FIC: LONELY NO MORE, Ecthelion/Tuor, PG-13
Title: LONELY NO MORE
Author:Ennorwen
Rating:PG-13
Pairing:Ecthelion/Tuor
Warnings:None
Beta:minuial_nuwing - Thank you, dear Min!
Summary:An irrevocable bond is forged between Ecthelion and Tuor, one that withstands all…even eternity.
A/N: This was written for phyncke, as part of the “Ardor in August” slashy_santa summer fiction exchange. For the most complete list of stories, go to the website, which is HERE
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“O Tuor of the lonely heart…”
-The Book of Lost Tales 2
The dream had come more recently of late, the voice low and sonorous like the moving of the currents under the sea. The message echoed in the tinkling and flowing waters of his fountains, staccato then, trippingly, and in the rising mists, ethereal and dissipating.
“Make way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.”
Ecthelion did not know what the dream meant, for before he would wake, the forms within would fade. He went about his duties, though the words resounded in his heart and became as a mantra, pervading even the rhythms of his sparring, of his music.
“Make way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.”
He had told Glorfindel of the strange tidings, though the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower knew not how to answer him, but bade him to look for the meaning, for surely such a repeated dream was a portent. And together, though only they knew of it, they kept watch and waited.
Not long after, word came to the Guardian of the Steel Gate that a pair of travelers on foot dared to approach the Hidden City. Ecthelion’s heart leapt in his chest, though he was unsure of the reason, and he arrayed himself in the steel and crystal of his house and rode out to meet them.
*******
Tuor was so weary. Voronwë’s presence buoyed his confidence and spirit with each gate that they gained on their way to city, but Tuor found that his only- too-mortal body was failing him. Though he marveled at all he was seeing, the weight of the armor hung heavy and each succeeding step became more difficult. He was relieved when the succor of food and drink were offered at the magnificent Gate of Gold, and found that his strength and sense of purpose began to return.
Bolstered by the sustenance, Tuor and Voronwë made the final push to the last gate - the Gate of Steel. What Tuor found there nearly muted him. The music - the notes strung together by naught other than the movement of steel caught his mind, and he tried to replicate them, became lost in them. Fingers moving in ghostly cadence over a non-existent harp. He needed to hear it again, but his thought was taken by the approach of the guard, tall and glorious, attired in raiment of steel and crystal. He shaded his eyes from the glint of diamond in the sunlight, the resounding of the notes fading as he beheld the regal Ecthelion.
Glorfindel strode next to his friend, nudging his side as they approached.
“Is it he? The one of whom you have dreamt?”
Ecthelion gulped, though he held himself aloof as Elemmakil saluted and spoke the words of introduction. He stood silent for a time and watched as Tuor’s very stature seemed to grow in front of his eyes, the man - a man - wreathed in nobility and power.
Ecthelion’s brow furrowed in vague recognition, but he put it aside, along with his other concerns as he performed his duty as Guardian of the Last Gate, speaking the familiar words to the man, warning that his admittance to the Hidden City was only predicated on Tuor’s relinquishment of his right to leave. Even as he spoke them, Ecthelion knew that the man’s purpose would supersede any mere warning.
Tuor, though deferential, drew himself up to his full height. He was tall; even taller than most of the elves, nearly tall as Ecthelion, and strong. His chest seemed to inflate as words came to him, and before he himself knew what he would speak, Ulmo’s voice, and promise came to him, putting the very words into his mouth.
“Speak not of ill-boding! If the messenger of the Lord of Waters go by that door, then all those who dwell here will follow him. Lord of the Fountains, hinder not the messenger of the Lord of Waters!”*
Ecthelion and Tuor regarded one another, a mystifying bond seeming to form between them. Tuor knew Ecthelion, as one to whom the Lord of Waters was dear, and Ecthelion remembered, the mantra once again echoing in his heart,
“Make Way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.”
However much the last of the phrases puzzled him, Ecthelion fully understood the first two now, and, looking directly into the sea blue eyes of the man, though speaking to all who would hear, answered him.
“Now no further proof is needed; and even the name he claims as son of Huor matters less than this clear truth, that he comes from Ulmo himself.”*
And in an aside, “Yes Glorfindel, it is he. Of that there can be no doubt.”
