The City Over the Mountains by Narya

The air at the tunnel's mouth tasted of starlight. Wind hissed through the mountains and whispered over the Dry River's stones. The thorn thicket cackled and clicked, and the lands beyond slept under snow.

Elemmakil crouched and touched the frozen ground. Come with me, it murmured. Let us run.

He closed his eyes, longing to heed its call...

A memory of ice. Idril, too weak to cry. Turgon, wordless, broken. Ecthelion, held in Elemmakil's arms, half-drowned, eyes full of grief. A wind that would flay them alive – and then, years later, the two of them standing by a lake at dawn. A vow. “I would follow you into Angband itself, whether you asked it of me or no.”  Resignation, resolve. “I will come with you to Gondolin.”

And he would not break his word.

“Elemmakil?”

Laeron. His lieutenant. “What is it?”

“Our relief is here.”

He nodded his thanks and straightened. It was Yule, and each year Turgon took care to ensure that his border guards had at least some time to enjoy the festivities. Elemmakil had no family – not here – but it would be a pleasant enough respite.

Outside the tunnel, the wind still sang. Run. Run. Run.

He turned away and went with Laeron into the dark.

Chapter End Notes

Elemmakil's vow to Ecthelion is from this short piece, which I wrote as a gift for Kenaz. I haven't yet told the story of their time on the Ice.

He blamed himself, afterwards, for what happened with Voronwë.

At first he was struck by the boy's resemblance to Findis. The tumbling dark hair, the gentle grey eyes, the bashful reserve – they were all hers. Memory and yearning stirred in his heart as he thought of the home he had forsaken.

And yet I would not go back, he thought, watching Ecthelion as he laughed by the fire with Glorfindel. I would do all of it again, and not ask to return.

He attended his lord with unobtrusive care, watching from the shadows and sipping wine when he was not required. Duilin whispered under the arches with his wife Netiliel, as though they were both youths in the blush of first love. The lady Aredhel danced with Egalmoth and Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and with her brother the King, and she smiled and laughed and chattered brightly with the ladies of the court – but if one listened, her voice rang hollow, and there were shadows behind her eyes.

You would leave here too, would you not, lady – were it not for the love you bear your brother?

He made no attempt to reach her mind; they were not friends enough for that. But he saw. He knew.

Voronwë, meanwhile, danced with half the maids in the room and drank with even more. Elemmakil smiled fondly as the lad's cheeks reddened and his eyes shone with laughter and wine. He tried not to let his gaze linger, very aware that the younger man was watching him, and knowing that wistful look all too well. Even so, he occasionally allowed their glances to meet – an acknowledgement, he told himself, and a gentle warning to the boy.

I see you. And I cannot give you what you think you want.

But Voronwë's blush only deepened, and he smiled and looked shyly away.

Fool, Elemmakil scolded himself. Don't encourage it. Leave him be.

Yet as night stretched towards dawn, and the music swirled and the wine glowed like an ember in his belly, he made his way to Voronwë's side. He intended, as carefully as possible, to let the younger man down – but he found himself disarmed by Voronwë's candour, his insight, his kindness. Few (he hoped) had ever recognised what he felt for Ecthelion, still less offered to let him speak of it. And Voronwë was charming, lovely and utterly guileless. When he invited Elemmakil back to his chambers, it was easy – far too easy – to say yes.

He should not have allowed it, he told himself later, holding Voronwë as he slept. Not with the boy so deep in his cups. He stayed awake, listening to the deep, contented breathing of his bedmate, and watched as the fire burned low and the snow fell softly outside. Once a log snapped in the hearth; Voronwë frowned and stirred, murmuring nonsense, and Elemmakil stroked his hair.

“Hush. It's nothing.” He brushed his thumb over Voronwë's cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

The younger man settled; his sweet, handsome features relaxed, and Elemmakil sighed. Fool, he said to himself again. What was done was done – but there was no need to take things further.

When morning arrived, crimson spilled across the land.* In the still hush of dawn, Elemmakil slipped quietly away.

Chapter End Notes

* This sentence was the prompt from my postcard.