A king who spent all of his time holed up in his palace … or his hidden city … and spent no time with his people, learning their struggles and fighting with them, did not make a very good king. Isolation was not a good long-term strategy. One afternoon, perhaps four months after Gloredhel's rebirth, she was just dismounting from her horse—the great grey stallion who had carried her from Lorien to Tirion and who for love of her had returned and refused to be parted from her—across from her uncle after accompanying him on business in the city when a flash of movement off to her left drew her attention southward. The flash of movement was inconsequential—a bird suddenly taking to flight—but then Gloredhel's eyes were drawn much further south to Taniquetil, which towered above the southern edge of the Calacirya.

The sky was clear that afternoon, even high up in the mountains, and the shadows of the great birds who brought news to Manwe of the happenings on the Hither Shores could be seen circling Taniquetil or flying back into the east until they disappeared from sight. The distance from Tirion to Taniquetil was not little, and even to most elven eyes, the birds would have seemed small. Yet, Irime had not erred when she named her daughter Hendumaica, "Keen-Sighted One," and Gloredhel was accounted to have the greatest eyesight of her generation and the preceding one, as well.

Gloredhel lifted up one long-fingered hand to shade her eyes, and she peered south, straining her eyes to discern more. For one of those great creatures circling Taniquetil, the largest of them … largest by far! … seemed strangely familiar, by size if nothing else. For even at that distance, her eyes struggled to make out most details, though she could see more than most.

Thorondor?

Could it be?

"Gloredhel?" A gentle hand touched her shoulder. Gloredhel turned. Her uncle was peering at her with concern in his eyes. "Are you well?"

"Taniquetil drew my eye, Atar," she replied, her gaze going back south for a moment, "Is that," she hesitated, "I thought I might have seen Lord Thorondor flying about the peak, but it cannot be, can it? For he dwelt on the Hither Shores when last I knew."

Though that was over five-hundred years ago now…

Anything that Gloredhel had known, which her uncle or Galdor or another had not updated her on, was grievously out of date. Even the land she had known was gone forever.

"It could be," Arafinwë shrugged, passing his reins over to an attendant with a quiet word of thanks, "though your eyes are keener than mine, my dear. Lord Thorondor fought mightily in the War of Wrath, but he suffered grievous wounds while aiding Earendil in the fight against Ancalagon the Black, the greatest and mightiest of Melkor's winged dragons. He returned to Aman at war's end to find healing, and he has a new roost high in the mountains, though not on Taniquetil, I believe."

Ancalagon … now that is one story I haven't heard yet, I think.

It is simply hard enough to imagine little Earendil all grown up.

But later …

Gloredhel glanced up at the sky, judging the hour by the position of the sun. Early afternoon yet. I ate already. "I shall ride out again and return by nightfall, if you allow and do not need me, of course."

"As I said before, my dear, you do not need my permission to go anywhere in this land," Arafinwë replied, pulling off his riding gloves and glancing back toward the house for a moment where Finrod had appeared in the doorway, "Lord Thorondor did your brother a great service. Go."

How different you are from Turvo! Turgon had carefully controlled who left the city, aside from controlling arbitrarily who was allowed to leave the Tumladen, and by the end, Gloredhel had rarely left Gondolin except to meet with Thorondor or go on the occasional mining trip with Rog. I argued enough against his policies that he was getting quite wary of me.

After waving to Finrod and calling out a quick greeting, Gloredhel swung herself effortlessly back onto her horse's back and curled her fingers into Rochallor's mane, for that was what she had named the great steed who reminded her so much of Nolofinwë's warhorse. "Yes, he did, for which I shall be eternally grateful, but he was my friend, too, first. There was a reason Rog gave me the epessë Thorondil."

A story for another time. Even after four months there were stories left to be told on both sides, for much had happened in the last millennia, and there was much Gloredhel still had not told of her relationship with Rog and how much that was wrapped up with politics in Gondolin in the final two hundred years before its fall.

"Good journey, then," her uncle nodded, stepping back, "We will look for your return by nightfall."

And if I lose track of time, there will no longer be the concern that an evil fate has befallen me or I decided to leave Gondolin after all.

Despite her wish for haste, Gloredhel kept Rochallor to a slow pace as she threaded her way through the streets of Tirion and out of the city, but once they passed under the great gate out and were heading down the gentle slope toward the plain, she urged her stallion into a canter and turned them south toward Taniquetil. Two hours pleasant ride later, Gloredhel slowed her horse down from a canter for the last time and then, after a few more paces, clucked to him to stop.

Gloredhel was standing now in the shadow of the mountain, though some ways off still from where the land sloped up, and the great peak of Taniquetil towered high above, stretching up and up and up into the bright afternoon sky until the top almost seemed to touch the stars above. The Pelori made the Echoriath, the mountain range which had, at one time, protected Gondolin seem puny and insignificant by comparison.

A site I was never sure I would see again.

