Ecthelion
I first noticed something was amiss in the King's Square. My Lord Turgon's face in the moments before his speech betrayed him; I know my Lord's face better than I know my own. Centuries of friendship on both sides of the Helcaraxë have gifted me with the ability to guess my Lord's thoughts to an uncanny degree of accuracy.
In those few moments, I see recognition and fear flash in those familiar grey eyes, and I instantly know something has happened. Yet Lord Turgon makes no move of panic; his desire to protect his people from fear is obvious to me. Once out of public view, however, I foresee the false merriment painted on his face to appease the crowd will disappear, and a council will be called at discuss whatever news my King has to share.
I know not for certain how he has gained this knowledge, though I can make several likely guesses. His family has long been known for the gift of foresight, a talent which often appears in times of great need. From his elevated position he may have seen one of Lord Manwë's eagles bearing tidings, or a member of the morning watch lighting the warning beacons upon the hill tops. For now, though, I have to be content with my guesswork, and keep my visage calm so as not to alert the people as to what may be amiss.
I let my eyes wander, seemingly aimlessly, towards my great friend Lord Glorfindel, who, as luck would have it, is looking my way. I make eye contact and reach up to twirl a strand of hair around my smallest finger; a seemingly innocent motion. To us, however, it is part of the secret code we developed as elflings to help with our mischief making. The motion's meaning is thus: trouble is incoming – act natural. As elflings, this was only used if we were about to be caught switching the salt and sugar, or similar acts of disobedience, but the code has been easily adapted for moments such as these. Glorfindel gives a discrete wink – message received.
He turns away from me, facing the nearby street with a suppressed smile upon his face as he speaks to a cousin standing next to him. From my position toward the back of the throng lining the crowded avenue, I hear the parade far more clearly than I see it. The jovial music had begun to waft its way throughout its conduit's route long before the marchers themselves had come down this way. Even now I can barely make out between the heads and shoulders of those in front of me their vibrant attire, gallant horses, and shining instruments.
I genuinely try to smile as I see the laughing faces of the children who run to gather the candy with which the performers have oh-so-carelessly littered the road. The sobering look on Turgon's face, however, lingers in the back of my mind, a token and an omen that simply refuse to dissipate; I know it is only a matter of time before I discover its cause. I lift my gaze to the vast, azure sky, probing the direction from whence had sprung Turgon's dismay for any lasting sign of its source, but there is nothing to be seen. The far-off beacons remain dark, and no trace of an incoming Eagle taints the horizon. Strange.
I am drawn from my reverie, however, by a voice in my ear and a hand being clapped on my shoulder from behind. I whirl around, and greeting my eyes is the concerned countenance of my Lord's daughter.
"Ecthelion," she is saying, anxiety colouring her voice yet blanching her cheeks, "my father requires your and Glorfindel's counsel in the palace immediately."
"Why?" I say, already moving through the crowd to collect Glorfindel from the street's edge.
Idril, following close behind me, replies in a low, barely audible tone, "Thorondor is here."
"Oh," is my only answer. That explains everything, from my Lord's expression to the absence of an eagle from my line of sight: Thorondor is notorious for bringing only the gravest of tidings to Ondolindë's folk, and he truly flies with the speed of the wind. He and his news must have already passed over the palace and out of view.
I offer my Lady my arm, and we move gracefully through the crowded streets, fake smiles painted upon our faces. The people, consumed with the gaiety brought on by the festivities, notice nothing out of place, offering smiles and bows before continuing to follow the main body of the parade.
We reach the street side quickly, Glorfindel's mane of flame bright hair attracting us like moths to a beacon. He is still in conversation with his cousin, a boy barely past manhood when he crossed The Ice. He has not inherited Glorfindel's over-bright hair, yet there is a sparkle in his eyes that the golden Lord shares. His eyes scan the crowds, searching for my face, and he dismissed the younger Lord as our eyes met.
When Lady Idril and I came into sight, his eyes widened. He knows the severity of the situation now, even if he knows not what has happened: Lady Idril would not accompany me to share the news if the information were less severe.
"What sorrows have befallen us, beloved friend and beautiful Lady?" Typical Glorfindel, even in the direst of situations his flowery language never departs. 'Tis my belief his language is the reason for his house – the flower-tongued lord of the Golden Flower.
"Thorondor." My brevity contrasts sharply with Glorfindel's panache.
