Sword

Mellow Soulmate AU.  A behind-the-scenes encounter between Thorin Oakenshield and the exiles returned to Middle-earth.  This story can be tied up with "Eternal" or "Broken" if preferred.  The point is, it's the AU where many of the Noldor return to Middle-earth at the beginning of the Third Age like Glorfindel, including Ecthelion and Turgon in this case (who are keeping their identities secret for obvious reasons).  Also, in my head-canon Ecthelion is Turgon's cousin through Irimë, the younger sister of Fingolfin who did join the Noldor in exile (as opposed to Findis who did not).  Furthermore, Glorfindel is now Elenwë's cousin (because I just decided it was so).  Now that all of that is taken care of, this snippet takes place during the time the Company of Thorin Oakenshield rests in Rivendell.

Note: It is not technically canon that Orcrist belongs to Ecthelion, but that is the most logical and likely conclusion, and is now my head-canon.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion and the Hobbit

Pairings: none

Characters: Ecthelion, Thorin, Turgon (mentions Elrond, Gandalf, Thorin's Company, and, in a roundabout way, Maeglin, Eöl and Túrin)

Warning: extremely AU but follows canon somehow, non-canon family relationships, secret identities, mentions of war and betrayal, canon character death

Song: Terra Mirus

Words: 1,580
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sword (noun): a weapon (as a cutlass or rapier) with a long blade for cutting or thrusting that is often used as a symbol of honor or authority; an agency or instrument of destruction or combat
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/sword

It had been a very, very long time, but Ecthelion was an elf and elves rarely forget.  No matter that at least six thousand years had passed him by in waiting and rebirth, he still remembered as though it were yester-eve, for how could a man forget the way in which he died?

Seeing the familiar curves and angles of that ever-sharp blade changed nothing.  But they brought back memories with painful sharpness.

Still, his hand curled perfectly into position, knowing instinctively how the hilt would fit rightly into his palm, each curve settling deep into a callus built and honed for its use.  It was the sword that he learned the art of death with, the partner that had accompanied him into every skirmish and terrifying battlefield, that had never failed to strike down a foe until the day he perished.

Orcrist had returned from the dead, just as had her lord and companion.  And she was in the hands of a dwarf, blazing in the sun as though she had been newly-made just yesterday, looking as perfect as when she had first lain in Ecthelion's inexperienced hands, soft fingers and palms from a life of nobility and luxury then trained into a steely grip and rough hide.

It was exactly this way in which she gleamed before unholy flame in their final hours.  As she sliced through the air to cut down his foes, she threw off black blood as though too pure for it to latch upon and stain, untouchable in righteousness.

For some strange yet undeniable reason, Ecthelion felt something vaguely resembling comfort bloom in his chest.  Surely this discovery was a good omen?  Orcrist might not be his blade any longer, but she had slain two Balrogs as an extension of her lord's feeble arms, had brought countless lesser foes to their knees, and had been with him unto the very end, until he had dropped her from his nerveless fingers and heard her metallic clatter on the cobbles, his injured arms too weak to hold her weight.

Would she again see such glory?  The elf hoped so, for he did not think he could bear to see her shamed.  He would see her in honorable hands, or no hands at all.

And it was this urge that led him to corner the dwarf, the King Under the Mountain who did not possess a mountain, as twilight fell upon the city of Imladris.

---

There was an elf.  Annoyance twisted at Thorin's gut.  Could the pointy-eared nuisances not be gone and leave him be for even an hour?  He was sick of their height (for he hated craning his neck to see their alien faces) and sick of their voices (sweeter and softer than any woman's) and sick of their patronizing disposition (because, Mahal curse them! he was not a child!).  The temptation to throw something was powerful, causing his fingers to twitch, but Thorin held off the urge and turned to glare, to wait for the venomous conceit.

Yet this elf, dressed in embroidered silver and deep blue, did not immediately order him to go somewhere or do something as one would a clueless child.  Nor did he gaze down his nose at the smaller man with distant, distrusting or repulsed eyes as many of the others, as though the dwarf's lack of height and pension for facial hair were not only highly disorienting and aesthetically displeasing, but also contagious.

"Greetings, Master Dwarf," he said instead, dipping into a bow that was deep enough for respect but shallow enough to make it clear that they were of equal status, not a King and a servant.

And Thorin was often a rude man to those who deserved his ire, but he had been raised to return respect with respect as a civil man, and thus returned the bow at the same angle with a gentle incline of his head. "At your service, Master Elf."

"Forgive me for intruding upon your solitude," the elf said then, his voice shockingly deep for one of his kin, more as a dwarf's timber than that of a sprite of the woods. "I could not help but take note of the blade you carry."

Thorin reached to touch the hilt, feeling cold metal beneath his thick fingers. "It is of elven make from the city of Gondolin, or so your Lord Elrond has informed me," he replied, wondering of what interest it was to this creature. "I found it in a troll hoard on the Great East Road."