And then, her words full of power, she began to Sing of the sun in the heavens, of the winds that brought news from afar and carried great hunters aloft, of battles won and lost, of long defeats and enduring hope, of protection that came on eagle's wings, and of long and steadfast friendship that endured even beyond the grave.

There was a heartbeat of silence when Gloredhel's Song died away, but then came an answering cry, the shriek of an eagle, so loud and piercing that her hands twitched momentarily to cover her ears. Seconds later a massive form launched itself from one of the peaks neighboring Taniquetil. (Gloredhel dismounted and dismissed her horse to roam upon the plain until she called.)

He comes.

This never gets less impressive.

Down Thorondor swept on wings that nearly blotted out the sun for their sheer size, descending like an arrow shot from a bow, such was his speed. It took less than minute for the King of the Eagles to plummet from his eyrie high above to the ground. Though his landing was comparatively gentle, the force of the wind across the ground from his back-winging as he slowed his speed before he landed made Gloredhel stumble backwards several steps, even though she was used to such landings, and she threw up a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden cloud of dirt.

Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles, was well-accounted to be the greatest of Manwe's eagles, if, at least, for no other reason than his extraordinary size. His wingspan from wing-tip to wing-tap stretched a veritable thirty fathoms, which was almost as great as twenty-five of the Noldor if their heights were combined. Even his height above the ground was at least as much as that of eight to nine elves. His piercing golden eyes were the size of the serving platters at the high table at almost any court and full of cunning and alien wisdom. The razor-sharp claws that tipped each foot could fully encircle a grown man and carry him safely away without injury, like with my uncle or my brother, or rip through flesh like a knife through softened butter and rip limb from limb.

Unlike Huan who would just as happily slobber all over us and let us scratch his belly as rip Orcs to shreds, no one would ever call the eagles outright friendly, and they would never induce awes from the children.

Many found the Great Eagles intimidating, if not outright terrifying, both for their size and for their role as the servants of Manwe. However, Gloredhel, who had learned the speech of birds from Cousin Tyelko in her youth and who had befriended Thorondor and his people in Gondolin, learning their ways and spending considerable amounts of time with them, found them awe-inspiring and, once one understood their alien way of thinking … for what creature of heaven looks at goings-on on land the same way as we on the earth … found them to be some of the truest, most loyal companions possible and Thorondor to be one of the wisest beings she knew.

"Hail and well-met, old friend," Gloredhel cried, bowing low in honor of all Thorondor had done for her and her people, "Glad am I to stand before the Lord of the Eagles once more." Though she often spoke solely the tongue of the eagles when amongst the Great Eagles, there were some words that had no equivalent, and she knew not the words to express her thanks in their tongue.

So very, very glad.

"Long have I looked for your coming," Thorondor spoke Quenya as fluently as any of elven-kind, though his beak distorted his inflection of certain words, "You and your nest-mates did mighty deeds, and great was the harm you inflicted upon the armies of the Black Foe."

"And yet, we died, and too many were lost, and great was the fall of Gondolin."

If only we had listened to Tuor at the first.

"No victory comes without sacrifice," Thorondor replied, settling down upon the ground and bending his head low so that he did not peer down at Gloredhel from such a prodigious height, "As the eagles well know, for many fledglings and warriors we lost fighting against the Black Foe. Long did the eagles morn your deaths, and no foul thing disturbed your graves until the world was changed and they were buried beneath the sea."

That final statement threw Gloredhel for a loop, and a puzzled look crossed her face. Graves? She knew Thorondor's actions had allowed her brother to be buried by the survivors of Gondolin, but what did he mean by "graves"?

"I was told of your aid to my brother while I dwelt in Mandos' Halls, and many were the blessings that I poured upon your name," and here Gloredhel bowed again to punctuate her words, but then she straightened, cocking her head curiously in a bird-like manner, "But what do you mean by graves?"

For a moment Thorondor almost looked offended, and he shook himself mightily in a rustle of feathers, "For love of your people and in honor of his mighty deed, I bore Glorfindel from the abyss. But we swore oaths of eternal friendship, you and I. Did you think I would leave your body to rot in the city, Little Chick?"

"We were fighting for our lives. By the end," Gloredhel replied dryly, "I had no thought but forcing the next breath into my lungs and taking out the next orc before it killed me first. There was no time to think of what came after, and in the Halls, too, other things were on my mind."

I knew I was going to die. We were all going to die.

You spend your life as dearly as you can.

Every second counted for the others.

Thorondor seemed to accept that and settled back down, "I searched long before I found you amidst a great ring of foes. I bore you from the abyss and buried you among our own fallen, for I was needed in the north, and there was no time to bear you to your own kin, south or east."

I doubt that our feud would have prevented Maedhros from conducting funeral rites for me. Maglor, Maedhros, and Amras had all still lived then, holding Amon Ereb in the west. I wished I could have made peace with him and with Tyelko before the Nirnaeth. Considering the Oath they had sworn, she did not know when if ever she might see them again. Despite all that happened, all the evil they did, I wish we had parted for the last time with kinder words. She had dearly loved the cousins she had known in her youth and still cared for her cousins, despite what they had become.