*******
Tuor had made his case to the King and though Turgon had given him a fair hearing, even so much as to welcome him gladly as someone long lost, the King had not heeded the words that Ulmo had put into Tuor’s mouth. He had even been given his own household, though more often than not he found himself drawn to Ecthelion’s fountains, hoping against hope that The Lord of the Waters would give him further instruction.
Ecthelion, hewing to Ulmo’s directive as true as he could, befriended Tuor and soon they became a familiar sight around Gondolin. The two, a mirrored pair - tall and strong, one dark, and one light. Oftentimes, Glorfindel could be seen with them, and when he could, Elemmakil joined them, making a formidable foursome wherever they went.
Tuor sighed and flexed his aching fingers. He put the harp down to the side and stared into the waters trickling from rock to large stone to pebble. Oftentimes he came here, to the most primitive of Ecthelion’s fountains. It was private and offset into a niche of the small courtyard and Tuor felt most at peace there.
“Why do you sigh?”
Tuor looked up into the concerned dark eyes of Ecthelion, and patted the hand that rested on his shoulder.
“It is silly,” said Tuor, “but I have tried and tried to replicate the beautiful song of the Steel Gate - your gate - on my harp, but no matter the rhythm or the tone, I cannot do it. It haunts me still - and I have heard it only once, but it was beautiful and I cannot recreate it.”
Ecthelion smiled, though a touch of bitterness came into his eyes.
“Beautiful it may be, but the one whose hands wrought that gate would keep the song to himself. Maeglin does not like to share, and I suspect that if he even knew you were trying would find some way to separate you from that harp. May I see it?”
The harp changed hands and Ecthelion regarded it, marveling once again at the melodies that Tuor’s hands coaxed from so primitive an instrument.
“I daresay that you do wonders with this harp. Bear sinew and rough wood. What might your fingers do with a harp of smooth ash and woven elf hair, I wonder?”
“It has been my sole companion for these many years,” answered Tuor.
“I do not think I would do better.”
“We shall see,” answered Ecthelion, “once I place into your hands one of Salgant’s making. Then we will make merry music, you and I - the harp and the flute, weaving joy and rippling water between string and breath.”
Tuor tipped his head toward Ecthelion, a wistful smile crossing his lips.
“Ah. There,” said Ecthelion. “Do not move for a moment.”
Questioning eyes met the elf-Lord’s gaze.
“Ah, yes. You do favor your father. His hair was near gold as Glorfindel’s - like yours. And his eyes had the same changeling quality. Sometimes a far away placid blue, like you are looking at the sea, and sometimes an acute azure.”
“Tell me about him. I only hear snippets of stories. Annael did not really know much, other than his deeds, and I have met none, save here in Gondolin, that knew him.”
Ecthelion smiled ruefully.
“He was a great man, your father. And brave. I have rarely seen one more courageous. But all the same, he was convivial, too - more so than his brother. Well met in company and able to laugh. I remember one time, I dared him to jump into the large courtyard fountain - and he did! Fully clothed and emerging with laughter. Aye. I sometimes think that men live more fully than elves - so much in the moment. But I guess that is…” His voice trailed off.
“What?” asked Tuor. “Finish the sentence.”
“I do not think I will ever really understand,” answered Ecthelion. “How men can know that their lives are so short, and yet expend themselves so freely.”
“There is much to be done, in so short a time,” answered Tuor.
“Yes, I suppose there is. Though we almost never think of time. Especially here. At the Nirnaeth…” Ecthelion sighed. “We have left this City only once since our coming,” he continued, “as I am sure that even your tales told, and I rode beside the King. We knew it was almost beyond hope - what few of us remained were so scattered outside of these walls. Though I remember looking back, and telling the king that I saw shapes of Men and of horses - and there came your father and his brother with him, and what noble men that could gather. Strange…”
“Strange?”
“Strange that at the same instant men’s treachery and men’s loyalty was at work. The Nirnaeth was almost won and but for the turncoats, might have been.”
Ecthelion’s eyes grew distant, and he bowed his head.
Almost in a whisper, he added. “He saved my life at the cost of his.”
“My father.”