"Ah. We have been summoned to grace our Lord's ears with our advice, I assume." Only the faint pallor of his cheeks betrays Glorfindel's anxiety. He knows as well as I do that news carried by Thorondor could mean our betrayal to the enemy.
"My father requires our presence. Come – Lord Maeglin shall deal with the formalities of the parade. His presence will smooth over our absence. We must hurry. Thorondor may have already delivered the news. We may have to prevent a response my family is famous for."
Glorfindel, despite his outer blaséity, clearly recognizes the anxiety in Idril's voice, and begins to slither through the crowd his way to the palace with a force that, coming from someone whose etiquette was even slightly less polished, would be called terribly rude. The people, however, seem honoured to let him pass, as his, "Pardon me, kind miss," and "Excuse me, forbearing sir," clear the way through the great body of onlookers.
Idril and I follow in his train, taking full advantage of his courtesy to increase our own speed. It is not a far walk to the palace's front doors at this rate, and we soon have reached that marble entryway. A guard at first gives Glorfindel a quizzical look, but when Idril emerges from the crowd behind him- yes, the sea of spectators floods even to the citadel's feet- he bows and opens the doors for the three of us.
Sunlight filters in from the occasional window along the white corridor at the end of which are the stairs leading to the balcony where my Lord and Thorondor are meeting. As we reach them and begin to climb, Glorfindel breaks our apprehensive silence, "Lady, do you have any clue as to what the cause of Thorondor's visit may be? It is assuredly not pleasant tidings, but have they been hinted at to you?"
Idril sighs. "No, Lord Glorfindel; as it stood when I went to retrieve the two of you, not even my father yet knew," is her taut reply.
From behind him, I see Glorfindel nod, and not another word is spoken until our climb is complete and the three of us emerge into the bright sunlight on the back side of the palace's battlement. To my left, not twelve feet away, stand Thorondor, golden feathers gleaming, and my lord- the first thing I notice about him is that his eyes are swimming with emotion.
His eyes, eyes that I have seen give glimpse to a plethora of emotions, from joy to pride to heart-wrenching grief, those clear, strong grey eyes, take in the three of us in a dazed fashion of which I have never seen. The only time when my Lord has been close to as astounded my grief, as I am now sure he is, was when he received news of the loss of his beloved, Elenwë. I know now that someone has died, someone so close to my Lord's heart that the pumping organ is screaming denial.
He stays where he stands; his knees buckle; Idril screamed. My reaction is instantaneous, sprinting across the balcony, Glorfindel at my side, to catch the elbow of my Lord and prevent his usually strong but now inexplicably weak body from collapsing. Glorfindel and I sling an arm each around our shoulders, lifting Lord Turgon to his feet, though once there he depends on us to remain so. His eyes are still blank, igniting the curl of fear that twisted its way into my gut the moment I saw his expression flicker on the balcony before he made his speech.
His head lolls, and finds my shoulder. Our eyes meet, my fearful ones staring into his blank ones. For a moment we simply look at each other, and I am aware of the silence on the balcony – Lady Idril, Lord Thorondor and Glorfindel are as silent as I am, all eyes locked upon the king's form, which, before our very eyes, begins to tremble, as tears worked their way down my Lord's cheeks.
The blank look on my Lord's face is gone, replaced by emotion so raw and painful it is hard to look at, let alone comprehend. His whole body trembles, one of his hands twists its way into the fabric of my mantle and tears pour down his face. There is desperation on his face, and his eyes are pleading. 'Tell me it isn't true', they seem to scream, 'please, say that it isn't true.'
"My Lord" I gasp, for I know not what else to say. It seems like all of us, four elves and one eagle, were balancing on a cliff edge. To know the truth is to fall, as Lord Thorondor and my king had, and ignorance is safety. I know that I need to know, to fall, but saying the words, sharing the news, would have Lord Turgon accepting the truth, the truth his eyes scream at me to deny, which would push him off the edge of his shocked grief, and into the chasm of undeniable knowledge that one of his beloved has passed on into a fate none of the Eldar should suffer.
It is Thorondor who speaks the words, the words that have my Lord's knees buckling again, though I am too shocked to catch him, my own mind reeling in denial.
"Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in exile, has passed to the hallowed Halls of Mandos."
Idril
Until I find the tears streaming down my face, warm and sticky, clinging to the skin that blanched when first I heard the news, I do not realize I am crying. My entire existence is caught up in worry for one person, one weakened, shaken person: my father. I have never seen him like this before, even when Amil... I swallow hard, recalling myself to the present.
