Glorfindel
Here I stand, with all the world below me, with Idril wrapped in my arms, with my fingers running gingerly up and down her back- but what help can I lend her when my own eyes are filling with tears and I am forced into silence to keep them from being exposed? I hold her all the same, however, for many minutes that slowly pass, dragging on infinitely like a rough and clung-to rope will chafe the palms as it is gradually pulled out of grasp.
Moving my gaze from her gleaming golden hair and shaking shoulders, I survey our surroundings yet again. The King stares quietly at his father's body, merely standing between Ecthelion and myself with arms limp at his sides; his blank expression is hardly proof of internal composure. The notion strikes me that we cannot remain here forever, staring and mourning in disbelief at Fingolfin's final resting place. Something must be done for his burial: it will do neither to abandon this place as it stands nor to linger here long with no action.
With a glance back down at my kinswoman, I note that her sobs have been somewhat quelled, and that I no longer appear to be the only support keeping her on her feet. I run a hand through her loose hair once more, then turn to Turgon.
"My lord," My voice is little above a whisper, but it still merits his attention. "It seems fitting that we now take such measures as will honour your father even in death. Though I doubt not," And here my gaze strays to Thorondor, perched with folded wings on a boulder to Ecthelion's left. "that the good Windlords would keep ceaseless vigil on the Lord King's body, it is hardly proper to leave him lying here exposed." A wordless prayer hopes that Turgon will understand what I am implying we do.
At first I can glean no reaction from him, then a turning of the head, then a puzzled expression, as if he is slowly and circumspectly analyzing my words- finally, a nod. "Yes, Glorfindel," he says, tone hollow, "he deserves nothing less than the-" His stiff voice breaks its thin, plaster mask of apathy but quickly dons it once more. "-the tomb of a king."
Idril wordlessly leaves my arms, and I feel a rush of horror and pity as I realize what her task must be. In the four or so centuries since our arrival in the Hither Lands, traditions, unneeded in the deathless lands, have built themselves up as regarding how to properly prepare and honour the dead. Idril, as the only woman in our company, and indeed, the only female of close kinship, has the task of preparing the High King's body for burial. Under normal circumstances, she would be accompanied by all the departed's kinswomen. However, her mother and aunt, may the Valar bless their souls, reside in the halls of Mandos, and Lord Fingolfin's own wife and mother chose not to follow him into exile. Artanis alone remains of Idril's female kin, and she is barred from entering our hidden city, as is the rest of Middle-earth. Idril truly is alone.
"Celebrindal..." Lord Turgon reaches for his daughter, and she willingly folds into his embrace. "My daughter, you should not..."
She pulls back, and I hear the determination in her voice. "'Tis my duty, father, and one I would willingly perform." I almost smile. Though in temperament she is unlike any of the house of Finwë, when it comes to determination she is as stubborn as any Fëanorian brother.
I meet Ecthelion's eyes; together, we move back down the path to our landing place, searching for loose rocks and stones to form the King's cairn. After a moment, I hear Lord Turgon's footsteps as he begins to follow us.
The work is hard and strenuous. We are looking for a mixture of large rocks to make the body of the cairn, and smaller stones to fill the gaps and cracks. I soon find myself stripping of my outer tunic, and Ecthelion follows suit, tying the sleeves around his waist. We pile what we gather in the centre of the plateau, the work serving as the vent to our grief. If I pour enough of my emotion into the task before me, it will become easier to manage- yet still overwhelming. I can only begin to imagine what Idril is feeling, as she washes Fingolfin's remains; cleans his wounds; cleanses his tattled clothes and armour.
Finally, it seems we have enough. Now begins the task of hauling the rocks back up the mountain path one-by-one, and building a tomb fit for a king. Looking in the eyes of my weary king, though, I know not if he has the strength to see the acts through.
I approach him at a run even as I see him begin to stumble beneath a particularly large and awkward rock. Extending both arms, I bear the rock upward, and Turgon maintains his balance. Carried by four hands- two trembling- the stone gradually makes its precarious way toward the summit; even I am glad to be rid of the boulder as we make it the cairn's cornerstone.
As we position it, Ecthelion following close behind with a rock of his own, I spot Idril out of the corner of my eye. She slowly dips her snow-white mantle in a small pool that must have been birthed on the mountaintop by the rains of Stirring into spring. I avert my gaze, for I will do little good in the task if my vision is blurred by tears.
Time after time, rock after rock, the High King's crypt finally begins to take shape. Somewhere halfway through the final side, I make note of Thorondor's absence, but with a glance to the sky I see that such is not the case. In small, steady circles, the Windlord wheels far above this mountain's summit, a sentinel unasked but indispensable.
