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The white city was no longer white. Even the walls that had not yet been swallowed by fire or blackened by the choking soot now glowed with reflected flame–orange, pink, peach–as if lit up by the first light of the sun. But, of course, dawn was far off still. And all Ecthelion could do was stand on this balcony, and wait. In reserve, as Turgon had ordered.
His mind, when left to wander, kept returning to the turnip growers’ choir, and to one pointless question: would they miss their cue, again, as they had in every rehearsal? Well–of course they would. The time of choirs, of festivals, of small, insignificant mistakes of timing, was over. Most of the singers would be in armour by now.
The armour of the Golden Flower, in the case of the turnip growers. His heart clenched.
He wanted to take a deep breath, but there was too much smoke in the air. The two of them had said their goodbyes. All he could do now was stand there, and wait.
“Two minutes, your Royal Highness. Two minutes!”
That familiar, beloved voice, the golden hair, the gold-green armour: Ecthelion watched as the lord of the Golden Flower himself rushed out onto the balcony.
“I have my orders,” Glorfindel said quickly. “I am sent to the Great Market, to protect the east. I know we have said our goodbyes, but there is one thing I forgot to mention.” He grabbed Ecthelion’s shoulders. “The tunnel!”
“What do you mean, the tunnel?”
“Promise me that you will remember to head for Idril’s tunnel.” Glorfindel stepped closer; his voice softened. “I will not say, ‘please, no heroics’, for obvious reasons, but perhaps I could suggest ‘no extraordinary heroics’? Or, at least, ‘no suicidal heroics’--can you promise me that?”
Ecthelion could not promise any such thing, not at this uncertain moment. As Glorfindel should know. “No, I cannot. Surely we have seen enough of the consequences of ill-considered oaths?”
“Of course, but, oh!” Glorfindel shook him lightly. “Please, just get to the tunnel.”
His hair glowed reddish in the reflected light. His eyes glowed with distress. Ecthelion felt light-headed; the sounds of the battle below seemed to recede.
“I will get to Tuor,” he said.
“Tuor? I do not–”
“We both know Tuor will head towards the tunnel. Towards Idril. And, as I said, I will get to Tuor. And I will follow him. This is not a promise, but it is my intention.” He laid his hand against Glorfindel’s cheek, hoping that the cool metal of the glove would shock him into reason. “After all, Ulmo told me that if his messenger dies, so do we all. So, you see, I must protect Tuor. I will get to him, and follow him.”
“Yes.” Glorfindel leaned into the touch. “Follow him. To the tunnel!”
The smoke stung Ecthelion’s eyes. Something crashed in the distance: another building falling, another wall? The two minutes Glorfindel had asked for had to be up. He needed to go. Ecthelion would push him off, send him on his way, in just a moment.
But then Glorfindel grabbed the back of his head, and pulled him closer.
It was the worst kiss they had ever shared. Possibly the worst kiss anyone in the city had ever experienced. They had always been attuned to each other's cues, but Ecthelion had stopped trying–they had said their goodbyes–and so had failed to respond in time. Their teeth collided. The clash reverberated in his skull like the jarring clangs of battle below. He tasted blood.
And then, with a final “The tunnel”, Glorfindel was gone.
Ecthelion wiped his mouth, wincing as his cold glove touched his split lip. This could not be… He would have to fix this. Try for another kiss, another last kiss, later, when they met again.
By the tunnel.