“Yes. And Húrin. They were magnificent in their defense, though I did not watch all of it. They turned around and charged directly into the enemy’s path - cutting them off from us. We made our retreat. But at such a cost! I am sorry…”
“Do not be,,” answered Tuor, “for we all have our part to play, and that was his. I am glad that the City and its folk have survived. Though for how long, I cannot say. I wish that Turgon would heed my words.”
“Since they are not yours, but His…” answered Ecthelion, holding his fingers under the trickling waters of the fountain of rock and stone.
“He speaks to you, too?”
“Not much anymore. Sometimes I think so, but then…”
Make way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.
“Are you wed? Have you a wife that you have left behind? Children?”
Tuor laughed.
“No! What time have I had to woo? Besides… oh, never mind. The years with the Easterlings, and then for a long time I traveled and lived alone, meeting others so rarely that sometimes I thought that I was alone in all the world.”
Ecthelion cupped Tuor’s cheek with his hand. And Tuor leaned into it. Ecthelion let his lips brush over Tuor’s honey-gold hair.
“You are alone no more.”
Ecthelion remembered then Huor’s parting words to Turgon and knew at once the task that was set before him.
“There are those here that have grown to love you, son of Huor - and your fate, I deem, is much more even than you think, if you but only open your heart to it.”
Tuor’s cheeks reddened as a shy smile stole over his face.
“Perhaps so, but for now I am content.”
*******
Only a few were left on the training grounds as night fell - Glorfindel, though he was off to the side enjoying himself by coaching and catcalls to those who remained, and Elemmakil, but all knew on whom his eyes rested. Tuor was smiting imaginary foes with his mighty axe and Ecthelion dancing with shadows, sword raised.
“You came here with a sword of the Noldo, Tuor - can you use it?” bantered Ecthelion, “Or will you only hew your foes with an axe, like a dwarf?”
“I daresay my foes have found my axe just as deadly, Thel,” countered Tuor. He threw the axe in an arc, narrowly missing Ecthelion’s head as it tumbled past end over end and embedded itself with a loud thunk in the fence behind the startled elf-Lord.
“Humph, and now what will you do? Weaponless?”
Tuor drew himself up to his formidable height and began to stride toward Ecthelion. Glorfindel met him midway, the sword that Tuor had wrenched from the wall at Vinyamar in his hand.
“This is your sword now, Tuor. Use it - take that braggart flute-player down a notch or two.”
Elemmakil watched Ecthelion wide-eyed, wondering how he would react to such a taunt. But Ecthelion only laughed as he readied himself for Tuor’s attack.
“Come on now, Tuor - have at it.”
“Leave them to it,” said Glorfindel to Elemmakil. “I am thirsty and there is a draught of May wine that has my name on it. Come with me, and I will tell you such tales…” His laughter echoed in the courtyard as they left, Glorfindel near dragging Elemmakil away.
Tuor advanced toward Ecthelion, sword raised and held with two hands. Ecthelion was ready, bracing his legs, sword in his right, left ready to balance himself. The clash of metal was the only sound in the courtyard, and Tuor went at him, again and again.
Tuor thrust and Ecthelion parried, and then they reversed, until Tuor inevitably weakened. At the end though, in one last burst of strength, Tuor backed Ecthelion into a wall, swords crossed high above their heads, chests nearly touching.
Tuor held fast, until Ecthelion’s very essence overwhelmed him. The tang of the elf, pungent and virile. They struggled, Ecthelion to break free of Tuor’s hold and Tuor to keep him there, pinned, but Tuor’s mind reeled with the scent of the elf and their close proximity.
Sweat poured from Ecthelion’s flesh, in glistening rivulets down his arms and chest. Tuor took long breaths, inhaling Ecthelion’s aroma until his eyes closed and he let his sword arm drop. Ecthelion held, breath steadying as he waited for Tuor to step back.
Tuor felt suddenly awakened, felt himself harden against Ecthelion’s groin and though a voice deep inside him said no, not this, rather than recoil, he propelled himself forward, grinding his burgeoning erection against Ecthelion’s thigh.
Knowing not what possessed him Tuor’s mouth opened, and he breathed deep, all the better to take in the musk secreted by the elf. Dizzied, he leaned down and tasted. Licked a gossamer stream of sweat from Ecthelion’s left bicep.
Stunned by what he had done, Tuor leaned back, mouth opening and closing in a quest for words.
