Chapter Twenty Two
Glorfindel awoke with a start as a dull clank sounded beside his ear. It took him half a second to realise he was still in the armchair and had not made it to bed.
"Forgive me, I thought you had merely closed your eyes." Erestor straightened up from where he had put the tray down too loudly.
"That was all I intended." He scrambled into a more upright position. "Thank you." Erestor had brought soup and tea, steaming hot and with a buttered roll. After so long with nothing but dried bread and foraging to eat it smelled glorious.
"Elrond told me Hesten will recover," Erestor said quietly. "It seemed to me that you would sleep better knowing that." A small smile came at that news and he was glad. When he sent Isowen off with the peloton, alone into country they were not certain they had cleared his stomach had begun to tighten, only now that all those who would come back were safe did it relax and he could stretch out the cramped muscles.
"Your friend-" Glorfindel put his spoon down to face him. "The one who grew primroses. I am sorry, Mellon nîn." Erestor seemed to struggle against forming any sort of expression before he looked away quickly, wiping the wet streak away with his sleeve.
"Is it safe enough to retrieve the bodies?" Erestor asked him, his voice catching out of grief.
"Only those of the peloton when Isowen met the scouts. Those in the high passes we cannot reach without spending more lives." The image of the canyon filled with carcasses, elven and orcish caused waves to run through his gut and the soup tasted of bile.
Erestor kept his face turned away as Glorfindel ate. Their silence was only broken by the unconvincing cough that masked Erestor's quiet tears.
"Is there anything that will help?" asked Glorfindel softly, placing a hand on Erestor's shoulder. He half expected him to pull away, instead Erestor lay his head down on Glorfindel's arm.
"You should sleep." Glorfindel pushed his tray away, feeling queasy. He did not like the idea of leaving Erestor to grieve alone. "Fin, come morning you will not have a moment to yourself. You will have to answer to Elrond and Laiken to explain the disaster, before we even begin to find someone capable of assuming Maethor's role."
"Cûinath," he answered immediately. "Or Hesten."
"Has it never occurred to you that your name will be put forward as well?" It had, Isowen hinting at the edges and Erestor's insistence that he was prepared for the morning pointed towards it.
"I do not know the countryside," he said with unconvincing haste.
"You proved that you can overcome any disadvantage your recent arrival gives you." He stood, making Erestor raise his head quickly. The darker elf looked at him in shock as he stalked to the window. "Fin?"
"Do not ask me to take responsibility for a valley haven, not again. Too many times did I allow Turgon to hand me command and I never dared refuse it. The attack was my fault, my failures led to the Fall." He stopped, leaning his forehead against the cool stone of the window. "Too often did we give out command in place of honours, responsibility given due to blood not merit. Maeglin and I had no place at the table, we would have cleared it but not for our mothers' blood. What good has come for giving the Great, the Lords power?" When he turned all Erestor could offer was a helpless expression and he did not wait for empty consolation.
"I come here and see you, Laiken, Nairn, even Isowen grown great and deemed wise. You have earned it, hard won places at the council table or at the head of a column. If I had given a different name, if none knew who my uncle and cousins were, would you all be so ready to entrust me with your valley?"
"After your actions at the river and again in returning from the mountains, yes. We would now entrust you with our safety." Perhaps, he thought sourly, but then there are none now in Middle Earth save him who knew of his failings in Gondolin.
"You cannot be held accountable for Morgoth's actions, or Maeglin's." Erestor approached him cautiously, developing mind reading abilities suddenly. "Because of you there are survivors of Gondolin, because of you some escaped Eagles' Cleft."
"Because of me Morgoth's forces were allowed to approach," he half spat back, angry at himself not Erestor. "Because of me Maeglin came into being. Had I not lost Aredhel, Gondolin would not have fallen."
Erestor made some meaningless sound before placing a hand on Glorfindel's elbow.
"The defence of the city did not fall to you alone. Twelve Lords were charged with keeping us safe. I heard the self-same speech from Galdor, Tuor and Idril a hundred thousand times. All blamed themselves and absolved each other of guilt."
"And Egalmoth?" Glorfindel asked, then instantly regretted it. He did not wish to know that Egalmoth lay the blame at someone else's feet. In the passes after losing Aredhel Ecthelion had forced him to turn back, bearing Glorfindel who could not ride for his wounds. That too was Glorfindel's fault although Aredhel had long since forbidden him from voicing his guilt.