The elf's lips pursed in what might have been displeasure, but probably it was displeasure at the thought of cave trolls possessing such fine craftsmanship, a sentiment with which Thorin could at the very least sympathize. "Would that she had spent time in better hands," the ethereal creature finally murmured. "I knew her lord, fought as a member of his household.  Orcrist, she is named, the sword of Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain."

Most of that meant nothing to Thorin, except that this man to whom this sword belonged was important and well-respected.  And that suited him fine.  A noble sword in the hands of a king seemed poetic justice, even if the blade was forged by elven smiths rather than dwarven. "Pray forgive me, but I have never heard of such an elf."

"One cannot expect your elven lore to be up to scratch," his newfound companion returned, sounding ever so slightly amused and not the least bit insulted by the faint snub. "It was a very long time ago.  I had thought this blade lost when her lord fell in the destruction of Gondolin.  With this sword, he slayed two Balrogs and fell downing a third."

Demons of the underworld.  Thorin knew enough about Balrogs to know that they were creatures not to be trifled with, for Durin's Bane was one of those fiery creatures of evil servitude.  And to kill three of them as a man clothed in mortal flesh!

His fingers tightened about the grip of his new weapon.  Worthy, it most certainly was, to have tasted such rich and glorious history.

"I am certain that to see it in righteous hands, fighting the darkness once more, would have made Lord Ecthelion a proud man indeed."

Thorin looked up then into blue eyes, eyes that pierced right down to his core.  Use her well and honor her lord's memory, they ordered, and for once Thorin did not feel slighted at the demands.  Would he not have done the same, were their places switched?  It was not about race or custom or culture, but about honoring the dead who gave their lives for all the right reasons, and dwarrows honored the fallen as fiercely as their elven foes.

"I will see to it that she draws the blood of many more servants of the darkness before the end of her years," he promised. "She has served me well thus, and a king needs a reliable blade."

A smirk formed on those lips. "Indeed, he does," the other agreed. "I will leave you to your silence now, Master Dwarf, with my curiosity fulfilled.  Have a pleasant evening and try to hold some patience for our kin.  Our people share unyielding stubbornness."

There was another bow, one which was returned, and the stranger vanished.

And Thorin... Well, he could not say he liked elves, but every now and again he encountered one which he could stand.  Just barely.

---

Later Ecthelion found himself standing upon a balcony overlooking the company of dwarves in their smallclothes, roasting meat over a fire and generally making merry in the safety of the Last Homely House.  Though he was not partial to the stunted race, he found their cheer to be catching, and his smile blossomed once more.

A glisten below caught his eye.  The halfling and his knife.  And did that not look familiar?

"Has your curiosity been sated, then, cousin mine?"

Ecthelion, still smiling, turned to his king and cousin, laughing deeply. "Indeed it has, Turgon.  And yours, my cousin?"

The former King of Gondolin shook his head wryly. "I have little need to wheedle and pester a maia about the importance of swords.  There is little doubt that Olórin will bear Glamdring with pride and dignity as befitting her stature.  But still, I wonder..."

"Yes?  What is it cousin?"  Ecthelion was looking down again at the halfling, mind distant.

"I wonder if there were any other treasures to found amongst that troll hoard." Turgon's eyes, too, fell down upon the company of dwarves, upon the hobbit twisting and turning his elven knife in inspection, running soft hands over elegant curves.

Eyes silvered with Noldorin blood darkened as a storm over the sea, and Ecthelion knew he was not the only one remembering those dark days of betrayal and terror.

And then wondered suddenly as well if a black sword rested amongst the stinking filth and scattered treasures accumulated in some dank, musty hole in the ground somewhere between here and the rolling hills of the Shire.  And wondered if it would ever find its way back into innocent hands to carry out its malignant curse.

But maybe some things were better left unknown.
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I will admit that this story, along with any other Hobbit and Silmarillion cross-overs, was done completely for my own amusement.  I read this story a while back where Bilbo's letter-opener is, in fact, a dagger that belonged to Glorfindel, who mentions it at the table when Balin makes his rather derisive little comment about swords being named for their deeds in war.  Take that!  Anyway, I can't imagine that Turgon returned to Middle-earth without at least some of his faithful lords, and thus Ecthelion and Glorfindel also live in Imladris, the home of Turgon's great-grandson.

For some reason, this situation pleases me immensely.  Also, the idea that someone will one day pick up Anguirel (look it up if you don't know) makes me excited, because I sense a story there just waiting to happen.  As for Ecthelion's relationship with Turgon, well, their swords are "twins", so it would only make sense that they, as cousins and perhaps close friends, learned the sword together.  Thus loyalty was born between them.

Yeah, yeah, I'm such a sap.  Maybe I'll write that history sometime.  But now I have homework.  Two weeks until my last final and then it's summer break.  Hallelujah!

Anyway, listening to Terra Mirus by Position Music, a song I found just this morning that happened to capture my attention.  Home you enjoy.  Also, a picture of Ecthelion by ~ilxwing on dA, because I adore this picture and the colors and everything about it.  This is how I imagine Ecthelion.  And the flute!  The perfect touch!  Oh! my musician's heart flutters!