Keeping Count of Unnumbered Tears by Cirdan

Keeping Count of Unnumbered Tears

            Ecthelion spotted Glorfindel upon the battlefield and slowly made his way over to the side of his friend.  “Anar!”

            Glorfindel caught sight of him and nodded.  The battle was too grim for even a quick smile.  Already, it was the sixth day of the Fifth Battle, and the sun had not arisen on this dark day.  When Ecthelion at last reached Glorfindel, they turned back-to-back to converse.

            “One hundred and forty-three,” Glorfindel said.

            “You have beaten my score by one,” Ecthelion said, though he had, in truth, not been keeping track.  “But the battle is not over, and there is yet time for me to surpass you.”

            Enemies drew near and interrupted their conversation.  Glorfindel sprang forth and slew over a dozen Orcs; Ecthelion did the same and protected Glorfindel’s back with his silver sword.  When the foes closest to them were slain, Ecthelion and Glorfindel came to stand back-to-back once more.

            “And what is your count now, Lord of the Golden Flower?” Ecthelion asked.

            “One hundred and forty-seven.”

            “Indeed?  You must have killed at least a dozen Orcs, if not more, yet your count is only up by four?”

            “What did I say my last count was?” Glorfindel asked.

            “One hundred and forty-three.”

            “Ah.”  Glorfindel fell silent for a brief moment, but the pause became filled with the incoming rush of yet more enemies.  When they came together again, Glorfindel said, “My apologies, Lord of the Fountain.  I confess that I have not been counting.  I only named such a number because I wished to give the victory of the game to you.”

            “Apology accepted.  It is well nigh impossible to keep count.  I must’ve slain almost a thousand foes in these last five days,” Ecthelion said grimly.

            “As have I,” Glorfindel said.  “The Orcs fall like reeds before fire.”  They eyed the oncoming servants of the Dark Lord, but the Orcs were keeping their distance and regrouping before attacking.  Glorfindel moved to get a better view of what lay to his right, and Ecthelion moved with him as if they were in a dance of death together.  “Five hundred and seventy-six,” Glorfindel said at last in a soft voice.

            “Five hundred and seventy-six?”

            “Slain.  Of the House of the Golden Flower.”

            Ecthelion paled underneath his helm.  “Surely not!”

            “And that was just at our last count.  Who knows how many more have been lost,” Glorfindel said.  “So you see, I have been keeping count.”

            “Three hundred and fourteen of the peoples of the Fountain.”  Ecthelion had also been keeping count.

            “It seems those who were not lost on the Grinding Ice will be drowned in Unnumbered Tears.”

            Ecthelion knew not if Glorfindel referred to those who would die in this battle or those who would shed tears unnumbered for their fallen comrades.  Ecthelion longed to reach out and hold Glorfindel or perhaps put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but they had no such luxury.  Another wave of enemies came at them, and they separated, though they kept close, and fought back the Orcs.  When they had a moment of peace, Ecthelion found that he didn’t know what to say next.  The death toll in the House of Golden Flower was, indeed, extraordinarily high.  It was an odd contrast to the fact that Glorfindel had not lost a single person during the Crossing of the Grinding Ice.

            “What happened?” he asked at last.

            “By chance, we came upon the armies of Fingon, but even as we joined with them, Morgoth unleashed still more enemies: wolves and wolfriders, Balrogs, and even dragons.  The peoples of the Golden Flower fought valiantly, but the Great Worm at last came between us,” Glorfindel said grimly.  “I do not know the fate of the High King of the Noldor, but I fear the news is not good.”

            “If the news is indeed so grim, I think that Turgon will soon call a retreat,” Ecthelion predicted.  “When the time comes, my men will hold the rear.”

            “Nay, Isil.  You know that is my favorite position.  I will hold the rear manfully.”  Though he’d become accustomed to saying such light words to bring cheer, Glorfindel’s jest was entirely without mirth.

            “We’ll see when the time comes,” Ecthelion said.  “It may be that Turgon will set us to the flanks, for the secret of the location of our Hidden Kingdom is more important than even the retreat.  I must return to my people.”

            “The battle will get worse before it gets better.  Until next we meet.”  Glorfindel broke away from Ecthelion and hewed his way to the left of the battlefield to rejoin his people’s military formation.  Likewise, Ecthelion slew any foe that stood between him and his peoples of the Fountain.  Even in that brief time, from the moment he’d first sighted Glorfindel to the moment when they parted, it seemed to Ecthelion that he’d slain almost a hundred Orcs.  But at a time like this, who was keeping count?

            “Glorfindel!”  Ecthelion used the power of his voice of music so that he could be heard across the battlefield.  Glorfindel turned to give ear.  “Laurelin is slain, and Anar did not rise this morning.  Perhaps all the golden light will disappear from this world, but Glorfindel, don’t die!”

            Glorfindel raised his golden sword in a salute as answer then disappeared into the midst of the unnumbered tears.