"I only heard Egalmoth speak once after the Fall. From the moment you fell he never said a word until he lay dying." Egalmoth had been quiet, but never silent before. Glorfindel wiped the unbidden tears from his eyes.
"What did he say?" he asked softly.
"He called out for Galdor, I did not hear his last words. I-" Erestor sighed and would have drawn away had Glorfindel not taken his hand.
"You were at Sirion." It was not a question, not truly but rather a realisation he made out loud.
"I took no part in the battle, not even in our defence. Pengolodh forbade me to, he risked his life to keep me from fighting. We have all failed in our duties at times, Fin. It does not mean we cannot redeem ourselves."
"Winmissë, you were-" He stopped, seeing how Erestor turned away at his own name. "Following Pengolodh's orders does not mean you failed your duties."
"As you say." The reply was curt. "You should rest, regardless of whether you intend to assume command or not." Erestor crossed the room in such haste it was as if he were fleeing.
"Why do you hate it so?" Glorfindel called to him before he could leave. He would have thought nothing could force someone to abandon the only name their parents gave them when they had lost so much else.
"It was the name of a boy, a lifetime ago, in another land. A boy whose heart and soul were ripped away. He was left in Gondolin so that someone else could live." Erestor refused to look at him as he continued. "All who loved him were gone, only Pengolodh remained. What else did I have but what he gave me? The dead have a lighter road, it would seem. They need not carry on." To that Glorfindel could say naught. "Sleep, Fin."
He broke apart the bread so that he was left with a plate of crumbs, perhaps slightly childish of him but he could not bring himself to eat anything.
He had not thought that any of Egalmoth's words would play upon his mind, they had been few and far between at the best of times but dry and full of wit when they were delivered. It seemed to be a notion that those who spoke seldom delivered great wisdom when they did, Egalmoth's sparse sentences had more often than not consisted of various insults and japes at Ecthelion and Glorfindel's expense. Yet it was what little he could remember out in the wilderness when searching for Aredhel that plagued him. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness, crippled by pain and blood loss. Egalmoth, ever Aredhel's Captain, her protégé and confidant turned on Ecthelion with as close to rage as he had ever come. Furiously he had demanded that they continue searching for their Lady.
"He will live, but greater evil will be done if we abandon her," Glorfindel whispered to the empty room. Egalmoth had been right, he was alive and in leaving Aredhel in the wastes they had caused their city's fall. Had he been strong enough to convince Ecthelion he was not going to die, they would have continued to search for her.
"And you would have died in on a snow covered mountainside," Ecthelion had told him when he awoke in Gondolin a fortnight later, finally fully conscious. Curious, Glorfindel pulled up his tunic and twisted to see his back in the mirror. The scar was gone, the wound that had nearly claimed his life wiped away. Few elven scars refused to heal, he had blamed the cold that had seeped in along with filth Ecthelion had been unable to wash out in the mountains. He sighed, almost wishing it back as a mark of his part in Maeglin's coming.
With considerable effort he changed out of his sweat stained clothes and scrubbed himself with steaming water in the tub. It was only when he at last came to climb into bed that he hesitated. The merest mention of Gondolin during the day was enough to cause the more severe nightmares, although barely a night went by when he did not have an unpleasant dream. He wished he could count on exhaustion to rid his mind of demons. Deciding that the hour or so of rest he could gain before having to endure his own sleeping imagination would be better than the stiff neck he would have from sitting awake all night, Glorfindel lay down with a lead weight in his stomach. Anticipation, or rather dread filled the space where the crumbled roll should have been and it took him a long time to fall asleep.
The pain in his chest was dull, barely noticeable compared to the roaring in his ears. There was something in front of him, a raging beast that shook him and pulled at him. It ignored his protests and warmth spread from his chest where the creature was holding him. Then it was gone and a warm hand was on his brow, comforting. There was something wrong with that, nothing could comfort him in that place.
"Yes, I am here. I am here, dear one." It was Aredhel's voice, far gentler than he remembered. For all she loved him as her brother's nephew she would never have called him dear. Soothing and kindness were out of place in one of his dreams. He recognised the room as the one he had awoken in facing Vairë in the Halls of Mandos. "Careful, do not rush. I will not let go." An arm closed around his waist, holding him even as he seemed to leave, looking at the room from the doorway. Instead two dark haired figures were clutching at each other, the one in the bed shaking violently but he could not see their faces.
"Look not to either side," a woman whispered in his ear.