Thorondor is speaking once more, voice low, tone forced into steadiness. "I placed the hröa," he says, "upon the highest peak." He with his head indicates the jagged ridge of the Echoriath behind him and in front of us, before continuing hesitantly, "I and my people will take you there, if you wish to... pay your respects."
My father nods slowly, rising to his feet with new resolution. "I will go; I must," is his simple assertion.
"And you will not go alone," declares Glorfindel; he makes eye contact with Ecthelion, and I see that they have both decided to accompany my father. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. Left alone with his grief, there is no limit to what my father could do, but with those two I know he is in good (and, for the most part, competent) hands.
But somehow, I do not feel right in staying behind. I run a hand over my face, brushing the tears aside even as they continue to fall, clearing my throat to speak up. My voice is embarrassingly tearful as I murmur, "And I will go, also."
My father's reaction- though not typically to be considered strange- surprises me for the state he is in. "Celebrindal, no. You should not-"
But I have made my choice, and though Atar may not need me, the least I can do to honour my grandfather is make a visit to the site of his resting place. "You forget that I also have lost kin." My voice catches, and I find my eyes drawn toward the clear, cobalt sky as I gather my composure. "I am going."
Father's response is beaten back by a fresh wave of tears streaming down his face. Lord Ecthelion's reaction was instantaneous, tightening his arms around Father, providing him with the balance Father's body cannot give him. Father leans into him, his dark hair mixing, tangling even, with Ecthelion's, black on black, until it is impossible to tell each hair's home head.
Atarinyo had black hair...
I realise I am crying again, hands pressed to my mouth to repress the sobs that would only make my Father's grief worse. Tears fall, rolling over my cheeks and down my hands, my wrists, wetting the elaborately embroidered cuffs of my dress. Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion, eyes focused on my grieving father, trying to contain tears of their own, notice not my own grief. For one moment, and one moment only, allow myself to succumb.
Memories fill my mind, with the shocking clarity of which Elves are famed for amongst mortals, of a man whom I loved dearly. A thousand times I sat upon his knee as he taught me the ways of the world; a hundred times I danced with him as I grew, from a tiny elfling to the woman I am now: all the dear memories filled my mind in that one moment pressing a spike of pain into my heart until I wished I could tear it from my chest to free myself from the sheer agony.
I raise my eyes, meeting those of the Lord Thorondor. His orbs are a startling gold, full of a compassion I wish I could wrap myself in and forget the world. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing away my grief for a later time, when I can scream into my pillows and cry until no moisture is left within me. I raise my head again, feeling stronger, ready to be the rock my father needs. For a moment, I thought I saw a spark of approval in the great Eagle's eyes, before he lifted his feathered head to the heavens and letting lose an echoing screech: a signal to his brother eagles to carry us hence.
It seems a thousand years- and yet all too soon- until four more eagles arrive, wheeling once above the palace- I curse the thought that names them carrion- fowl- before landing on the balcony. I cannot help but wonder what the crowds of revelers below imagine their arrival's cause to be. Their merry music and festive cheers remain distinctly audible, profaning the silence of our mourning.
I realise that my eyes have been drawn to the deck's railing when an eagle interrupts my thoughts with, "My lady?" and a beckoning of the wing. I try my utmost to give him a weak smile, but the expression is soon fractured by another bout of tears rising behind my eyelids. I shut my eyes tightly for but a moment, then mount the Windlord as gracefully as I may, uncomfortably spreading my legs across his broad back.
"Hold on," says the eagle, and I lose no time in complying- hopefully not in a hard enough way as to rip out the gracious bird's feathers. We rise swiftly up from the palace and above the city, altitude subtly increasing. I cannot help but feel, though, that what is becoming a terrifying height for me is but the lowest level that Manwë's servants reach in their flight.
The wind blows in my face, shoving back my golden hair so that it streams out behind me. I avoid looking down, really, I do, but the one nauseating glimpse I take reveals my father's majestic city as little larger than a doll's house. There is so much stone, I note, and hardly any green. White buildings, white streets, white fountains, white walls whose only patches of different hue are the seven gates; even our renowned "Trees," Glingal and Belthil, are made of metal; the few scattered courtyards are surrounded by that same dull, almost oppressive, white rock.
