Fountain, Flower, Sword by Kenaz

Chapter 6 - Elemmakil

The night is darker here, Elemmakil thought.

They were not so very far from home, and yet to one who had never seen the sky beyond the Echoriath, had never ridden beyond the furthest reaches of the Tumladen, the outside world was as alien as it was imposing. The Sirion roared away from them, white foam rising on its currents, as if seeking a hasty escape from the parched and bloodstained land before them. The unwelcoming pines of Taur-na-Fuin loomed beside them, and the men sheltering there found little rest.

Fatigue plagued him; he thought he had never been so tired in all his days. Yet righteous fury stirred him, and righteous fury propelled him forward with his weapons at the ready and his eyes alert.

Righteous fury...and fear.

On their march, Glorfindel had placed him near the rearguard, flanked on either side by older men he had not known before: Adelthang, who had been born in Vinyamar, and Tulkayar, who followed Turgon out of Valinor long ago. Bright had they been in their shining mail, and bright had been the sound of Turgon’s trumpets, and the voices of Elves and Men as they had called out Auta i lómë! The night is passing!

Tulkayar had fallen when they had been driven back by the enemy host. His body had been left on the field to sink in the Fen of Serech. He did not know the name of the man who had stepped forward to take his place.

That had been but one of their losses. Fingon the Valiant, High King of the Elves and brother to his own king, had been slain before their eyes by a Balrog of Morgoth, his colors trampled into the dust beside his body. Elemmakil had never known such abject terror in his life as when he first beheld that creature, the embodiment of flame and darkness, a thing whose malevolence—whose very existence—was an abomination, an insult against life itself.

He sat alone now, at a distance from his fellows, running his whetstone down the length of his blade. Some of the older warriors could hone their swords with ancient magics, weaving songs of sharpness that touched the edge of their steel with fey blue light.  He had seen Tulkayar sing such a song; in the end, it had made no difference.  Elemmakil was content to use his stone; it gave his trembling hands an occupation, and his eyes a point to focus on beside the endless miles of smoke, and darkness, and fire.

“Elemmakil!”

An unfamiliar voice called his name. He rose and scanned the land before him. A man was weaving a path through the throng, looking left and right.

“I am Elemmakil,” he called in answer, and the man doubled his pace.

“You’ve been summoned by the captain,” the man said, and pointed to the pavilion that had been raised near the bank of the river.  

Elemmakil pocketed his whetstone and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. His sword rang as it slid home in its scabbard. He wondered why he had been called. Glorfindel had cooled toward him after their meeting in the market, though their training had continued apace until Glorfindel had by necessity turned his attention to the marshalling of troops and supplies.

Three pennants snapped smartly above the main poles: the standard of Fingon, the fallen High King; the standard of Turgon, the High King yet uncrowned, and a golden flower on a field of green for Glorfindel. Two sentries stood at attention at the entryway. He recognized them from the training yard in Gondolin, but their eyes were focused hard on the night beyond and they did not acknowledge him. When the messenger announced him, they stepped aside and he slipped within, offering a salute and standing ready until he was summoned closer.

Two lamps hung inside the tent, throwing out subdued light.  Glorfindel stood behind a makeshift table staring at a map.  A mortal man stood beside him, speaking in low tones and drawing a path across the map with his finger while Glorfindel nodded. He had seen this man and one other before, some time ago, in Gondolin. The few years between then and now had aged him, putting grey in his beard and lines around his eyes. Time, he remembered, touched Men in ways it did not touch Elves.

Glorfindel looked up when he entered, and kept his level gaze on Elemmakil as he said, “Húrin, would you excuse us for a moment?” The Man acknowledged him with a curt nod before stepping out of the tent.

Once alone, Glorfindel crossed toward him, his expression unreadable.

“How do you fare, Elemmakil?”

“Well enough, my lord. Tulkayar—”

“—Yes. I know.”

“He was a valiant man. He knew I had not been in battle before, and he watched over me. Adelthang, as well.”

Glorfindel nodded. It was only then that it occurred to Elemmakil that Glorfindel had assigned them for exactly that purpose. It was a kindness beyond what any one man deserved, though he knew it had been done not for his own sake, but for the sake of the one they both loved. He wished to acknowledge this, but also to let his lord know that he would take a place at the fore, that he knew his life no more important than the life of any other.

“Sir, I—”

Glorfindel did not allow him to finish. “I have a message which must be delivered to Ecthelion, and only Echthelion. Do you know where his pavilion stands?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Tell his sentries that I myself have commanded that they should admit no one until you have departed. Stay as long as he has need of you.”

Elemmakil swallowed. “Sir, I am not a man of note; wouldn’t someone of higher rank better suit your purposes?”

Glorfindel made a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh, and his mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I might have thought so once,” he said, “but, no: you’ll do.”

“Sir?” He wasn’t sure he understood.

“Never mind.  Just take this”— he handed Elemmakil a note which had been tightly folded and sealed in green wax with the imprint of his ring—”and do as I have bidden. Now, go. Ask Húrin to come back within when you leave.”

Elemmakil felt that he should say something else, but knew it was neither the time nor the place, and hardly knew the right words in any case. He saluted his captain once more, and departed.