“I am sorry. I did not…I do not know…”
It was the opening that Ecthelion had been waiting for, the answer to all of his questions about the last phrase in Ulmo’s directive - his answer came quickly.
“Do not be,” replied Ecthelion, cradling Tuor’s head with his left hand, and pulling the man more closely toward him. “Have you not done this before?”
“Never! Neither with man nor woman. If you could have seen them - Lorgan and his folk, rutting with the willing and unwilling alike. It was disgusting. Oh Gods, I am sorry - I will go and…and…”
“No, Tuor, you will not go. Do you remember when I told you that maybe…sometimes, the Lord of Waters speaks to me, too? There is a destiny in store for you that I cannot nearly conceive of - but this is part and parcel of it. He has chosen me to be an instrument of that, as much as he has chosen you. Do not be afraid, Tuor and do not leave now.”
Tuor gulped and closed his eyes, disbelief flooding his mind. He began to shake his head, back and forth, no. And no again.
But Ecthelion stilled him with strong hands, one on each side of his face, holding fast to his hair as he leaned down and kissed. Kissed Tuor’s mouth, gently, every movement designed to quiet the skittish mind of the man and to allow him to let his newly unleashed passion run.
“Let us both go now, Tuor. We will bathe and we will eat and I will show you that you have naught to fear.”
Later, after Ecthelion had slowly brought Tuor into his own and allowed the man to explore him, after Tuor awakened to the pleasures of the sharing of bodies, and made peace with it, Ecthelion told him the end of Huor’s story.
“There is something more that you should know of your father. Something that explains why this happened, why you are here. Do you wish to hear it?”
“Of course,” answered Tuor, “since I have failed with the King I am at loose ends, and have pled with The Father of Waters to tell me what to do. Am I but to wile away my time until my death in wasteful indolence?”
“No, I do not think so,” answered Ecthelion. “This is what I heard your father say to the King ere they parted for the last time. Listen well, Tuor and you may find your fate hidden in the words.”
“…out of your house (Turgon’s) shall come the hope of Elves and Men. This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death; though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise. Farewell!”**
*******
Ever after, Ecthelion was Tuor’s champion and Tuor his. They stood together, with some few others, at Turgon’s right hand, while Maeglin and his partisans whispered at his left. Even as the King placed the hand of his beloved Idril into the man’s, granting Tuor the gift of all gifts, Ecthelion stood beside him. And Tuor, even at the end, with no thought to his own peril, had stood and fought at Ecthelion’s side. Even at the end…
*******
The sun rose and even by Valinorean standards, it was a beautiful day. Tuor awoke early and greeted the dawn as he did always, thanking the Valar in almost disbelieving gratitude for the gifts that he had been granted - Idril at his side, the son of their joining, bright Eärendil, heroic and revered overhead -and life ever after in the bliss and timelessness of Valinor, with those whom he loved.
He took up his harp, the one that had been placed into his hands by the noble Ecthelion and thrummed thoughtlessly for a time, weaving together stray snippets of tunes here and there, some of Eldamar and some of the long distant land of his birth.
As his fingers plucked idly, a series of tones came into his mind and seamlessly traveled down through his fingers. Almost unconsciously, the glissando came to him, and with two hands now, the harp laid between his knees, he countered the scale with his left.
Idril paused for a moment, listening ever more keenly to the sound Tuor had wrought. Her eyes lit excitedly as she recognized the tune - the centerpiece of the glissando and its variations and counterpoint.
“That is it!” she called.
“Tuor,” she said, as she knelt down beside him, “it is the song of the Steel Gate - but it is not Maeglin’s. You have enhanced it and made it your own. Oh!”
“It just came to me…even after all of these years,” he replied, resting a hand in her hair. “I wonder. Why now?”
“I think I know,” Idril breathed, canting her head toward a hilltop, far distant.
And there Tuor saw them, two horses, both white, striding together toward him.
“Yes,” whispered Idril, “it is he - and with him the guard of the Gate of Gold, fair Elemmakil.”
Tuor saw them, though he watched only the elf on the left. Tall and glorious he rode, attired in steel and crystal. He shaded his eyes from the glint of the diamond in the sunlight, the harp slipping from his lap as he stood and beheld, once again, regal Ecthelion.
