A young ellon whistled as he was dusting the shelves and the books housed in them. The library was big, easily half the size of the royal library of the hidden city in which he dwelled, but he managed to dust its ‘occupants’ in only a week. The only shelves left were those he was facing now.

“Erestor? Erestor?”

The whistling ceased. The ellon tilted his head to the side.

“I am here, Ada! Do you need something?” he called back even as he was leaving the shelves, slipping through the narrow lanes to the doors of the library. The rags and the small pail of water he had been using were left behind by the shelves he had been cleaning, discarded temporarily in his curiosity. His father, the Lord of the Fountain, seldom called for him, and the lord was not often home anyway. Today, especially, Ecthelion should be in the court, arguing over what the lord himself dubbed “petty cases,” or in the northern tower, guarding against trespassers – whether they were friends or foes.

“Yes, Ada?” Erestor emerged from the library with an expectant, half-eager face. The look crumbled, though, when he beheld the distress in Ecthelion’s countenance. His father was rarely upset.

`This can’t be good at all,` Erestor mused as he stared dumbly at the ellon before him. His stomach lurched.

“Ada?”

“Our lord expects you, son. I shall escort you to his presence, as he also bids me to be there.”

There was no explanation. Erestor, pathetically bewildered, was ushered away from the library, past the halls, and out of the front door to the scene of the ‘fountainous’ garden.

Glorfindel was there, fidgeting upon his impatient stallion, his face bearing similar distress to that of his closest friend Ecthelion. On either side of him were two more stallions, saddled but riderless. “We are going to ride to the palace’s courtyard; that is the fastest way,” the golden-haired warrior lord informed the father and son. “Turukáno needs us as soon as possible. I hope our speed can ease his heart a bit.”

“What happened?” Erestor demanded, grumbling under his breath when Ecthelion nudged him towards the nearest stallion.

“Ñolofinwë is dead,” Glorfindel said bluntly, using the Quenya name of the said person as was his custom.

Erestor nearly slipped back to the ground from the saddle, the surprise making him reel. `Trust Glorfindel to be ever nonchalant about Ñoldor,` he grimaced inwardly, wondering yet again how the Vanya could maintain a moderate peace in his relation to the Ñoldor-filled population.

`But then why does he look upset?` he mused when the journey permited him to do so. `Hmm. Perhaps he doesn’t want to linger in delivering the bitter news; perhaps he isn’t as apathetic to the Ñoldor as some would think.` At least, it was what Erestor would do in Glorfindel’s position, as now, when the news had seeped fully into his mind, he felt a hollow feeling inside his chest. One more high king had died fruitlessly for the sake of three illusive jewels. He did not mourn Fëanor’s death, since it was the arrogant, mad-stricken ellon who had started all this mess, but now he felt that he had lost a true king to the dark forces of Morgoth. His king. Dead.

Upon arriving at the appointed place, the young ellon’s face was as somber and depressed as those of the two adults flanking him.

He was not worried about having an audience with Turgon in the palace; the lord’s only child, Idril, had been like an older sister to the lonely young ellon, and thus he had often visited the palace and even sometimes supped with the father and daughter. Instead, what made him worried now was the missive roll gripped in the lord’s shaking hand.

Turgon and Idril seemed to have just finished arguing, and Idril’s eyes were red and swollen from much crying. The lord was standing before the dais leading to his throne when the small company was permitted inside; he only acknowledged them with a slight dip of his head. But Idril rushed forward and flung herself into Glorfindel’s ready arms, sobs racking her body.

“Come here, Erestor,” Turgon said quietly between his daughter’s sniffles. Erestor, reluctantly, tore his gaze away from Idril and approached the lord with no small amount of trepidation.

“My lord,” the young ellon acknowledged him in the same quiet voice, forcing himself to be as composed as possible before the grieving ruler of his city. He bowed stiffly; not because he was not used to, but because of the uncertainty of the situation and the heaviness in his heart which foresaw a great burden soon to be placed upon his shoulders.

“I have spoken with my advisers, my family, and yours regarding this,” Turgon continued slowly after a span of silence. He looked over Erestor’s shoulder for a moment and nodded, then addressed the bewildered ellon before him again, “They have agreed. There are only a few people in this city who are able to compete with you in the matters of stealth and persistence. Moreover, you are well capable of defending yourself – and possibly others.”

