He'd not even spoken since awaking in Lórien's garden and finding himself free of Mandos. There was nothing…and too much… to say. His mind was a jumble of words, crashing and rushing like the waves fell upon the sands. How could he pull one word from the depths? Music, oh he loved music. It had filled his mind, spilled into his every word and laugh, even chasing him to Gondolin where the rocks sang.
Ecthelion sighed and took hold of her hand, turning it to press a light kiss upon her knuckles. Some things had not changed. His love for his family, torn as his loyalties were between them, that had not altered. Absence and loss had only made them more precious.
He released her hand and pulled a tube from his cloak pocket. A simple reed whistle, something he had vague memories of fashioning for a bright-eyed boy in Gondolin. It was the only thing he could bear to play yet. Flutes held too many memories of fire and flame. The clash of swords and the screams of the dying drowned out the sweet notes. This though, it was simple, rustic. It called to mind the sea, the dunes.
This needed no words. The wind moaned and sighed, dancing across the waves, lifting the birds high before racing off to dance through the sea oats. These were his words, the only words he had for now, these notes that rose and twined with the world around him before slowly dropping down, ruffling a tidal pool's stillness before melting into the twilight. Hands still again, fingers tracing the holes of the whistle, Ecthelion waited, hoping she understood.
Rising, she leaned to kiss his forehead. "Come in when you're ready. I'll keep the food warm."
A nod, but Ecthelion didn't move. Some nights he sat watching the stars, their twinkling and pulsing creating a song he wondered if Eärendil heard as he sailed the heavens. Songs older than Eärendil, far older than Gondolin, older even than his grandmother, would rise and that... That was all he needed. Yes, he would go inside eventually and eat because his body required sustenance, but his soul could live forever on the songs of these people who loved the sea. They sang far more than mere words could express. There in the darkness, with the songs and the stars flaming brightly above, Ecthelion could feel the Music seeping back into his soul. The Music that had shaped all things and that here, in the waters, could still be heard.
They sang of healing and wholeness and he hardly dared to hope that some small part of it was true for him. That the dreams he had once held dear, the dreams that had died in the ashes and fire, sank deep in a fountain, could be his. That one day he might look at his hands and not see the skin twisted and blistered, but whole. They had told him he was healed. Restored.
He scarcely dared believe. It seemed a dream that he would awaken from to find himself again in the Halls, with Námo bending to soothe his fëa from another terror.
Live again, they had said, but they had not told him how. His heart beat again. Many times he sat with his hand on his chest, just feeling the beat pulse through his body. It had stopped once, this immortal heart, under the weight of water and darkness. What was to keep it from doing so again? How could he ever trust it again? Even the thought of burdening another with his hopes... It seemed too cruel. Far better to push the dreams he'd cherished (a wife, children) away, and keep this weakness, this vulnerability where it belonged. To himself. In himself.
And what words could explain that to his family? They looked and saw him as he had been before he had crossed the grinding ice. They didn't see the wrecked and ruined self he had been when Námo had called him to the Halls, the self that sometimes he expected to see when he looked in a mirror. Only in his eyes could they see the weight of his experience that haunted him. The flame of the Two Trees still danced in his eyes, he was...restored, re-embodied. Physically, yes, but in mind, in spirit, Ecthelion felt the difference. And one thought chased round his mind, over and over: this was how it would be now.
He could never again be the person they had known. He didn't know how to reconcile the difference, how to dream, how to live with hope. What words would express the sense of disconnect he felt? Námo had seen into his spirit and mind. There had been no secrets, no need to try to put into words what he was thinking. His family treated him as if they were afraid he would break apart into pieces with one wrong word and he hated that they even felt the need to be careful with him.
A wave crashed to the beach, and the sea spray misted across his skin. Ecthelion closed his eyes. There were words in the water, in the waves, in the wind playing through the sea oats. Words that spoke to his troubled heart. He drew in a deep breath, diaphragm expanding as he had been taught oh, so long ago. He tightened his diaphragm and opened his throat and let the wordless sound mingle with the waves, starting low. The sound cracked, his throat catching and trapping the sound and Ecthelion let his breath out in a sigh. Of course. His muscles were not trained as they had been, just as the calluses he had were no longer present.
It would take work and time to re-gain his skill. If he could. Perhaps that too had changed.
He would never know until he tried.
Looking up to the night sky he saw that dawn was just beginning to lighten the edges of the horizon, and far, far above him one bright star moved slowly, steadily across the sky.
Eärendil. Ecthelion stood and brushed the sand from his clothing and hands. He stared up at the star, amazed anew that the child he had known in Gondolin now sailed the stars. "Hail, Gil-Estel," he whispered, and let himself hope.
Notes:
Gil-Estel: When Eärendil's ship was hallowed and he first flew her in the sky, the people named the him Gil-Estel, The Star of High Hope.
The title comes from a musical notation, "mordent". Rapidly play the principal note, the next higher note (according to key signature) then return to the principal note for the remaining duration. It just seemed to fit a re-embodied Ecthelion, who is slowly figuring out what to do with the rest of his life. How an elf heals from something as horrific as many of the deaths we read about in The Silmarillion, how they get past the memories and loss of friends and find life again is something that fascinates me. We do it in our own lives, and that resilient spirit never fails to amaze me. I'll explore it more in other stories. Thank you for reading!