END
*Directly quoted from “Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin,” Unfinished Tales, by J.R.R.Tolkien
**Directly quoted from The Silmarillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien
Author:Ennorwen
Rating:PG-13
Pairing:Ecthelion/Tuor
Warnings:None
Beta:minuial_nuwing - Thank you, dear Min!
Summary:An irrevocable bond is forged between Ecthelion and Tuor, one that withstands all…even eternity.
A/N: This was written for phyncke, as part of the “Ardor in August” slashy_santa summer fiction exchange. For the most complete list of stories, go to the website, which is HERE
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“O Tuor of the lonely heart…”
-The Book of Lost Tales 2
The dream had come more recently of late, the voice low and sonorous like the moving of the currents under the sea. The message echoed in the tinkling and flowing waters of his fountains, staccato then, trippingly, and in the rising mists, ethereal and dissipating.
“Make way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.”
Ecthelion did not know what the dream meant, for before he would wake, the forms within would fade. He went about his duties, though the words resounded in his heart and became as a mantra, pervading even the rhythms of his sparring, of his music.
“Make way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.”
He had told Glorfindel of the strange tidings, though the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower knew not how to answer him, but bade him to look for the meaning, for surely such a repeated dream was a portent. And together, though only they knew of it, they kept watch and waited.
Not long after, word came to the Guardian of the Steel Gate that a pair of travelers on foot dared to approach the Hidden City. Ecthelion’s heart leapt in his chest, though he was unsure of the reason, and he arrayed himself in the steel and crystal of his house and rode out to meet them.
*******
Tuor was so weary. Voronwë’s presence buoyed his confidence and spirit with each gate that they gained on their way to city, but Tuor found that his only- too-mortal body was failing him. Though he marveled at all he was seeing, the weight of the armor hung heavy and each succeeding step became more difficult. He was relieved when the succor of food and drink were offered at the magnificent Gate of Gold, and found that his strength and sense of purpose began to return.
Bolstered by the sustenance, Tuor and Voronwë made the final push to the last gate - the Gate of Steel. What Tuor found there nearly muted him. The music - the notes strung together by naught other than the movement of steel caught his mind, and he tried to replicate them, became lost in them. Fingers moving in ghostly cadence over a non-existent harp. He needed to hear it again, but his thought was taken by the approach of the guard, tall and glorious, attired in raiment of steel and crystal. He shaded his eyes from the glint of diamond in the sunlight, the resounding of the notes fading as he beheld the regal Ecthelion.
Glorfindel strode next to his friend, nudging his side as they approached.
“Is it he? The one of whom you have dreamt?”
Ecthelion gulped, though he held himself aloof as Elemmakil saluted and spoke the words of introduction. He stood silent for a time and watched as Tuor’s very stature seemed to grow in front of his eyes, the man - a man - wreathed in nobility and power.
Ecthelion’s brow furrowed in vague recognition, but he put it aside, along with his other concerns as he performed his duty as Guardian of the Last Gate, speaking the familiar words to the man, warning that his admittance to the Hidden City was only predicated on Tuor’s relinquishment of his right to leave. Even as he spoke them, Ecthelion knew that the man’s purpose would supersede any mere warning.
Tuor, though deferential, drew himself up to his full height. He was tall; even taller than most of the elves, nearly tall as Ecthelion, and strong. His chest seemed to inflate as words came to him, and before he himself knew what he would speak, Ulmo’s voice, and promise came to him, putting the very words into his mouth.
“Speak not of ill-boding! If the messenger of the Lord of Waters go by that door, then all those who dwell here will follow him. Lord of the Fountains, hinder not the messenger of the Lord of Waters!”*
Ecthelion and Tuor regarded one another, a mystifying bond seeming to form between them. Tuor knew Ecthelion, as one to whom the Lord of Waters was dear, and Ecthelion remembered, the mantra once again echoing in his heart,
“Make Way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.”
However much the last of the phrases puzzled him, Ecthelion fully understood the first two now, and, looking directly into the sea blue eyes of the man, though speaking to all who would hear, answered him.
“Now no further proof is needed; and even the name he claims as son of Huor matters less than this clear truth, that he comes from Ulmo himself.”*
And in an aside, “Yes Glorfindel, it is he. Of that there can be no doubt.”