Erestor, by this point, had begun to loathe his beloved lord for prolonging the inevitable. Now he could be sincerely grateful for Glorfindel’s blunt news delivery of Fingolfin’s death prior to this meeting. The wait was almost unbearable. He did not want to cower before his doom – or so he thought – was spoken, but he was now well on the way to it. If Turgon would not speak about the core of the matter soon, the poor ellon thought, he would rather flee the ruler in his peril than remain here waiting.

Turgon could sense his agitation, it seemed, because the lord threw him an exasperated look before saying, “I charge you with delivering this missive to my older brother, Fingon, with all haste. Guard this roll with all your might but not your life. Should you be in great peril of being captured or killed by the forces of the Enemy, burn it or spoil it in any way.”

Longer, but as blunt as Glorfindel’s news.

Erestor liked the speech, but not the underlying message. The matter had been decided for him. His family had a say in the problem, so why not he, the bearer of the task?

Noting his displeasure, Turgon grew more irritated, yet, to Erestor’s morbid fascination, there was a deep sorrow within the lord’s blazing eyes. He dared not ask, but the knowledge of the great sadness had calmed his mind. He dipped his head respectfully to the Lord of Gondolin and said curtly, “As you wish, my lord. When shall I depart?”

“Now.”

Erestor did not disguise his disbelieving look, nor did he try to stifle a wince.

“A pack full of rations and other provisions has been prepared for you. My daughter insisted on that, although I had told her beforehand that you probably would not need such heavy load.”

The incredulous look in Erestor’s face melted away, leaving only blankness.

“Come. I have promised my daughter to escort her to see her grandfather’s cairn. You shall accompany us on your way outside the city together with your parents and Glorfindel.”

`I really don’t have a say in the matter!` Erestor, who had seldom rebelled, now did, albeit inwardly. He whirled around and strode out of the throne room, sparing a glance to no one, and blocked the angry mutters of the board of advisers, who had also been present during the audience, from his ears. Indeed, he was not popular in the city, often taunted and cursed as a Dark Elf or a follower of Eöl, only because of his fondness for shadows, his palid countenance and his solitary existence. His only friends were Idril and Glorfindel, and if they said nothing about his deeds or behaviour, he would not heed cries or jeers or insults from others – like what he received now.

He waited sullenly on his stallion, only hopping down to the ground when Turgon emerged from the tower in which he dwelled. The missive was clutched in the lord’s right hand while his left one brought the mentioned pack by its shoulder straps. Idril followed him, her face as grim as Erestor’s.

Ecthelion and Glorfindel conversed with each other a distance away. Maeglin, Turgon’s nephew and Aredhal’s son, stood with the board of advisers at the end of the procession, his veiled gaze ever leaping from Ecthelion to Glorfindel to Erestor and only resting, revealing desire, on Idril.

Turgon said nothing. He motioned to Erestor to remount his steed. The lord himself mounted his, which the stable hands had brought for him. His movement was mirrored by Idril, Ecthelion and Glorfindel.

They rode in tense silence until they had reached a path beside the first gate – or the last, as seen from outside – which led to the Encircling Mountains. There Finera, Erestor’s mother, a healer, carver and a seamstress at once, had waited for them with somber countenance.

They dismounted and trekked up the path from there. Finera, mimicking the others, did not talk. She walked beside Erestor, a hand in her son’s, imparting strength to him in silence.

They halted before a newly-built cairn in midday on the side of the path, and there Turgon spoke for the first time since their departure from the King’s Tower. “Here lies my father. May he find pardon and peace in the care of Lord Námo in Aman in the Halls of Mandos.”

Erestor stared at the cairn, still as a statue, his eyes filmed over by tears. His heart pounded, racing. He knelt before the cairn and bowed. Then, in a moment of impulse, he reached out with a shaking hand and touched the side of the rocky mound with a finger. He drew it away as soon as his skin met the rough surface, however, as if stung. Truthfully, he was just in awe of the macabre luck falling to him now. Never before had he been granted an audience with someone ranking higher than Turgon, lord of his city, yet now he was kneeling before the mound that housed the body of a king – an empty shell, yes, but it had yet ever been a king’s.

