A Constellation Called Gondolin by sh3rry95  

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The Name of Gondolin

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Eärendil was eleven, maybe twelve, when he first heard an adult dare to speak the name of Gondolin aloud.

Evening was falling and he was busy searching for shells on the beach – that very beach at the Mouths of the Sirion, where their people had landed years earlier, weary and hungry – when he heard a faint cry.

Eärendil stopped mid-movement, startled by the sound. For a few seconds he hesitated, unsure whether to stop what he had come to do. But then he remembered a conversation with his mother from years earlier and decided to go and see if he could help.

“Mum, why were you and that gentleman sitting there in silence for hours?” he asked, pointing in the direction one of the survivors had walked off a little earlier.

“Sometimes people just need company. Especially if they’re sad.”

“But when I’m sad, I cry.”

His mother gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Not all pain is visible, darling. But every pain needs kindness and compassion to be faced, and sitting with someone who is suffering is a wonderful way to offer both. Remember: every pain deserves respect, whether it’s visible or remains inside.”

Eärendil wiped his sand-stained trousers on his tunic and stood up from the ground, following the sound of the sobs.

He walked a short distance and then saw him: an adult elf with black hair, holding a bottle in one hand and trying to stifle his sobs with the other.

“Sir, are you feeling all right?”

The elf startled, raised his head and took his hand away from his face, Eärendil assumed, to try to speak. After a few seconds of opening his mouth and uttering incoherent sounds, Eärendil sat down beside him.

“...Don’t strain yourself! Mum says that pain should be experienced, not hidden.”

This was something his mother had often repeated to him over the years.

“...And now I’ll stay here to keep you company for a while so we can face whatever’s wrong together.”

The adult tried to speak again, then seemed to shrink into something small and fragile.

A few minutes passed. With nothing else to do, Eärendil pulled at a frayed thread on his tunic and began to play with it; he was so absorbed that he didn’t notice the elf had stopped crying or set the bottle down beside him.

“Thank you, young prince. You’ve helped me a great deal; I feel less sad.”

Eärendil started, then, letting go of the thread, turned towards him.

“You’re welcome…”

Then he couldn’t help but add, curiously.

“Why are you sad, though?”

The elf seemed to think about it for a moment, and when he replied, he did so with a choked voice.

“Because…” Here he paused for a few seconds. “Because of Gondolin, the home I lost, and… because of my wife, the person I lost.”

Eärendil looked at him with interest. He knew of Gondolin; it was the place they had fled from before coming here, but apart from the fire and the screams, he remembered very little, and the adults seemed to avoid talking about it.

“Gondolin?”

“Yes. Gondolin. You won’t remember it, but it was a beautiful city… My wife” Here he paused and seemed to feel even sadder “she adored it”.

Eärendil looked at him, unsure whether to ask for more details about a city that had now become a story no one wanted to talk about anymore. But the elf seemed to notice this and smiled at him, his tears now dry on his cheeks.

“You’ve helped me… If you want to know anything, little one, just ask.”

“Can you tell me about it? About the city…” He paused and then added quickly, “And about your wife, if you like.”

He nodded and began to speak, seeming to regain his colour and vitality.

“This was hers,” he said in a hoarse voice, after pulling a small enamelled brooch from his tunic. “She always wore it when we went out onto the city streets.”

Eärendil looked at it curiously. The brooch glimmered faintly in the evening light, and for a moment the boy tried to imagine the woman who had worn it.

The elf went on to tell him about life in the city, and spoke at length.

When his mother arrived hours later, out of breath from searching for him, Eärendil had already begun to picture in his mind’s eye the small part of the city the elf had told him about. He had imagined the elf’s home as small and cosy, with the smell of freshly baked bread ever-present. 

When Eärendil lay down in bed to sleep, after his parents had gently scolded him for causing them worry, he wondered whether he too, back when he still lived in the city with his mom, dad and grandpa, had felt the same emotions.