*******
Tuor had made his case to the King and though Turgon had given him a fair hearing, even so much as to welcome him gladly as someone long lost, the King had not heeded the words that Ulmo had put into Tuor’s mouth. He had even been given his own household, though more often than not he found himself drawn to Ecthelion’s fountains, hoping against hope that The Lord of the Waters would give him further instruction.
Ecthelion, hewing to Ulmo’s directive as true as he could, befriended Tuor and soon they became a familiar sight around Gondolin. The two, a mirrored pair - tall and strong, one dark, and one light. Oftentimes, Glorfindel could be seen with them, and when he could, Elemmakil joined them, making a formidable foursome wherever they went.
Tuor sighed and flexed his aching fingers. He put the harp down to the side and stared into the waters trickling from rock to large stone to pebble. Oftentimes he came here, to the most primitive of Ecthelion’s fountains. It was private and offset into a niche of the small courtyard and Tuor felt most at peace there.
“Why do you sigh?”
Tuor looked up into the concerned dark eyes of Ecthelion, and patted the hand that rested on his shoulder.
“It is silly,” said Tuor, “but I have tried and tried to replicate the beautiful song of the Steel Gate - your gate - on my harp, but no matter the rhythm or the tone, I cannot do it. It haunts me still - and I have heard it only once, but it was beautiful and I cannot recreate it.”
Ecthelion smiled, though a touch of bitterness came into his eyes.
“Beautiful it may be, but the one whose hands wrought that gate would keep the song to himself. Maeglin does not like to share, and I suspect that if he even knew you were trying would find some way to separate you from that harp. May I see it?”
The harp changed hands and Ecthelion regarded it, marveling once again at the melodies that Tuor’s hands coaxed from so primitive an instrument.
“I daresay that you do wonders with this harp. Bear sinew and rough wood. What might your fingers do with a harp of smooth ash and woven elf hair, I wonder?”
“It has been my sole companion for these many years,” answered Tuor.
“I do not think I would do better.”
“We shall see,” answered Ecthelion, “once I place into your hands one of Salgant’s making. Then we will make merry music, you and I - the harp and the flute, weaving joy and rippling water between string and breath.”
Tuor tipped his head toward Ecthelion, a wistful smile crossing his lips.
“Ah. There,” said Ecthelion. “Do not move for a moment.”
Questioning eyes met the elf-Lord’s gaze.
“Ah, yes. You do favor your father. His hair was near gold as Glorfindel’s - like yours. And his eyes had the same changeling quality. Sometimes a far away placid blue, like you are looking at the sea, and sometimes an acute azure.”
“Tell me about him. I only hear snippets of stories. Annael did not really know much, other than his deeds, and I have met none, save here in Gondolin, that knew him.”
Ecthelion smiled ruefully.
“He was a great man, your father. And brave. I have rarely seen one more courageous. But all the same, he was convivial, too - more so than his brother. Well met in company and able to laugh. I remember one time, I dared him to jump into the large courtyard fountain - and he did! Fully clothed and emerging with laughter. Aye. I sometimes think that men live more fully than elves - so much in the moment. But I guess that is…” His voice trailed off.
“What?” asked Tuor. “Finish the sentence.”
“I do not think I will ever really understand,” answered Ecthelion. “How men can know that their lives are so short, and yet expend themselves so freely.”
“There is much to be done, in so short a time,” answered Tuor.
“Yes, I suppose there is. Though we almost never think of time. Especially here. At the Nirnaeth…” Ecthelion sighed. “We have left this City only once since our coming,” he continued, “as I am sure that even your tales told, and I rode beside the King. We knew it was almost beyond hope - what few of us remained were so scattered outside of these walls. Though I remember looking back, and telling the king that I saw shapes of Men and of horses - and there came your father and his brother with him, and what noble men that could gather. Strange…”
“Strange?”
“Strange that at the same instant men’s treachery and men’s loyalty was at work. The Nirnaeth was almost won and but for the turncoats, might have been.”
Ecthelion’s eyes grew distant, and he bowed his head.
Almost in a whisper, he added. “He saved my life at the cost of his.”
“My father.”
“Yes. And Húrin. They were magnificent in their defense, though I did not watch all of it. They turned around and charged directly into the enemy’s path - cutting them off from us. We made our retreat. But at such a cost! I am sorry…”
“Do not be,,” answered Tuor, “for we all have our part to play, and that was his. I am glad that the City and its folk have survived. Though for how long, I cannot say. I wish that Turgon would heed my words.”