So engrossed am I in my study of our beloved Ondolindë that I find myself leaning to my right to look upon her, and I, with a jolt, realize the danger of slipping and right myself immediately, facing forward, stoic, eyes fixed on the mountain of our destination until at last it rises to greet our airborne party and we land on a rocky summit.
I dismount without my usual grace: dismounting a creature of slick feathers is difficult enough without my head spinning from the flight and my ears ringing from sudden pops as we descend. I have never felt such a sensation before and dearly wish to never feel it again, though I must if I wish to fly home. As my feet touch the ground, I stagger, holding onto the eagle's wing to keep my balance. Though I was fortunate to stay on my feet, Lord Glorfindel was not: he tripped on his own feet and landed quite heavily on his face.
Father and Lord Ecthelion dismounted much more successfully than myself or Lord Glorfindel, managing to slip off the backs of Thorondor and his companion with relative ease. Lord Glorfindel leapt to his feet, brushing off gravel from his tunic and trying not to look too embarrassed. My lips twitch in humor, but they soon fall motionless again. The prospect of what I am about to see scares me, yet I would not turn away for the world: I must see my Atarinyo for if I do not, I shall never find peace.
The four of us approach Thorondor; his brothers take to the skies, guarding this place from the eyes of friend and foe alike. Today, this place is private. The Windlord's golden eyes have something akin to pain in the depths of those brilliant irises. He takes in our grieved visages and windswept appearances in silence. As I meet his stunning eyes, I feel the weight of knowledge gained over thousands of years reflected in his feathered face.
The High King's hröa lies on the mountain path. I should warn you, his hröa…" The great Eagle seems to shudder slightly, "The sight is not pleasant to behold."
"How did he… How did my father… How did…" My father seemed unable to voice his question, and I know his hesitance – to speak the words would make it the truth, which Father is still desperately trying to deny.
"How did he die?" finishes Thorondor quietly. "If you plan to see for yourself, I will suffice to say that he was broken." The great eagle bows his head, and with one great wing beckons those resolved enough to continue on to the peak to take the path.
My father turns around even as he sets foot on the narrow, curving walkway, and meets my eyes. I do not give him time or opportunity to speak the words of warning that he inevitably will, instead taking the dozen paces over to his side. I place a hand on his shoulder and nod gravely. Fortunately, he appears to understand, and we begin our ascent, the two lords close behind.
Our footsteps crunch conspicuously upon shards of rock and chunks of gravel. This path must be one of the passages hewn long ago during Gondolin's construction to make way for the stone being quarried for its buildings in the mountains without. It is long disused, but that, fortunately or otherwise, little hinders us from making the short climb up it.
The first thing about the peak I notice should be the astounding view, something I can appreciate now that my feet are on solid ground once more. Ondolindë is yet laid out below us to the south; to the west I see the sources of mighty Sirion; east lies the dark and deadly forest of Taur-nu-Fuin. North is a sight that only serves to recall my mind to our purpose in coming here: the three peaks of Thangorodrim, belching forth their abominable fumes.
But all of this only registers in a brief glance around me before my eyes are drawn to the center of this small promontory, where lies Atarinyo- or what remains of him. Broken, indeed, at the torso; the blood on his armour and his blue and silver cloak is both crimson and ebony, both his and his diabolical adversary's; a cry of horror escapes my lips.
I am not aware of the sudden weakness of my legs, nor the way the world rises sharply as I fall to my knees. My awareness is for Atarinyo only; my gaze locked on his broken hröa. As my eyes traverse his body, taking in every wound, my heart-strings tear, imagining what he must have been through; the pain he must have endured.
His hair is tangled and matted with his blood; his face – still drawn with the echo of pain – covered in scratches. His torso looks oddly flat, and I realize in a moment of pure horror that Atarinyo was crushed to death. My vision blurs and I am crying.
Arms that I failed to acknowledge when my legs failed me tighten, pulling me to Lord Glorfindel. I sob openly in his arms, clinging tightly to my kinsman. He rocks me and his warm presence is wonderfully reassuring. Glorfindel is like that: when he is near, comfort is not far behind. When he is there, I know the sun will always shine again.
What is not reassuring is his silence. For every grievance I have had, from the knee scrapes I gained as an elfling to the loss of my mother on The Ice, Glorfindel has always been the light in the darkness, his words inspiring hope. Yet today he speaks not. His face is white and shocked, his breathing erratic. I have never seen Glorfindel so; it scares me almost as much as Atarinyo's hröa.