"Turgon," Aredhel's voice continued. "Duilin. Rog. Penlod. Maltion."
"Stop," he tried to tell her, the warm imprint of her hand turning to a flame that engulfed his head. "Please."
"Mother. Edwengwend. Salgant. Ahanion. Aranwë." He was falling as the names continued, the fire enveloping him and he screamed as he burned.
"Winmissë," the voice said. He slammed into the ground and he felt his neck snapped.
There was not a sound in the room save his laboured breathing. He sucked in the cool air, scrambling out of bed to reach the basin. The water hit his face and washed the sheen of sweat away but did not cool him down. He still could not control his breathing as he dried his face and neck.
Outside the valley was covered in the grey sheen of predawn and mist from the waterfall. The earliest risers would be stirring within the hour and Glorfindel counted himself lucky to have managed the majority of the night. He rubbed his neck but failed to rid it of the sickening sensation that accompanied his memories of hitting the ground.
He dressed for training, knowing it was a vain hope to be overlooked if he did not dress the part of lord or captain. The soup had separated and the bread was hard from exposure. He took the tray and headed for the kitchens. There were sounds of awakening behind a handful of the doors he passed, in room one a child began to cry to be let out of its cradle.
A solitary cook was wandering almost aimlessly around, a ball of dough sitting on the counter waiting to be kneaded. He watched with wide walnut eyes as Glorfindel cleaned his dishes and put them away self-consciously.
"My daughter did not come back," the cook said after a while in a voice that tore at Glorfindel's heart.
"I am sorry," he half whispered. "Is-"
"Her sister did and is sleeping peacefully in her room, with nothing but exhaustion and ribs to show for it." He took the dough and began to fold it vigorously. "You will tell Elrond what mistakes were made and you will always bring her back." Glorfindel simply stood there, staring at him. After a moment the cook abandoned his dough. "Sit." A stool was kicked forward and Glorfindel took it.
"I do not want your apologies," he said roughly as Glorfindel cleared his throat to speak. "I want you to do better. They say you are a hero from a bygone age. To hear my daughter I would believe it. Yet here you are, pale and haunted." Glorfindel wiped his face as if that could hide his troubled night. "We do not need heroes here. We need our children safely back in their beds." Once again he had begun to knead the dough, the sound of it echoing through the kitchen.
"Will you tell me who is to blame?" the cook asked at last.
"The Enemy." He received a seething glare and continued swiftly. "And a guard too ready to give a pitched battle."
"As the heroes of old did," the cook spat. Glorfindel could do nothing but nod sadly. "And you? Do you care for pitched battles that kill our daughters?"
"I would rather have a keep to defend," he answered. It was not his strength, he could manage an army in the field far better without walls or buildings to worry about. Yet it was the security that the defensive position gave them that he preferred. Perhaps it was simply habit, for he had done nothing but defend a valley. Only when they marched to Angband did he command in the field.
"Then you will bring them home." The cook seemed as satisfied as he could be.
"Do not mistake me, I do not want the command. There are others better suited than a stranger."
"I would not give it to you if the choice was mine," said the cook. "All that is told of you is your death. We do not need a Captain such as that." Glorfindel deemed it time he left, the bread was being pounded beyond what he expected to be adequate. He would leave the cook alone to his grief.
"What was her name? Your daughter," he asked suddenly, turning back. He thought to try and learn as many of the names of the fallen as possible.
"Adelaes." He did not know her, he felt as if he should.
"And her sister?"
"Cûinath." The cook ignored his look of surprise, slapping the dough onto the counter. Glorfindel closed the door quietly. If Cûinath had known of her sister's death she had not shown any grief as they returned to Imladris. It did not please him to know she spoke highly of him. He would readily have taken the blame for Maethor's mistakes if it meant the Seneschal was honoured in death and he was passed over as his replacement.
"Glorfindel!" Gilotor's voice rang out, overly loud. "Come, Elrond wishes to see you before the day begins fully." There was something in his air that suggested neither Gilotor nor his master had slept that night, the new day merely an extension of the last.
"How is Hesten?" Gilotor smiled, filling his face with mouth it seemed.
"Awake, sour and asking for you. Keep neither him not Elrond waiting, for all our sakes."
… …
I won't go on with excuses and reasons for my prolonged absence. I apologise. Stuff happened. Hopefully now I will be back for good (I swear I really mean it this time). Thank you all for bearing with me.