Standing back to admire- if such is the appropriate term- the fruit of our arduous labour, the cairn is as fair as a tomb may be, especially one built of a mountain's stray rubble, by hands unused to such jobs. The structure, rising perhaps three feet from the rocky ground, lacks but one thing: a roof. It cannot have such, however, without contents. Swallowing hard, I place a hand on Ecthelion's arm and indicate Idril, bent over the High King's body but making no further motion. He nods in response, and I make silent way to my cousin's side; a gentle spring breeze, fresh and clean with the promise of new life, mocks the intangible, though frighteningly present, pall of mourning over the future burial ground.
"Idril?" I murmur, bending down to lay a dusty hand on her shaking shoulder. "Is all prepared?"
"Aye." She takes a heavy breath, yet does not attempt to contain her grief. "He is ready."
Idril had done her job well: only one who knew – or suspected – exactly what happened to the High King would be able to distinguish his fatal wounds at first sight. He had been cleansed of the blood and dirt that clocked him; his hair freed of matted knots. Even his torso, which bore the marks of one who had been crushed to death, looked as though it had been inflated. The lacking presence of Idril's mantle explained what had been used to pad out the High King's shirt.
We stand.
Lord Turgon and Ecthelion are together only a few feet away, Turgon's eyes fixed upon his father's body. He seems beyond words, beyond tears even. He simply looks numb. Ecthelion is watching the King, his eyes carefully trained away from the corpse. I know him well enough to easily see the little motions of his body and face which betray his true emotions, his grief. Ecthelion has been friends with Turgon since he was an elfling, and with Fingolfin for almost as long. His grief is close to the surface, almost overwhelming him.
Celebrindal leaves my side for her father's, to give what comfort she can. He embraces her tightly, trying to block out the world. I beckon Ecthelion over, and motion towards the body.
"Tis best to move him while their eyes are averted, I think," I say quietly, continuing after Ecthelion's silent nod of consent. "I shall… I shall carry the torso."
And I do so. Though- even in its state of cleanliness- the sheer horror of the lifeless hroa's brokenness, turns my stomach, for the sake of the king and the princess and the honour of he whom this once housed, with what must be the aid of the Valar, I do so, and Ecthelion follows me.
In merely a few short steps and a gentle slipping of the body out of our arms, Fingolfin lies on the stony ground beneath the cairn. I meet Ecthelion's eyes, and our gazes dart in tandem from the royal twain to one another. A silent but unanimous decision is reached to leave them once again and collect the stones needed to cover the crypt.
Fortunately, we are able to find boulders large enough- gruelling though the bearing of them is- to cover the entire top of the cairn. (To fill it in with stones would be a task both long and heart-rending.) He takes an end of one, and I the other, and thus we carry four large rocks up to the summit and place them upon the cairn.
Finally, the work is complete; to other eyes, it may appear as merely an ugly memorandum of the days of Ondolindë's construction. I would a thousand times rather it be so than what it truly is. A haphazard pile of stones rejected by the city's builders is far fairer than a tomb. The tomb of a king.
Idril and Turgon seem to have broken their huddle, instead now standing side by side; as if at some imagined undertaker's command, as one they approach the cairn, kneel. Ecthelion and I hastily follow suit.
The king's brow touches the stone, and from my position nearest him I see that his tears fall freely once more, darkening the lowermost rocks of the crypt. "Farewell, my father." Oh, how his voice trembles! "Let no servant of him who slew you defile ever this: your resting place. Father, this ground is sacred."
As another fit of sobs takes both him and Idril, the whoosh of feathers is suddenly heard behind us; Ecthelion and I whirl around to see Thorondor and his counterparts landed once more upon the peak. I smile weakly; their timing must be a gift of their master.
Gently, I place a hand on the shoulder of both Idril and Turgon. "Lady, my lord?" I murmur, and tear-stained faces are turned in my direction. "Perhaps it is time we returned home."
"I suppose so," replies Idril thickly, and makes her way toward an Eagle, as Turgon does toward Thorondor and Ecthelion and I quickly replicate. Home. But yet another challenge awaits us already; somehow, the people must know.
Maeglin
Anor has taken leave of our celebration, yet still the King has not returned. Darkness comes swiftly to our walled city, hidden in the embrace of the towering mountains that guard us so well. The sun retreats behind the horizon of the Encircling Mountains hours before it leaves the sight of the rest of Beleriand, giving us shorter days preceding lengthy twilights and long nights.
Time becomes an illusion after living in Gondolin; daylight deceives us as a clock. I, who arrived in the city long after my neighbours set up house, have forgotten what it is like to rise with the sun and rest with the moon (indeed, I shall never be abed come the rising of the moon until Lord Glorfindel ceases in his quest to drag me to every beer hall this city owns). Men leave their beds as soon as the night sky fades from sable to midnight blue, and do not return to their wives until the end of twilight.
So, indeed, I do know the reasons we do not judge the passing time by the position of the sun in the sky yet I cannot help my regular, worried glances to the sky to try to judge how long the king has been gone, and when he might return. His presence has been sorely missed in the festivities. I have been asked many times by many faces, both common and lordly: Where is the reassuring presence of the King? Where is the beautiful face of the Lady? Where is Glorfindel to flirt with the maids and Ecthelion to keep the peace?
"My lord?"
A voice resonates from behind me, and I- not without pursing my lips in annoyance- stop in the tracks that will lead me out of this ruckus and whirl around. So close to solace, and yet so far; how long has my head been pounding from the incessant noise?
"Lord Egalmoth." I do not even pretend to be glad to see him. The honey-haired Noldo's vibrant garb has always annoyed me (He parades about in the rainbow of his house, but the array of hues strikes my mind as effeminate)- today, however, the waning sun's reflected rays cause the garments only to increase the throbbing within my skull.
"Do you know what has kept the King this long? Surely it must be of great import to call away not only him but Lady Idril and the Lords as well, for such a span... If I may ask, why did you not accompany them?"
"Because someone had to remain here and oversee the festivities," I hiss. "Why else would I stay behind?" Leave me alone, is the shout I wish I could utter.
"Then you know where they have gone? Such a long disappearance, it... has raised many questions among the people."
I set my jaw and force my lips into a spurious smile. Remember who you are. It will not do for Ondolindë's crown prince to speak harshly to one of the nobles. "This I know, but for all I wish I could say, I am not permitted to divulge their location. I apologize."
It is not quite a lie; Turgon clearly had no desire for me to spread the news of Thorondor's arrival. It sounds far better, though, to insinuate that I know more than that. Remember who you are. What a pathetic thing it would be for the king's sister-son to be outside the loop of his personal counsels.
"Alas!" replies Egalmoth, heaving a sigh that I hear laden with melodrama, "but I believe we will soon learn-" Here he suddenly lifts his gaze. "- unless those four Eagles are nothing but a coincidence."
As I did when his voice interrupted my musing, I whirl around, this time to gaze at the sky. Egalmoth's words are true; four Eagles are indeed soaring over the city, barely shadows against the dark sky. Nevertheless, the blessed sight of the Eldar allows the gathered Ӧndolindrim to clearly see Manwë's winged vassals. The volume surges as they all wonder aloud to themselves and each other at the presence of the Eagles.
"Could that be the Lady Idril?" Egalmoth, possessing eyesight an archer dreams of, is gazing at the second Eagle. "It could be Lord Glorfindel, I suppose, though he would probably insist on the Lady going before him. Propriety and all. Unless-"
"Lord Egalmoth, now is not the time for such matters." My tone is sharp with annoyance; can he not see we needed to act quickly? And, moreover, who could ever mistake boisterous Glorfindel with my graceful cousin? "We need to act quickly. Have whatever captains you can find take control of the celebration; inform them to keep the people calm and quell any rumours. Send runners to the other Lords: have them converge in the council chambers."
To my extreme irritation, Egalmoth does not instantly leave my side. Instead he draws himself up to his full height (several inches taller than my own – another reason to dislike him) and dares to ask me who exactly I am to give him orders?
"I am the King's nephew and therefore of such a rank that I may give orders to whom I please. And even if that was not the case, even you should be able to get it through your rainbow coloured skull that something very important has occurred! The security of our city may be compromised and you are just standing there questioning me!" My voice is deadly low, though I long to raise it. Easy, easy, I caution myself.
Fortunately, my words appear to take some effect, for despite his unbecoming scowl, Egalmoth turns on his heel and with but the words, "As you say," is off, apparently to fulfil my orders. Meanwhile, I find myself turning with a sigh down the shadowy corridor culminating in the King's hall of council, head still throbbing.
My booted feet slap the scuffed marble floor conspicuously, heralding my coming to anyone lurking down the hallway, but soon enough I realize I am alone as I discover the cavernous chamber dark but for the sunset's rays pouring in through its oblong windows. I pull out a chair- it is not presumption for which it is the one sure to be at the king's right hand, and seat myself.
The next five minutes I spend staring at the shadows on the wall, forming patterns and images and faces out of their eerie shapes, before the first lords begin to trickle in. Their murmured conversations continue as they enter the chamber, interrupted only by a nod or greeting to me or others who have already arrived.
Salgant has taken a seat next to me and sits prattling about some woman he met at the festival today, but I hear only enough of it to nod at the proper times. My head and heart are both now pounding as I sit waiting at the table for the arrival of Idril, along with Turgon and whatever the tidings may be.
It is probably ten minutes before all of the seats but four are filled, and the din of conversation has risen countless decibels more, before all speech is suddenly cut off. From my position near the table's head, which faces the door, silhouettes appear, and in slip Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Turgon, and lastly Idril, led by a servant.
The distance across the chamber may beguile me, but all four appear to have been weeping.