What Fortitude by StarSpray  

Elysium is as far as to
The very nearest room,
If in that room a friend await
Felicity or doom.

What fortitude the soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming foot,
The opening of a door!

- “Elysium is as far as to…” by Emily Dickinson

I. Glorfindel

On a bright summer afternoon, when the sky was clear and cloudless and the sun was hot, Eärendil caught sight of someone coming up the southward path toward Elwing’s tower, which was only rarely used, being narrow and bordered on one side by a sheer drop downward to the sea and a sheer wall going up on the other. Most visitors came by ship from Alqualondë, unless they were among those who dwelled now in Araman, which had grown more hospitable and less desolate after the rising of the Sun long ago—and they came down from the north on wider, less treacherous pathways. He leaned out of the window, squinting through the sunlight at the flash of golden hair through a stand of trees. Then the visitor came around the trees into the open, and Eärendil almost fell out of the window in shock.

He raced down the stairs, nearly colliding with Elwing as he reached the bottom. “What’s the matter?” she exclaimed, alarmed, but he only laughed.

“Nothing at all!” Eärendil sped out of the house and down the path. “Glorfindel!” he called. “What are you doing here?”

Glorfindel raised his head and smiled, bright as the sun. He was clad in simple clothes meant for travel, a dark green tunic edged with yellow, sturdy boots, and his hair tumbled loose and bright over his shoulders. The last time Eärendil had seen him he had been bloodied and battered, his hair darkened with blood and sweat and soot, his armor spattered with it. Before that , he had been clad in his finest robes and jewels as the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, standing by Ecthelion as the Midsummer celebrations commenced—before they had been interrupted, and Eärendil’s whole world had come crashing down.

“Eärendil, is that you?” Glorfindel caught him up in an embrace, both of them holding on tightly enough to make it hard to breathe. “You’ve grown!”

“Of course I have! What are you doing here? I hadn’t heard you were returned to us.”

“I am very new-come from the Halls,” said Glorfindel, releasing Eärendil at last, growing suddenly serious. “But it seems that I was brought back for a purpose—you have heard of the messengers being sent into the east?”

“Maiar, yes?” Eärendil said. “Yes, we’ve heard, but what’s that got to do with you?”

“I am to go with them.”

Eärendil felt his smile slip, catching the sudden and childish thought of that ’s not fair! just before it could escape his lips. “Why?” he asked instead.

“I don’t know.”

“Come inside, then.” Eärendil took Glorfindel’s hand and led the way back into the tower. Elwing was there, and Glorfindel smiled to meet her and laughed, shaking his head in disbelief at Eärendil being married. When she learned why Glorfindel had been returned from Mandos Elwing’s eyes went wide, and Eärendil saw his own thought from earlier reflected in them, though she hid it more easily, and instead asked when Glorfindel was meant to depart.

“I don’t know that, either,” Glorfindel admitted ruefully. “I suppose someone will come find me when it’s time. I wished to see you first, Eärendil.” He looked at Eärendil again with a look of something like wonder, and Eärendil wondered if he really looked so different.

It was many centuries since Gondolin had fallen, and at times he felt no different, felt as though he was still that frightened and helpless child inside a grown man’s body. He had felt thus when Eriador had been overrun by Sauron and his armies, and all he had been able to do was watch as Elrond and his forces had fled before the flames and the orcs, and keep watching as the hidden valley they had stumbled upon by mere luck was besieged. He had watched with equally helpless fear as, many years later, Númenor foundered, and later still when the Elves and those Men who had escaped the Downfall took the war to Mordor, and Gil-galad fell alongside Elendil, Eärendil’s own distant grandson.

Now the Shadow was growing again, rumors drifting across the Sea with each new ship that came into Avallónë. It was bad enough—or would be bad enough—that even the Valar were taking action, though in a more roundabout way than they had before. If Glorfindel was meant to be a part of that, Eärendil couldn’t complain—there were few others he would wish to send.

Would that he could go back himself, though, to do something instead of only bearing witness.