Finera was weeping openly. Idril was crying anew.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion stood still some paces from the ellyth, faces empty. But Turgon joined Erestor, kneeling on the hewn-rock path with his head likewise bowed.

“My lord,” Erestor murmured and turned away from the cairn. His eyes met Turgon’s, and his grudges against the grieving lord were washed away as if they were no more than sand carried by waves away from the shores.

“Would you deliver this grievous news to Fingon yourself?” Turgon asked hesitantly. Erestor laughed wrily to himself to the irony of a lord being afraid of his own subject.

“I imparted the news also in my missive, but I felt that it would not be enough…“

“Yes, my lord. I… at least I shall try,” Erestor cut him off, smiling sheepishly afterwards. “I cannot trust myself in this, but I shall try for the best.” He bowed his head to his lord then gathered himself to rise to his feet. However, before he could do so, Turgon surprised him by embracing him as a father would a son.

“Your parents are fortunate indeed to have you as their child, Erestor,” the prince of the Ñoldor smiled a bit ruefully. Erestor gave him a half-grin, returned his embrace and rose together with him. Idril had been waiting by then, hovering nearby, and when they had dusted themselves off, she captured them in a large, albeit shaky, hug.

Erestor stowed the missive, which was encased in a cylindrical leather bag equipped with a length of thong to put around the neck, underneath his tunic, then shouldered the pack. Finera came over to bid him farewell and safe journey, while Ecthelion came in tandem with Glorfindel, seeming suddenly fragile. The Lord of the Fountain found his tongue tied, so he only embraced his son tightly before stepping back, allowing Glorfindel to bid his farewell to the ellon whom he had considered a nephew. But in the end the Lord of the Golden Flower only repeated what his brother-in-heart-and-arms had done.

Idril crushed Erestor once more in a bear hug afterwards, which was quite unladylike – as was her wont when not in public presence. “Safe journey, my brother and friend. Come home. Do not deprive me of my only young companion in this white city, would you?” she whispered softly to his ear, then winked, causing a crystal droplet to fall down her right cheek. Then she nodded and stepped back, allowing her father to also bid the helplessly-bemused-and-distraught ellon farewell.

“Take this to my brother, Erestor,” Turgon said softly as he belted a sword he had taken from beside the mound on the younger Elf’s waist. Erestor, realizing – at length – whose blade it had been, gasped with horror and stammered, face red with humility. Yet the Lord of Gondolin cut him off. “Should you need to defend yourself on the way, do not hesitate to use it; it is not a decoration, after all. But please, do not let it fall into the hands of the Enemy.”

Erestor, stubbornly-flustered, bowed low, then straightened up again, fidgeting almost in a piteous manner. Turgon, smiling gravely, put a heavy cloak over the young ellon’s shoulders and fastened it under Erestor’s chin with the broach bearing the coat-of-arms of the House of the Fountain. Then he led Erestor away from the cairn, straight to an Eagle who had just swooped down to meet them.

“Greetings, my lord.” Both ellyn bowed before the mighty Great Eagle, one of the guardians of the city. Behind them, the rest of the company followed suit.

“Come, young Erestor, climb onto my back,” the Great Eagle said after dipping his head to Turgon and his companions in greeting. Erestor squeaked, unable to rein his utter surprise and the immediate reaction caused by it. He actually jumped back a pace out of sheer fright and awe.

Instead of being offended, though, the Great Eagle chuckled, emitting a half-screeching, half-grinding sound which was unpleasant to the ears but warm to the heart. His keen black eyes sparkled with mirth and amusement. “Come, Elfling,” he said. “The sooner we go, the sooner you shall taste again the firm ground beneath your little feet.”

Erestor, if someone other than his family or friends – or this magnificent Eagle – had said it, would have taken great offence for it, but now he simply proceeded on unsteady legs, his senses numb, and clambered up the Eagle’s back through the joint of the giant bird’s left wing. Turgon helped him settle himself on the Eagle’s shoulders then stepped back, the lord’s face displaying humor torn by concern.

“Safe journey, young one,” he called, echoing his daughter. “Do not let go of Lord Thorondor’s neck at any rate, lest you would fall to your doom and send us all into another period of grieving.”

His last glimpse of Erestor’s face before the Great Eagle took off was that of the young ellon hunched awkwardly on the back of the King of Eagles, shell-shocked and shivering