“Since they are not yours, but His…” answered Ecthelion, holding his fingers under the trickling waters of the fountain of rock and stone.
“He speaks to you, too?”
“Not much anymore. Sometimes I think so, but then…”
Make way. Prepare. Unseal his heart.
“Are you wed? Have you a wife that you have left behind? Children?”
Tuor laughed.
“No! What time have I had to woo? Besides… oh, never mind. The years with the Easterlings, and then for a long time I traveled and lived alone, meeting others so rarely that sometimes I thought that I was alone in all the world.”
Ecthelion cupped Tuor’s cheek with his hand. And Tuor leaned into it. Ecthelion let his lips brush over Tuor’s honey-gold hair.
“You are alone no more.”
Ecthelion remembered then Huor’s parting words to Turgon and knew at once the task that was set before him.
“There are those here that have grown to love you, son of Huor - and your fate, I deem, is much more even than you think, if you but only open your heart to it.”
Tuor’s cheeks reddened as a shy smile stole over his face.
“Perhaps so, but for now I am content.”
*******
Only a few were left on the training grounds as night fell - Glorfindel, though he was off to the side enjoying himself by coaching and catcalls to those who remained, and Elemmakil, but all knew on whom his eyes rested. Tuor was smiting imaginary foes with his mighty axe and Ecthelion dancing with shadows, sword raised.
“You came here with a sword of the Noldo, Tuor - can you use it?” bantered Ecthelion, “Or will you only hew your foes with an axe, like a dwarf?”
“I daresay my foes have found my axe just as deadly, Thel,” countered Tuor. He threw the axe in an arc, narrowly missing Ecthelion’s head as it tumbled past end over end and embedded itself with a loud thunk in the fence behind the startled elf-Lord.
“Humph, and now what will you do? Weaponless?”
Tuor drew himself up to his formidable height and began to stride toward Ecthelion. Glorfindel met him midway, the sword that Tuor had wrenched from the wall at Vinyamar in his hand.
“This is your sword now, Tuor. Use it - take that braggart flute-player down a notch or two.”
Elemmakil watched Ecthelion wide-eyed, wondering how he would react to such a taunt. But Ecthelion only laughed as he readied himself for Tuor’s attack.
“Come on now, Tuor - have at it.”
“Leave them to it,” said Glorfindel to Elemmakil. “I am thirsty and there is a draught of May wine that has my name on it. Come with me, and I will tell you such tales…” His laughter echoed in the courtyard as they left, Glorfindel near dragging Elemmakil away.
Tuor advanced toward Ecthelion, sword raised and held with two hands. Ecthelion was ready, bracing his legs, sword in his right, left ready to balance himself. The clash of metal was the only sound in the courtyard, and Tuor went at him, again and again.
Tuor thrust and Ecthelion parried, and then they reversed, until Tuor inevitably weakened. At the end though, in one last burst of strength, Tuor backed Ecthelion into a wall, swords crossed high above their heads, chests nearly touching.
Tuor held fast, until Ecthelion’s very essence overwhelmed him. The tang of the elf, pungent and virile. They struggled, Ecthelion to break free of Tuor’s hold and Tuor to keep him there, pinned, but Tuor’s mind reeled with the scent of the elf and their close proximity.
Sweat poured from Ecthelion’s flesh, in glistening rivulets down his arms and chest. Tuor took long breaths, inhaling Ecthelion’s aroma until his eyes closed and he let his sword arm drop. Ecthelion held, breath steadying as he waited for Tuor to step back.
Tuor felt suddenly awakened, felt himself harden against Ecthelion’s groin and though a voice deep inside him said no, not this, rather than recoil, he propelled himself forward, grinding his burgeoning erection against Ecthelion’s thigh.
Knowing not what possessed him Tuor’s mouth opened, and he breathed deep, all the better to take in the musk secreted by the elf. Dizzied, he leaned down and tasted. Licked a gossamer stream of sweat from Ecthelion’s left bicep.
Stunned by what he had done, Tuor leaned back, mouth opening and closing in a quest for words.
“I am sorry. I did not…I do not know…”
It was the opening that Ecthelion had been waiting for, the answer to all of his questions about the last phrase in Ulmo’s directive - his answer came quickly.