They did not speak of Glorfindel’s coming departure for several more days, until he and Eärendil walked out to the end of the cliff upon which Elwing’s tower sat. Eärendil still thought of it as hers, for though he considered it home he was there too seldom to feel any sense of ownership. As he and Glorfindel stood and watched the Sea, and the stars slowly appearing on the eastern horizon, Eärendil said, “I had children. Twin sons. Did you know?”

“I think so. I recall little of Mandos, but I feel I must have looked for you in Vairë’s tapestries, and I have in my mind an idea of two small dark-haired children.”

“Yes. They took after Elwing more than me.” Eärendil did not look away from the waves. “Elros is dead. They were given the same choice that we were, Elwing and I, and he chose the Gift of Men.”

“I’m sorry, Eärendil,” Glorfindel said quietly.

“His brother Elrond lives, still. He dwells in a hidden valley at the feet of the Misty Mountains. The world you are returning to is very different from the one you left, you know. Beleriand is no more—only Lindon remains, a fragment of Ossiriand. Gondolin drowned long ago, and your green grave with it.”

“Was it green? You should not have stopped to build it.”

“Maybe. Golden flowers grew there too. I saw it when I first set sail into the sky.” Gondolin had been the first thing he had looked for, through the enchanted spyglass given to him by Aulë himself. That gift was both a blessing and a curse. With it he could look down and see Elrond’s face as though his son stood right in front of him—and when he lowered it, the world shrank back away out of reach. “What will you do there, do you think?”

“I suppose,” Glorfindel said slowly, after a long silence, “that I will seek out Elrond. He is your son, Turgon’s heir, and so my loyalty must lie with him in those lands. I do not know what dangers are brewing there, what form the Shadow will take this time. Whatever I can do to fight against it, I will. Whatever I can do to protect your son, Eärendil, I will do it.”

“Thank you,” Eärendil said, his throat suddenly tight. “Do you think—do you think they’ll let you take…”

“They can try to stop me,” Glorfindel said. “A gift, a letter, a message—whatever it is, I will take it for you. It is the very least I can do, since I am to be sent back when you are not. I don’t know why I have been chosen.”

“Would you rather stay?”

“I might have been content if this chance had not been offered to me, but I would not be content now to refuse to go.”

Both Eärendil and Elwing labored over long letters to Elrond. There was too much to say and not enough, all at the same time. Eärendil had not seen his son face to face since Elrond had been six years old, sand-crusted and forever hand-in-hand with his brother. Now he was full-grown, accounted among the Wise, joyfully married and with three grown children of his own.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Eärendil said on the last evening before Glorfindel was to depart, having been summoned to Alqualondë to board the ship with the last two Maiar headed east.

“Anything,” Glorfindel said immediately, easily. He smiled, wistful and melancholy. His hair was braided in a single simple plait over his shoulder, and he looked very little like the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower that lived in Eärendil’s memories. He liked this Glorfindel, though—unencumbered by lordship, unburdened by grief except in the way all who had once lived in Middle-earth were, in a quiet sort of way; the grief was such a part of them, sunk into their bones, that Eärendil wasn’t sure what they would do without it.

“My grandfather. Is he to come from Mandos soon, too?”

Glorfindel’s smile faded away, and he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry, Eärendil. I can tell you nothing of your grandfather at all.”

II. Egalmoth

It was autumn when Egalmoth came to the tower. Eärendil had last seen him in Sirion, on the docks before he’d left on Vingilot for the last time. Egalmoth found him by the dock again, where he was replacing old ropes and looking for tears in the sails that might need mending. The winds in th heavens were not quite like the winds of the world, but in spite of all the Valar’s enchantments, a ship remained a ship, made of wood and rope and cloth, and needed tending.

“She looks just as she did when we last met,” Egalmoth said as he climbed up onto the deck, dropping unceremoniously down beside Eärendil. “And so do you, Eärendil.”

Eärendil looked up and smiled. “Well met,” he said. “You do not look the same.” Egalmoth looked younger, somehow, the set of his shoulders easier and his hair longer. He wore a necklace of opals set in gold that shimmered gently in the light of the Silmaril hung over Vingilot’s helm. “But I am glad that I do; it’s a nice change from exclamations over how I have grown.”

