Sing All Your Questions to Sleep by IdleLeaves  

The return to Gondolin had been neither swift nor silent. The remnant of their host had retreated only as quickly as their wounded would allow, following the river Sirion through the pass before turning east and disappearing into the mountains. Any relief Ecthelion may have expected to feel, after each of the seven gates had closed behind them, had been tempered by grief and exhaustion. When they're finally inside the city walls and their people begin to disperse, Glorfindel reaches out to take Ecthelion's hand; Ecthelion, then, has a sudden urge to weep.

His eyes are dry as he walks Glorfindel home under starlight and the gleam of a near-full moon. Ecthelion doesn't kiss Glorfindel goodnight, nor even release his hand, at his door, but comes inside without Glorfindel needing to ask. Glorfindel shuts the door, then turns to wrap his arms around Ecthelion, holding him like a tether as Ecthelion rubs a hand up and down his spine.

Glorfindel eventually steps back. He's pale in the lamplight—Ecthelion had escaped with nothing more than bruises and a deep cut over one eye, but Glorfindel hadn't been able to avoid a sharp blow to the head that, while not as severe as they'd first thought, had left him in lingering pain. He's uncharacteristically subdued as they shed their battle-stained clothing, scrub themselves clean, and dress in nightclothes, though he does smile at seeing Ecthelion wearing his own green and gold.

"Let me," Ecthelion says when Glorfindel picks up a comb. Glorfindel hands it over, then sits on the end of his bed; Ecthelion slides in behind him and combs through the tangles in his damp hair before beginning to twine it into a single long braid. The tension in Glorfindel's shoulders slowly subsides as Ecthelion's fingers brush the back of his neck, and Ecthelion moves to sit beside him after fastening off his braid. "Still in pain?" Ecthelion asks.

"Enough," Glorfindel says. He stands only long enough to lift the covers, then sinks back down to lie underneath them. "Can you—" he says, gesturing toward the windows.

Ecthelion nods, and rises from the bed. He opens both sets of shutters; the night air that drifts in on the breeze is oddly cool for summer. The stars above the city are bright and clear, but Ecthelion is drawn, instead, to the dark clouds blanketing the northwestern skies. He closes his eyes, as if that alone could banish his too-recent memories of the death and devastation beyond the valley's hidden gates, then takes a deep breath and tries to quell the unease that had crept in and settled at the back of his mind when their host had turned southward and started its retreat.

It'd been Glorfindel—bright, affable Glorfindel, with his fierce and unwavering love for his city, his people, and their king—who had first begun to doubt. He'd first questioned their isolation when the eagle had arrived bearing both a body and news of the Sudden Flame, though he'd voiced his misgivings to Ecthelion only and had otherwise kept them to himself.

Ecthelion had not shared Glorfindel's uncertainty, then—but it does not seem unreasonable now, nor so difficult to understand.

"Ecthelion," says Glorfindel.

Ecthelion realises he's still at the window, his hands resting lightly on the sill. He takes a step away, and finds a smile for Glorfindel—though he's well aware it's a half-hearted attempt at best—before blowing out the candles and joining him in bed. Glorfindel shifts to lie against Ecthelion's side, head on his shoulder; the only sound he makes is a grateful sigh.

The wind calms, then stills, and in the courtyard below someone begins to sing—a slow, sorrowful song that's unfamiliar to Ecthelion. Glorfindel knows the melody, if not the words, and softly hums along. "Talk to me," he says, when the song ends.

Ecthelion hesitates for so long Glorfindel raises his head, blue-grey eyes clouded with concern. "I was thinking," Ecthelion says quietly, with a brief glance toward the open shutters, "about something you said, once." Glorfindel does not interrupt, but waits until he continues. "It was years ago," Ecthelion clarifies. "You'd wondered, then, if it was right that we should stay hidden here, safe and..."

"Thriving," Glorfindel says.

Ecthelion nods. "Thriving. Given what was happening beyond the mountains," he says, and rolls onto his side so he and Glorfindel can lie face to face in the near-darkness; Glorfindel covers Ecthelion's hand with his own. "I didn't understand, then," Ecthelion says.

"Do you now?" asks Glorfindel.

"I don't know," Ecthelion says. It's all he can bring himself to admit. "What do we do?"

Glorfindel closes his eyes again for a long, wordless moment; when he opens them again he seems hazy with pain or exhaustion. "Sleep," he says, brushing a strand of hair out of Ecthelion's face, "and talk about it when we wake." Ecthelion holds out his arms, and kisses Glorfindel's forehead when he moves to lie against him once again.

Outside Glorfindel's windows, the city remains silent as the moon prepares to set. "I have no answers for you, Ehtelë," Glorfindel says, his voice muffled against Ecthelion's shoulder. Ecthelion had not expected any, yet something deep in his chest still aches at Glorfindel's words. Glorfindel is soon asleep; Ecthelion lies awake beside him, listening to Glorfindel's calm, steady breathing until the sky lightens and the dawn-birds begin to sing.

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