Círdan, the Shipwright's folk would have laid me to rest with all honor. The twins had met the Shipwright at the Feast of Reuniting and greatly respected him, and he was kin of Olwë, Aunt Eärwen's father, though Thingol, though how exactly Círdan and Thingol were related, she did not know.

Artanis … I have no idea where she was … is.

Save for my cousins … all had perished. Especially for the elves, there was something particularly horrifying and heart-rending, even in the midst of such widespread death and destructions, to outlive large portions of your family … your once quite-large family.

"And I thank you," Gloredhel replied, blinking back tears, "for such an honor and again for the aid that you gave to the survivors of my city. If there is ever aught that I can do for you, your people, your children, you have but to name it, and I will do it if it is within my power."

Thorondor bowed his great head in acknowledgement, "Tell me, have your nest mates or your bond-mate returned yet from the halls of the dead?"

Gloredhel shook her head, "No, only my cousin Finrod—the High King's son—and I have yet returned of my blood-kin. My brothers and my husband died hard. When they are healed, I have been assured, they shall return."

"Good," Thorondor's feathers rustled as he shifted position, "Their falls were worthy of song, even among my brethren."

She took a few strides closer to the great eagle and then sunk to a seat in the grass next to him so that his shadow fell over her and shaded her slightly from the sun, "Tis true, and though songs have come across the sea and the bards have offered to sing them for me, I have not had the stomach to hear them yet, for the halls bring healing but not forgetfulness, and the grief is still too near."

I watched them die. I watched them die with my own eyes and was powerless to help.

She had almost felt sick the first time those lays had been suggested, shocked into silence, wide-eyed and horrified. It had been her uncle's quick reaction that had shut down that suggestion.

Arto was no better when someone was singing about Beren and Luthien. Amil stopped that quickly, though not before Finrod had gone almost corpse-pale. Who thought that would be a good idea?! He was the one who dueled Gorthaur and lost. He doesn't need a reminder.

Gloredhel took a deep, steadying breath, forcing her mind away, "I must thank you also, old friend, for those feathers you gave to me. Between your feathers for the fletching and the arrowheads Rog spell-forged for me, I had many deadly shafts that served me in good stead before I fell. Some served to aid the Hammer of Wrath in taking down a fire-drake."

(Rog had been mentally shouting instructions to her as she stood atop the wall, and she had done her best to turn the fire-drake's eyes into pincushions. I don't think I will ever manage a shot like that one that went down his gullet!)

"Then they were put to great stead. It pleases me that they served you so well," the great eagle replied, "It is that season again, and I have many feathers in my nest that you may have if you desire."

I need to return to practicing archery.

And I break my writing quills from time to time.

"I would be glad of the gift," Gloredhel replied.

Thorondor extended a wing in mute invitation, and she scrambled up onto his back with the ease of long practice and great familiarity and settled down between his wings, hooking her fingers deep into his feathers for balance. Once she was settled, Thorondor took to the skies, propelled upward by several great beats of his mighty wings. Flying was an awe-inspiring, almost surreal experience, and having no fear of falling—she had only nearly fallen once and that on her second ride—and no fear that her old friend would accidently drop her, Gloredhel was free to gaze at Valinor from the skies for the first time in her long life as her homeland was stretched out below her. With the aid of her keener-than-normal eyesight, she could see for miles and miles: the great hill where the Two Trees once stood, the shadows of the forest of Oromë in the south and Lorien in the north, and Valimar, also.

It was amazing.

Truly amazing.

Awe-inspiring.

Breathtaking.

One could probably run out of adjectives to describe seeing this.

Thorondor's nest was high in the mountains, and the air seemed thin, thin enough that Gloredhel would have not liked to spend a long time that high but not so thin as to be dangerous. The cold … that I like even less than the air, though it seemed warmer with the warmth of the bright sun shining down on them. After admiring the view, she gathered the feathers that littered the massive nest and deposited them gently into her cloak, which she was using as a makeshift basket. When she had finished, Thorondor took her back down to the valley floor, and they settled down on the grass to talk until the sun began to sink toward the horizon, and the time for Gloredhel to return to Tirion.

"Farewell! wherever you fare, till your eyries receive you at the journey's end," Thorondor bid her farewell, dropping out of Quenya into his own chittering tongue.

Gloredhel bowed low, as low as she would bow to anyone not the High King of the Noldor, and also switched out of Quenya, "Farewell. May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

For that was the polite way to bid each other farewell among the eagles.

Thorondor took to the sky, and once the dust had settled, Gloredhel let loose a piercing whistle. When minutes, hoofbeats sounded, and Rochallor cantered up. Cradling her burden carefully in one arm, Gloredhel swung onto his back and turned his face toward home.