“Have you gotten such exclamations often?”

“Often enough,” Eärendil said. There were always new faces when he visited Eressëa or Tirion—those returned from Mandos who had known him in Gondolin. And of course there had been Glorfindel, years ago now.

Egalmoth and Galdor had, alongside Eärendil’s parents, been the only two of Gondolin’s lords to survive its downfall. They had survived too the long and weary trek down Sirion to the Havens, and after Tuor and Idril had sailed away they had been Eärendil’s closest advisers and biggest supporters—Elwing’s, too, in his absences, finding common ground with the lords and ladies of Doriath, and of the various groups of the Edain that had come there, and those who had lived there all along. Eärendil had wept to hear of Egalmoth’s death when the Sons of Fëanor had come. “I’m very glad to see you again,” he said now, far away from Sirion and Gondolin and war.

“And I you. I was very glad to hear that both you and Elwing came alive to these shores, and that your errand was successful.” Egalmoth glanced toward the Silmaril, and then away, out toward the open Sea beyond the cove. “When Sirion was attacked—”

“We do not have to speak of it.”

“I was unable to reach Elwing, or the twins. I am sorry.”

Eärendil shook his head, and set aside the ropes he had been braiding. “Please do not apologize,” he said. “You were there—you tried. That is more than I can say.”

“You do not need to apologize either—”

“I do, and I already have, at least to Elwing.” And to Elros, one time when Eärendil had dared the wrath of the Valar and brought Vingilot down to the waters off of Númenor’s shores, where Elros had brought his own small ship out to meet him. It had been bittersweet, that meeting. Elros had been a king, a husband and father himself. He had been so happy, but for that shadow of grief that followed in in the shape of Elrond’s absence. An identical shadow followed Elrond still, joined by so many other griefs that had accumulated over the long years. Eärendil hated to know that he and Elwing were among them. “I should have been there,” he said aloud. “But it isn’t worth thinking about anymore. Sirion was long ago, and Beleriand is long sunk beneath the Sea.”

“So I’ve heard.” Egalmoth did not look away from the Sea. One could not reach the waters that covered Beleriand from the shores of Valinor, not unless they were sent like Glorfindel back over the Straight Road by the Valar. The world was changed now in so many ways. “And Gondolin too, is drowned, and Vinyamar, lost to us except in memory and song.”

“Yes.” There were many songs of Gondolin. There were none of Sirion, except laments. Eärendil picked up his ropes again. “What will you do now?”

“Go to Avallónë, I suppose. There are more familiar and beloved faces there than in Tirion. I wonder what Finarfin thinks, of all us Noldor returning from Mandos and going off to Tol Eressëa rather than returning to our own city.”

Eärendil shrugged. He did not know his great-uncle well, being so seldom in Tirion or Alqualondë himself. “He might consider it a blessing, all the troublemakers leaving him in peace.” Egalmoth laughed. It was a bright sound, one that Eärendil was glad to hear as they turned the talk away from Middle-earth and to the future. Egalmoth lingered longer than Glorfindel had, with no urgent errands to call him away; both Eärendil and Elwing were glad to have him, a familiar face to both of them.

Before he left, Eärendil ventured to ask, once again, if there was other news. “Do you know anything of my grandfather?”

“No, Eärendil. I am sorry. He is somewhere in Mandos, with so many others.” Egalmoth embraced him, holding tightly for a moment. “He will return when he is ready. Do not lose hope.”

III. Aredhel

It was on a visit to Eressëa in summertime that Eärendil met his aunt for the first time. Aredhel was not clad in white, as she was in all the tales and all the artwork depicting her that Eärendil had seen. Instead she was clad all in green and blue, her dark hair twined with silver ribbons and diamonds. They met at Idril and Tuor’s house, at a party held there for no reason except that Eärendil had been able to attend it.