“Do not be,” replied Ecthelion, cradling Tuor’s head with his left hand, and pulling the man more closely toward him. “Have you not done this before?”
“Never! Neither with man nor woman. If you could have seen them - Lorgan and his folk, rutting with the willing and unwilling alike. It was disgusting. Oh Gods, I am sorry - I will go and…and…”
“No, Tuor, you will not go. Do you remember when I told you that maybe…sometimes, the Lord of Waters speaks to me, too? There is a destiny in store for you that I cannot nearly conceive of - but this is part and parcel of it. He has chosen me to be an instrument of that, as much as he has chosen you. Do not be afraid, Tuor and do not leave now.”
Tuor gulped and closed his eyes, disbelief flooding his mind. He began to shake his head, back and forth, no. And no again.
But Ecthelion stilled him with strong hands, one on each side of his face, holding fast to his hair as he leaned down and kissed. Kissed Tuor’s mouth, gently, every movement designed to quiet the skittish mind of the man and to allow him to let his newly unleashed passion run.
“Let us both go now, Tuor. We will bathe and we will eat and I will show you that you have naught to fear.”
Later, after Ecthelion had slowly brought Tuor into his own and allowed the man to explore him, after Tuor awakened to the pleasures of the sharing of bodies, and made peace with it, Ecthelion told him the end of Huor’s story.
“There is something more that you should know of your father. Something that explains why this happened, why you are here. Do you wish to hear it?”
“Of course,” answered Tuor, “since I have failed with the King I am at loose ends, and have pled with The Father of Waters to tell me what to do. Am I but to wile away my time until my death in wasteful indolence?”
“No, I do not think so,” answered Ecthelion. “This is what I heard your father say to the King ere they parted for the last time. Listen well, Tuor and you may find your fate hidden in the words.”
“…out of your house (Turgon’s) shall come the hope of Elves and Men. This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death; though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise. Farewell!”**
*******
Ever after, Ecthelion was Tuor’s champion and Tuor his. They stood together, with some few others, at Turgon’s right hand, while Maeglin and his partisans whispered at his left. Even as the King placed the hand of his beloved Idril into the man’s, granting Tuor the gift of all gifts, Ecthelion stood beside him. And Tuor, even at the end, with no thought to his own peril, had stood and fought at Ecthelion’s side. Even at the end…
*******
The sun rose and even by Valinorean standards, it was a beautiful day. Tuor awoke early and greeted the dawn as he did always, thanking the Valar in almost disbelieving gratitude for the gifts that he had been granted - Idril at his side, the son of their joining, bright Eärendil, heroic and revered overhead -and life ever after in the bliss and timelessness of Valinor, with those whom he loved.
He took up his harp, the one that had been placed into his hands by the noble Ecthelion and thrummed thoughtlessly for a time, weaving together stray snippets of tunes here and there, some of Eldamar and some of the long distant land of his birth.
As his fingers plucked idly, a series of tones came into his mind and seamlessly traveled down through his fingers. Almost unconsciously, the glissando came to him, and with two hands now, the harp laid between his knees, he countered the scale with his left.
Idril paused for a moment, listening ever more keenly to the sound Tuor had wrought. Her eyes lit excitedly as she recognized the tune - the centerpiece of the glissando and its variations and counterpoint.
“That is it!” she called.
“Tuor,” she said, as she knelt down beside him, “it is the song of the Steel Gate - but it is not Maeglin’s. You have enhanced it and made it your own. Oh!”
“It just came to me…even after all of these years,” he replied, resting a hand in her hair. “I wonder. Why now?”
“I think I know,” Idril breathed, canting her head toward a hilltop, far distant.
And there Tuor saw them, two horses, both white, striding together toward him.
“Yes,” whispered Idril, “it is he - and with him the guard of the Gate of Gold, fair Elemmakil.”
Tuor saw them, though he watched only the elf on the left. Tall and glorious he rode, attired in steel and crystal. He shaded his eyes from the glint of the diamond in the sunlight, the harp slipping from his lap as he stood and beheld, once again, regal Ecthelion.
END
*Directly quoted from “Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin,” Unfinished Tales, by J.R.R.Tolkien
**Directly quoted from The Silmarillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien