Fountain, Flower, Sword by Kenaz

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Chapter 3 - Elemmakil

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The days lengthened. The Gates of Summer had not yet opened, but the Tumladen had already gone vividly green, and the snow had vanished from all but the highest and stoniest peaks of the Echoriath. Now a keen eye could observe the first fruits ripening in the vale. The sun had begun its leisurely descent, burnishing the white stones of the city and set them afire in brilliant tones.

After Glorfindel had dismissed him for the day, Elemmakil chose a roundabout path to the gates of the city following the southeastern walls and passing behind the Lesser Market. Had he taken the direct route, he would have reached the gates earlier, but he would not have had reason to cross the Way of Running Waters, and thus, he would have had no opportunity to see the Lord of the Fountains, whose home was nearby.

He took stock of the aches in his body with satisfaction. Lord Glorfindel had proven a stern taskmaster with great expectations of his charge, but Elemmakil felt that he had put in a good showing. On his first day of training, he had been thoroughly dismayed to find that he had been placed with boys—children, truly—who had been sent up by their wealthy fathers to serve as squires. They’d had swords already, heirlooms of their houses, which some of them could only hold for a few moments at a time before their arms trembled like reeds. They clearly could not tell what to make of Elemmakil, but forbore to mock him due to his size. Most of them believed that they would be master swordsmen by the end of their very first day, simply by dint of possessing an excellent sword, and all had been more than a little brought down when their weapons had been confiscated by the master-at-arms and replaced with wooden wasters.

Though it had rankled his pride to be set aside with the children, Elemmakil had applied himself fully, and had doggedly practiced the various stances and strikes. When, after a month’s time, they began sparring, he was by necessity paired with the master-at-arms. Shortly thereafter, he had been sent to Glorfindel himself, who acknowledged that he had been testing Elemmakil’s resolve. Having found Elemmakil’s pride not so overweening that he cavilled to stand with boys half his age, Glorfindel was now willing to oversee him personally until he had skill enough to join the other men. Then, the challenge had begun in earnest, and Elemmakil ended each day exhausted and battered, but proud. His shoulders strained the seams of his shirts and jerkins now, and his limbs had taken on the breadth and girth of a man’s.

The shifting light threw long shadows, and so intent was he in marking the fall of their dark, elongated shapes across the paving stones that he nearly missed the sight he had been most hopeful of seeing: Ecthelion of the Fountain, crossing the wide court and heading toward the King’s Square. He doubled his pace, hoping to catch up to him without doing anything as ridiculous as breaking into a run. The slap of his footfalls in an otherwise quiet corner of the city drew Ecthelion’s attention and he turned. The late sun gave a warm cast to the man’s skin and made his eyes gleam. Silver and adamant sparkled in his carefully plaited hair. He was stunning.

“Well met, my lord.” Had he sounded too breathless? Had Ecthelion noticed that he had been all but galloping in his direction?

“Elemmakil.” Ecthelion’s head dipped in greeting. “You are far from home, and far from the pells.”

“I was venturing down to the terraces below the walls to pick berries before it got dark.”

Ecthelion gave him a quizzical look and pointed in the direction of the Lesser Market. “They sell the same fruits as grow in the vale in the market you just passed.”

Elemmakil smiled. “Of course one can simply buy them, but that’s hardly an evening’s gambol. I want to pick them myself, and then climb up in a tree and watch the stars come out.”

Echthelion gave him a wry look. “So Glorfindel has not yet tamed your wildness.”

Thinking of the aches that assailed him from head to toe, of the bruised limbs, of the cramped muscles, Elemmakil grimaced. “It hasn’t been for lack of trying, my lord.”

Ecthelion’s laughter sounded like the song of water on stone. A rare gift, Elemmakil thought, and he wished to hear more of it. What can it hurt, he thought, just to ask? “Come with me, my lord. The night will be mild, and it is not so very far to go. The bushes will be picked bare soon enough.”

Ecthelion shook his head, but smiled as he did so. “Thank you, but I must be going.”

“Would you flee from me again, my lord? I, who have offered myself to your service?” He meant his words to tease, but in earnest he wished to know. Ecthelion had crossed his arms over his chest, but Elemmakil thought the pose looked defensive rather than annoyed, and so he persisted. “What could you possibly have to fear from me?” Feeling suddenly bold, he added, “or perhaps the Noldor do not know how to climb trees?”

Ecthelion’s eyes narrowed even as he smiled his dazzling smile. “I believe Glorfindel instructed you not to importune me.”

“But I am not!” Elemmakil exclaimed, stepping back, only to catch a spark of mirth in Ecthelion’s grey eyes. “At least,” he qualified, “not in any official capacity. I am not come to ask you to see my progress.” He slipped into a ready stance. “Though if you asked me to demonstrate what I’ve learned, I would be pleased to show you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would.”

The Lord of the Fountain, who always presented a grave and stately public face, seemed very nearly playful this evening, and it was a joy to be witness to that. Elemmakil himself felt his own joys and sorrows so keenly that he could not imagine keeping it hidden. “You have watched me before, my lord, and I think you enjoyed it then.”

“You were hardly subtle,” Ecthelion chuckled. “When a man stands naked on a fountain beneath an open window, I daresay he only does so in the hopes that someone, somewhere, is watching him.”

A rush of blood filled his cheeks, but he could not stay his smile even as he looked away.

“Don’t play the coy disciple with me, cheeky pup.” Ecthelion seemed almost to be letting down his guard. “If your actions had only been meant to honor Ossë, you would have carried them out with the rest of your fellows. Though I maintain there is very little that’s reverent about splashing around in the water in the dead of winter.”

Did Ecthelion truly think him irreverent? “We honor the Powers with light and life, my lord. We raise our voices to them in joy and our bodies in honor. Our rites may seem coarse to the Noldor—.”

“Peace, Elemmakil.” Ecthelion had raised a hand to forestall him. To Elemmakil’s surprise, the great lord seemed almost abashed. “I should not have spoken so: the Sindar are a valiant people, and I did not mean to suggest otherwise. I am simply accustomed to the staid ways of my own folk.”

“I will never understand the Noldor,” Elemmakil dared. “You are all such a dour lot. Why build beautiful towers and gardens and fountains if not to revel in their beauty?”

“We are in mourning for what we have lost.”

“You mourn for something that I have never known. I know only the mountains, the vale, the city—” he nodded toward the Way of Running Water,“—the fountains of Ecthelion.”

Ecthelion’s answering chuckle reached the core of Elemmakil’s giddy heart.

“Let it never be said that a mason’s son does not appreciate fountains!” He turned and began to walk, looking back after a few steps. Elemmakil followed. “I wish I could describe Tirion on Túna to you, but my words would be inadequate. Turgon has endeavored to build its likeness here, but the winds in Tirion never blew so cold as they blow in Gondolin, nor did Summer spend its force so quickly.” His face softened as he spoke, some inner light of memory rendering peace from its planes and angles. “The streets fair glittered with adamant sand, and great crystal stairs rose from the strand to the great gates of the city. And the sea, the ageless sea...” He laughed again, but this time, there was sorrow in it.

They had come to the colonnade. Trellised morning glory vines climbed skyward, their vivid blooms curled in sleep. Ecthelion sat down on one of the stone benches between the columns, and Elemmakil sat down beside him uninivited, but Ecthelion did not seem to mind. “When dark times arose, we were lead to believe Aman was but a cage to restrain us. We bridled at bonds we had only suddenly perceived, believed cunning lies dressed as truth. Yet having come so far, the only thing we can do to keep ourselves safe from Darkness is to build ourselves a cage in truth.”

“Do you truly think of Gondolin as a cage?” Elemmakil wondered at this pronouncement. "Our realm is beautiful, glorious! Please do not despair, my lord. Tell me more about Valinor. I am trying to see it in my mind.”

Ecthelion shook his head, then looked at him, appraising him with an earnestness that Elemmakil did not expect. He did his utmost not to falter under the scrutiny. When Ecthelion reached over and touched his face, turned it in his hand, Elemmakil’s heart beat so loudly he was certain its throb was audible to them both.

“You are so young,” Ecthelion said.

Elemmakil’s mouth went dry. “Ecthelion.”

Ecthelion seemed startled to hear his own name. Perhaps he was; Elemmakil had never addressed him as such aloud before, impertinent as it was, only tested it on his tongue a thousand times in the barest of whispers.

“I think”— Did he dare?— “I am about to importune you again.”

“You...what?”

Elemmakil leaned in and kissed him, thoroughly. Ecthelion’s body went stiff under his ambush, and Elemmakil felt the incredible strength constrained by fabric and flesh, the fire blazing fiercely behind his austere facade. And while he did not exactly warm to the assault, he didn’t push Elemmakil away, nor even withdraw his hand from Elemmakil’s face. He seemed to just patiently wait for it all to subside. When Elemmakil pulled back at last, Echthelion’s eyes remained closed, his lips slightly parted, and Elemmakil could see the flood of color in his cheeks, could hear the way he breathed more quickly and more shallowly.

The silence stretched on. Elemmakil sat rooted to the spot, waiting for the chastisement he was sure would follow. But what came instead was only a quiet question.

“Why did you do that?”

“Kiss you?” He stared at Ecthelion in puzzlement. “Ecthelion—my lord—that’s rather self-evident, is it not?”

Ecthelion’s eyes blinked open. “You should not have done.”

Elemmakil’s stomach clenched, and though he knew he should keep silent, words eddied up like water from a spring, and he could not contain them. “I know. And yet if I hadn’t, I would only have continued wondering what would have happen if I had. I know that my low birth renders me utterly unsuitable. And for all I know, you find a man’s advances repellent—”

Ecthelion’s hand moved away from his cheek, and he lay a single finger over Elemmakil’s lips to quiet him. “I do not judge you by your birth. But you are young yet, Elemmakil, and the world is not so kind as you think. We stand on the verge of war, and I am a man with a blight upon my soul.”

He looked so forlorn that it was all Elemmakil could do not to pull him near. “If are on the verge of war, all the more reason to cling to joy when and where we find it. For what do we fight, if not for all the things that are beautiful and good—laughter, and love, and kindness?”

Ecthelion exhaled and looked away. His plaited forelocks slipped over his shoulder, the silver embellishments jingling as they fell. Elemmakil wondered what his hair would look like unbraided and free, what it might feel like slipping between his fingers.

After a time, Ecthelion spoke. “You know of the flight of the Noldor from Aman.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you must know that not all of the host of Fingolfin was innocent of the deeds done at Alqualondë. It was neither spite nor malice that drove us, but confusion. We arrived to a pitched battle, and did not understand until later—until we had compounded our folly with murder— how grievously we had misunderstood what had happened. Ecthelion spoke quietly but clearly. “Tell me: what right do I have to these things, the beautiful and the good that you name, with blood on my hands?”

The weight of Ecthelion’s words fell upon them, and in the ensuing lull, Elemmakil let their gravity wash over him. He considered his response carefully, for what he said now might determine the course of so many things to come.

“I asked Lord Glorfindel once why you were so sober of bearing. He told me it was because you still grieved for your parents who perished crossing the Ice.”

Ecthelion nodded guardedly. “He spoke in truth, if not in full. It would not have been his place to say more.”

Elemmakil raised an appeasing hand. “I meant only this: if you have caused death, you have felt its sting as well. You, too, have suffered a great loss. I have only known you as a gallant man, and I will not judge you for deeds committed long ago, without hateful intent.”

Echthelion did not respond, but Elemmakil felt the rigidity of the man’s body subside a fraction, and they sat together in stillness for a long while as the sun fell and the shadows climbed.

“The night is coming, Elemmakil,” Ecthelion said after a time. “Even an untamed Sinda will fare poorly trying to pick fruit and climb trees in the dark.”

Elemmakil marked the gentle dismissal in his words, but after all that had passed in that hour, he could not feel disheartened. He rose and bowed low, and Ecthelion stood and resumed his course toward the King’s Square.

Just before he edged out of earshot, Elemmakil spoke his name once more. Ecthelion stopped and turned, waiting.

“Do you think...” Elemmakil paused, took in a breath for courage, and let loose one final salvo. “Do you think I might importune you again some night?”

Ecthelion did not answer him, but Elemmakil was nearly certain that even in the dusky light of eventide, he saw the man smile.