The evening was warm, and the stars were out. A breeze carried the scent of the sea mingled with roses and daisies into the wide room where all of the furniture had been pushed to the side to make room for dancing. Eärendil leaned against one of the windowsills as he watched Elwing twirl around the room on Tuor’s arm. He was no great dancer himself, but he loved to watch Elwing, who moved with all the grace of her grandmother. She had pearls in her hair, and laughed as she spun, her white skirts and sleeves flaring out like wings.

“So you are Itarillë’s son,” said Aredhel as she stepped up beside him. She had a glass of wine in her hand.

“My lady,” Eärendil said, tearing his gaze from Elwing so he could bow properly. Aredhel was very new-come from Mandos, and had that look about her as though her spirit was not quite settled back into having a physical body. She was smiling, though—just like Turgon. Eärendil put on a smile of his own and hoped nothing like disappointment showed. He could not begrudge anyone their return to life, but the longer his grandfather lingered, the harder it go to greet them with the happiness he should. “I am very happy to meet you at last,” he said.

“No, you are not,” Aredhel said, but kindly. “You would much rather I were someone else.”

“Surely not—”

“I can hardly blame you. I miss my own grandfather too.”

It took Eärendil several seconds longer than it should have to remember who Aredhel’s grandfather had been. He felt his cheeks heat, and he turned away, back toward the dancers. Elwing had changed partners, now whirling under Galdor’s raised hands, her head thrown back and her mouth open with laughter. “I am sorry,” he said. There would be no return for Finwë, if the tales he had heard were true.

“It is I who should offer apologies to you, I think,” Aredhel said quietly after a little while as they watched the dancers. “It seems it was my actions that began Gondolin’s fall.”

“No,” Eärendil said. “Gondolin fell because the Enemy came. It was never meant to last forever. Ulmo knew it, and my father knew it—and my grandfather did not listen.” He loved his grandfather and missed him dearly, but he understood too all of the mistakes that had been made, willful or otherwise. “If I have been told the tales right, all you wanted was your freedom.”

“And in seeking it I doomed all those I held most dear,” Aredhel said.

“How could you have known?”

“I suppose I could not. It is far easier to see now where it all went wrong, than it was before the events could be laid out so neatly in writing, or in thread or in paint. We all knew we were doomed, anyway. Neither my brother nor I were innocent at Alqualondë—Fingon, I mean. Turgon came after us and his hands were not so stained.”

Eärendil had only ever known Alqualondë as it was under the sun, shining and bright, with rainbow beaches and streets filled with music and laughter. He had never known Tirion in the dark either, though he had seen it empty and desolate. He had seen the Trees too at a distance, withered and dead upon Ezellohar, but he was a child of the Sun and Moon and could not fully imagine what it had been like to live in a land always full of light, silver or gold. He did know what it was to be plunged into darkness that even the stars could not penetrate, to be so afraid that you would do anything to escape it. It had been that kind of fear and desperation that had driven him again and again into the west, far more than the hope that the songs now linked to his name.

“You should not have to apologize to me for the things you did before I was ever born,” Eärendil said finally. He watched his mother spin by, laughing with Egalmoth. Across the room Rog stood with Duilin, both of them laughing. Slowly those who had once danced in the wide courts of Gondolin were returning, bringing that same fierce joy to the streets of Tol Eressëa and Tirion, their voices echoing over the Bay of Eldamar in defiance of whatever Shadow might linger away across the Sea. He looked at Aredhel and offered a smile that came more easily. “I am glad to meet you. My mother and my grandfather spoke of you often when I was a child.”

She smiled back, but hers did not reach her eyes this time. Then she took his hand, her slender fingers holding surprising strength. “You miss your grandfather,” she said quietly, “and I wish that I could give you news of him, but I cannot.”

“Can anyone bring news of another from the Halls?” Eärendil asked.

“Yes, but they are strange…it is hard to describe. If someone does not want to be found, they cannot be. I did look for him. Wherever he is though, Eärendil, you can be sure that he is at rest. He will return to us when he is ready.”

