The Sentiment of Steel by Kenaz

Retreat

Retreat: To move away from the opponent by stepping sequentially with first the rear foot, followed by the front foot, keeping the orientation of the feet constant, relative to each other.

Preparations for battle left little time for mundane matters; in light of the desperate march to come, the petty foibles of individual lives did not signify. Men drilled hard all the day through, and nights were given over to packing and fitful sleep. Even Aphadon, when Ecthelion encountered him, was subdued and deferential, and after watching him practise his forms with precision and discipline, Ecthelion had to admit Glorfindel was right: he would be a fine swordsman. If he survived this treacherous campaign, he would find his skills honed to a deadly edge. This gave him a portion of empathy for the young man. He had been scant years younger when he'd found his own skills first tested, and in recalling the shrill terror and utter chaos of his first battle, he found his mood softening toward the callow youth who'd done nothing more than make himself available when Ecthelion would not

He sought out Glorfindel time and again in order to make an apology, however lame and wanting the man might find it. He did want them to depart the city still estranged. But time was not in their favor, and the needs of two men were meaningless weighed against the needs of the the ten thousand about to march to war.

The battle was already pitched when they arrived at the Pass of Sirion, but Turgon ordered them to hold there, and bide their time. Ecthelion felt the eager itch beneath his skin, the tingle of fingers yearning to grip a sword, the growing appetite for violence. The smell of smoke and death came to them on the wind, a scent marking the failing strength of the host of Hithlum.

On the fifth day, Turgon called them to arms. The banners of Gondolin snapped in the acrid air. Ecthelion took his place before his men, a shining river of silver and steel. Just once he caught Glorfindel’s eye, though they were too far apart to speak. He lifted his sword in salute. Glorfindel returned it sharply, and then respectfully inclined his head. A simple gesture, swordsman to swordsman. Behind him, a few men of his house played marching songs on their flutes, and Ecthelion’s heart was lightened. If his father hear their tunes, he would know him there.

The triumphal shrill of the horns broke through the stagnant dawn fug, and Gondolin’s host streamed forward toward Fingon’s struggling forces. Their initial bombast gave way soon enough: they were quickly surrounded and assailed by a tide of foes thrice their number. Angband had been emptied, and Morgoth, in a surge of strength, sent out wolves and Balrogs and a force of dragons led by Glaurung, progenitor of them all. Even the doughtiest of Men and Elves and shrank back before the horror of that infernal creature, and the armies of Fingon and Maedhros were scattered.

Ecthelion sought always to keep Glorfindel in sight, a flash of blood-red and sun-gold slashing and hacking his way through the enemy throng, gore bright on his blade. He saw the familiar look of adamant concentration on his brow, the fearlessness written there above his grim and screaming mouth.

He sought also his father, and found him close at Fingon’s side, the bright rays of Fingon’s device on his surcoat besmirched with ichor and foulness. He fought tirelessly and valiantly, and Ecthelion was struck with sorrow at the manner of their parting, at the years that had passed, and the wounds that remained unhealed. But enemy's sword did not pause for regret, nor falter for remorse. He turned his eyes and mind back to the task at hand. His sword sang in his hand.

An unearthly roar split the air, rattling the ground beneath his feet. Ecthelion turned, and what filled his vision turned his blood to ice in his veins, and drove the last of his hope from his heart. The Balrog Gothmog, with Angband steel and a whip of flame, sliced a path through the field, cleaving body after body in his murderous path and opening a river of death between Fingon’s men and Turgon’s.

Ecthelion and his company were beaten back toward the Fen of Serech, but he fought, hopelessly, to hold their lines. All the while, Gothmog pressed on, the horrible crack of his flame sending bodies flying in its wake. This was the fire of Angband personified, the manifestation of all hatred and cunning, a thing which knew neither pity nor mercy, but only rage.

"Retreat!" 

The order was perhaps not unexpected, but no less devastating for all that. Silver horns, no longer exultant, cried the order: Desert the field. The day is lost.

But Ecthelion, transfixed before Gothmog’s lethal progress, watched with horror as the Balrog reached the last of Fingon’s guard: his father.

Even at a distance, he could see that most beloved face was haggard and pale. And resigned. More than anything, he wanted to call his father’s name, but he would not distract him from his final task. And there was no longer any doubt it would be his final task.

Huor’s voice bellowed above the tumult. “Retreat to the Fens! We will guard the rear! Go!”

Ecthelion’s men stopped, but did not yet flee. Still Ecthelion lingered. He could not now turn away.

He did not hear the screams of the men when the lash of fire caught his father around the neck. He did not hear the clatter of his father’s blade as his hand released it, only saw its shining edges catch the sun as it fell to the ground. He did not hear his own ragged roar of grief when his father clutched uselessly at the black blade that pierced his heart and came out his back. He felt his soul being dragged from him, ripped out through his mouth, despair like a rope around his entrails at the look of shock and pain on his father’s face before his hands fell away, dark and shining with his own heart’s blood.

Senseless beyond his grief and fury, he hurled himself toward the beast, sword aloft and keen for slaughter. Two hands gripped him, and he fought them, fought against a weight as strong as his own determined to keep him from his vengeance. He struck out, flailing with his arms, heard the grunt as his gauntleted hand hit flesh and bone.

“Ecthelion, No!”

Still he struggled, fought the arms dragging him back.

"Damn your eyes, you bloody fool! Your men, Captain! See to your men!"

And that directive, that voice, brought him back to himself, pulled the red scales from his vision and returned him to the horror of reality. And to his duty. His men would follow him despite the general order. They would go with him into death. Even Aphadon. For this alone they deserved better than a ignominious end to sate one man's private wish for retribution.

“Retreat!” he called, and his men, who had been caught between their King’s order and their captain’s call, found their feet, and the host of Gondolin fled the field in defeat.