IV. Maeglin

It was chance that brought Eärendil face to face with Maeglin again. He and Elwing had come to Tirion at his great-grandmother’s invitation, and he had slipped away from the city to walk alone under the stars, for it was rare that he got to enjoy them from the ground. Tirion was quiet but not silent—it was reassuring to hear the murmur of life behind him as he left it to walk out into the fields to stand barefoot in the grass, looking up at the sky. He was not the only one with such a thought; others were out walking too, alone or in pairs. No one on such a walk cared for conversation, and all he could expect from anyone was a nod and a smile, and so Eärendil did not feel particularly alarmed when he saw a figure approaching, head bowed and hands in pockets, apparently lost in thought and with little care for the crisp beauty of that early autumn night.

When he turned to offer such a greeting, though, Eärendil froze, looking up into a familiar face that he only thought about these days in his nightmares. Maeglin loomed very tall and dark in those memories; he was not so dark now, though he was still much taller than Eärendil. His hair was dark as shadows, but he wore lighter clothes—soft grey rather than the blacks and silvers that Eärendil remembered. When he lifted his gaze to look at Eärendil he stopped short, but his expression was one of confusion and alarm rather than of recognition.

“Do you not know me, Cousin?” Eärendil asked when he found his voice.

Maeglin blinked at him, startled. “I beg your pardon, I don’t…” His voice was as it had been long ago, too—deep and not unpleasant to listen to, though the last time Eärendil had heard it he had been shouting above the din of battle and it had been a hoarse, shrill thing, panicked and furious in equal measure. It was his bruising grip on Eärendil’s arm that he remembered most clearly, and the edge of the walls only a few scant steps away, the drop afterward sheer and merciless.

In reality, Tuor had come in time, and Idril had pulled Eärendil away from the edge, pressing his face into her stomach so he did not have to watch what happened afterward. In his nightmares, no one came, and he woke only when he fell. It had been years before he had gotten up the nerve to climb the rigging of Círdan’s ships, and even so many years later he had felt his stomach drop, dread filling him, as Vingilot lifted out of the water and soared upward toward the sky.

It was many thousands of years later, now, and Eärendil had long ago lost his fear of high places—but the dreams still visited him sometimes, often around Midsummer.

And now here Maeglin was, alive again under the stars when Turgon was not, and Eärendil did not know if he wanted to scream or to punch him or just to run away.

He saw the moment Maeglin realized who he was. “Eärendil,” he breathed, and took a step backward before dropping to one knee. This, Eärendil had not expected. “I had thought you sailed the skies, guarding the Doors of Night,” Maeglin said, head bowed so that all Eärendil could see was his hair.

“I do,” Eärendil said, “but it is a lonely errand, and I am permitted to return at times to see my wife and my kin.” He did not know what else to say. As a small child he had admired his mother’s cousin; as he grew a little older he had realized that Maeglin disliked him, though he did not know why, and so he’d kept his distance, anxious of being in his presence without understanding it. He still did not understand, not really. Then when Gondolin had fallen… “What did I ever do to make you hate me so much, Maeglin? What reason could there have been—?”

“Nothing,” Maeglin said. He did not lift his head. “Of course there was nothing. You were only a child.”

“Yes, I was.” Eärendil balled his hands into fists to try to stop them shaking. The breeze no longer felt refreshing; it felt cold, set against the heat of memory at his back, Gondolin burning, dragon fire illuminating the mountains and turning the snowcapped peaks red as blood. He hated this—that a chance meeting under the stars could ruin the peace of his life that had not felt so fragile in so long. That the mere sight of Maeglin’s face could render him a terrified seven-year-old boy again, even after he had sailed the glittering expanse of Varda’s realm for years uncounted, after he had faced the Valar alone and grasping at the slimmest hope with desperate and shaking hands, after he had slain Ancalagon—none of it seemed to matter now that he knew Maeglin of Nan Elmoth walked the earth again, living and breathing. He wished that he knew what else to say, but he had never been a great speaker, had never been able to think of fine or eloquent words.

Maeglin had always had fine words, had always known exactly what to say to sway those around him to his way of thinking. The thought of it made Eärendil feel sick to his stomach. It made his eyes burn. He wondered why no one had told him, had thought to warn him. Did no one but Elwing remember anymore that he was not just a figure of legend, of song and myth? That he was more than one of Elbereth’s cold and unfeeling stars?

The silence stretched between them, until it was broken by the flutter of wings. Maeglin raised his head as Elwing alighted in the grass, a few stray white feathers drifting to the ground around her as she transformed into her own self. Eärendil reached out his hand and felt immediately better when hers slipped into it, her grip strong and firm, steadying, anchoring.

“What would you have of me, Eärendil?” Maeglin asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Eärendil said. Then, “No, I do know. I would have answers. Did my grandfather know what you had done? Did he know before he fell with the city that it was you who brought ruin to us all?”

Maeglin’s head dropped again, his answer almost lost in the whispering wind through the grass. “No.”

Eärendil did not know if that was a comfort or not, that Turgon had died in ignorance. Surely he would have learned the truth in death, however it was that the dead learned such things in Mandos. “Did you see him afterward, in the Halls?”

Maeglin lifted his head again, meeting Eärendil’s gaze with his dark eyes, his face partly shadowed by his hair. “I did, but it was long ago, and I remember little of it.”

“Then you can tell me nothing of him now? You cannot tell me whether he—?”

“No, Eärendil. I cannot. I am sorry—for that, and for Gondolin, and for all the rest of it.”

Eärendil took a step backward. “Then we have nothing left to say to one another.” It felt dangerous to turn his back, but he did it anyway.

Elwing said nothing until they entered the city again, when she whispered, “He can hold no power over you now, Eärendil. You are mightier than he.”

“I know that.” Eärendil tried to blink back the tears, but they slipped free anyway. “Would that he had remained in Mandos, and Turgon released instead.”

V. Ecthelion

It was the sound of a flute carried over the warm summer wind off of the waves that heralded Ecthelion’s coming to the tower. Eärendil sat at the edge of the cliff watching Elwing soar across the sea in the morning sunshine, and at first he thought he imagined it. Then the small sailboat came into view from the south, and he saw a familiar dark-haired figure on the deck, playing a song that had once been one of Eärendil’s favorites as a child. Eärendil scrambled to his feet to run down to the docks, flying barefoot down the path; out over the water he heard Elwing’s call as she too saw the approaching visitors. Vingilot bobbed gently on the waves, and the smaller boat from Alqualondë sailed into the inlet smoothly. Eärendil caught a rope tossed to him, and as soon as the boat was secured Ecthelion jumped from the deck onto the dock.

He was clad in blue and wore his hair long and loose, just as he had long ago in Gondolin, and the sight of him made Eärendil want to laugh and weep in equal measure. “When did you return?” he asked.

“Very recently!” Ecthelion caught him up in a very tight embrace. “Eärendil! I hardly recognize you. Is this the famed Vingilótë, then?”

“It is.” Eärendil glanced at his ship. Vingilot remained very dear to him, but he was not sure that she really was impressive as all of the songs made it sound. She was certainly not made of glass or silver—only the pale birch wood of Arvernien. The sails had been woven by Vairë, though, of some fabric Eärendil could not name that could withstand the harsh and cold winds of the heavens better than earthly canvas, though by now they were only a little less patched and mended than the original sails had been, when Vingilot had at last limped into Eldamar beyond all hope. “It’s fortunate you came today, for I am set to leave again soon.”

“But did you not just return?” Ecthelion asked. They left the dock and made their way up the path toward the tower.

“I rarely stay very long.” Eärendil glanced back down toward the glow of the Silmaril where it hung upon the mast. “But it’s all right. I would go mad having to stay in one place, and there is always something new to see when I set sail, whether it is across the Sea or in the heavens.” He looked back at Ecthelion. “You know that Glorfindel was sent back into the east?”

“I had heard,” Ecthelion said. “Can you see him, from your ship in the sky?”

“Sometimes. He dwells with my son—I have a son, did you know?”

“I did.” Ecthelion looked at Eärendil, his smile gone and a serious look on his face. “Two sons; I have heard many stories of both, and have seen the statue of Elros Tar-Minyatar that stands in Avallónë beside those of Húrin and Huor and the other heroes of the Edain. I looked for traces of you in his face, but could see none.”

“They both, Elrond and Elros, take after their mother—which is to say they take after Lúthien.”

“In more ways than in only looks, I have heard.” Ecthelion’s voice was quiet, and he reached out, hand warm on Eärendil’s shoulder.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Eärendil.”

“It was his choice, and he went as peacefully as Lúthien herself. It was for their sake that I sought the way into the West to begin with, and—they both have accomplished far more than we ever dared to hope, have been able to live in peace and in happiness. At least Elros did. Elrond remains still in Middle-earth and the Shadow is growing again.” There had been periods of reprieve, even long ones, but it seemed they were never to last. “I’m glad that Glorfindel is with him.”

“I can think of no one better for the Valar to have sent,” said Ecthelion.

As with Glorfindel and Egalmoth and all the others Eärendil had reunited with in the years since they began to trickle back from Mandos, there was much to speak of. They spoke of Gondolin and its fall, of the chaos and the fire and the last desperate stands in the squares and the towers. Ecthelion wept quietly to hear Eärendil’s descriptions of the ruin of the city seen from high above, and of the sea rushing in through the breaking mountains to flood the plain of Tumladen and then the city itself, drowning the moss-covered stones and the broken towers that had become tombs, and the trees and flowers that had been creeping back, even under the ever-growing Shadow of the Enemy. Eärendil wept to remember the fire and the smoke of the day it had all been destroyed, and to remember when he had learned that Ecthelion had fallen.

Before he departed on his next voyage, Eärendil asked of Ecthelion the question he asked of them all. “Have you word of my grandfather? Will he linger much longer in Mandos?”

Ecthelion shook his head. “Time is difficult to measure in the Halls, and when one returns it swiftly becomes difficult to remember more than snatches—it is like trying to grasp at a dream upon waking. But I think it will not be much longer, though by what measure, I cannot say. I will not tell you not to lose hope, for you are hope embodied! You will see him again.”

“I carry a sign of hope,” Eärendil said quietly, “but I am not hope embodied. I have never seen the light of Gil-Estel in the gloaming. I do not know what hope looks like when it rises into the night sky, or shines before the coming dawn. To me it is only the Silmaril that I wear when I am at Vingilot’s helm, the stone that opened the way for Elwing and me to reach these shores, but also the stone that brought in the end nothing but grief to our home at the Mouths of Sirion. It is a burden I have taken on willingly, and I am glad to carry it—but it is still a burden. Whatever the songs say, I am still only myself, and I miss my grandfather.”

“I am sorry.” Ecthelion stepped forward to take his hands. “You are right, of course; I spoke too lightly. Still: when Turgon comes, you will be among those he most wishes to see before anyone else. As joyous as our own meeting has been, even greater joy awaits you. Never doubt that, Eärendil!”

VI. Turgon

Middle-earth lay on the brink of war as Eärendil prepared to return to the skies. He had come back for a brief visit, just to see Elwing. Gil-Estel’s light was needed now more than ever, and he did not dare tarry too long. This was it —either the Shadow would be defeated for ever, or it would overtake everything. There was nothing Eärendil could do except bear witness, and so that was what he would do; he did not know how long it would be until he could bring news back to Elwing, and he did not know either what he would say if the worst happened.

He never had to worry about his supplies running low on his voyages through the vastness of Elbereth’s domain—her Maiar came and went with frequency, bringing him what he needed, offering company, even bits of news and gossip if they were like Ilmarë and spent more time in Valinor. They never brought him waybread baked by Elwing, though, or reviving cordials brewed by Idril or Anairë.

As he carried the last package of neatly-wrapped and closely-packed waybread onto Vingilot, he heard voices coming off of the open water, and glimpsed pale sails coming around the bend of the shore into the inlet, glimmering in the gathering twilight. He did not pause, taking the package below decks instead. As he stowed it he heard the mariners’ calls, and heard also Elwing answering.

Then he heard her footsteps on the stairs. “Eärendil, come! There is someone here to see you.”

“Their timing is awful,” he said. “I’m leaving with the next tide—”

“Then hurry! Come now!” Elwing grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the stairs.

“Elwing! Who is it?” Eärendil nearly tripped up the stairs trying to keep up. “Is it Egalmoth or…?”

“Come and see!”

For a moment he thought—but no, it would not be. Eärendil quashed that hope as he stepped out into the pale starlight and looked out over the railing to the dock where the Telerin sailboat had pulled up. He waved to the sliver-haired and merry mariners—and then saw who they had brought, and froze. Stepping off of the sailboat was his grandfather , Turgon, as tall as Eärendil remembered him, with his dark hair caught up in a single plait down his back, unadorned by anything but the simplest of silver circlets on his brow. As he stepped onto the dock he looked up, and Eärendil forgot how to breathe.

The last time he’d seen Turgon he had been armed and armored, grim and preparing for his last desperate stand as the gates broke and the enemy breached the city. Eärendil remembered Idril begging Turgon to accompany them, to lead them through the secret passage and through the mountains, and he remembered how Turgon had shaken his head before embracing her, holding so very tightly for a long moment. He had embraced Tuor, too, and then lifted Eärendil into his arms, had told him to be brave and to stay close to his parents. Eärendil had known then he would never see his grandfather again.

Except now here he was, returned at last. Eärendil took a running leap off of Vingilot’s deck, landing on the damp wood of the dock and almost falling as his boots slipped on the wood, smoothed from years of water and weather and damp with with spray. The mariners laughed, bright and joyful, but Eärendil hardly heard them as he flung himself at Turgon, who caught him easily, lifting him off the ground. Eärendil was no longer a child, but Turgon was still tall, broad-shouldered and so very strong. “I had started to think you would never return,” he cried.

“Ah, Eärendil,” Turgon murmured, tightening his grip. “I am sorry.” He lowered Eärendil to the ground so that he could let go, taking Eärendil’s face in his hands instead. There were tears on Turgon’s face too, as they looked at one another. “How you’ve grown, Eärendil!”

“Why did you not come with us?” Eärendil asked. “Why—you could have, the tunnel was…”

“It was so the rest of you could make it to the tunnel, and through it,” Turgon said. “I raised my banner so the enemy would know exactly where to find me, and so that is where they focused all of their attention. And so you escaped.” He tucked a strand of hair behind Eärendil’s ear, and when he spoke again there was sorrow and wonder mingled in his voice. “It was you we were waiting for all along, the one who would find a way to end the Shadow forever.”

Not forever, Eärendil thought, as he glanced eastward. “It was not only me,” he said aloud. “It was Elwing that brought the Silmaril out of Sirion, that opened the way for us.” He took Turgon’s hand and led him to Vingilot’s gangplank, where Elwing waited with the Silmaril in her hands, set into the thin circlet that Eärendil wore when he stood at Vingilot’s helm, lighting his way through the vastness of the skies and shining for all to see below.

“It was you, though,” Elwing said, “that spoke before the Valar, and you that bears estel through the morning and the evening.” She set the Silmaril upon his brow, and kissed him. “The tide is going out, Eärendil.”

“I know.” Eärendil stepped onto the gangplank.

“You sail alone?” Turgon asked, looking toward the empty deck. “Eärendil, is it not lonely?”

“It need not be,” Elwing said. Eärendil looked at her, and she tilted her head toward Turgon. When he understood her meaning he laughed and stepped back to kiss her again.

“Come with me!” he said to Turgon, holding out his hand as he flung his other arm out toward the open sea, toward the open sky, star-spangled and vast and beautiful. “Great deeds are afoot, and the world has need of Gil-Estel. I cannot tarry, but why should you not join me, to bear witness to all the wonders of Varda Elentári and of Middle-earth?” The world needed his star, but he needed his grandfather. There were few others who would brave the cold vastness of the skies, but he thought Turgon would be one of them.

Turgon stared at him in shock for a few seconds, just long enough for Eärendil to begin to think he’d been wrong, and his grandfather would refuse. Then he laughed, sudden and bright and fierce, and grasped Eärendil’s hand. “Why not indeed!”

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