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Chapter Text

The laughter of the Elves echoed across the lush meadow, mingling with the songs of birds and the gentle rush of the nearby Pools of Ivrin. Beneath a canopy of stars and lanterns strung between ancient trees, the Mereth Aderthad unfolded in full splendor. Tables laden with fruits, meats, and bread stretched out in all directions, each more bountiful than the last.

Fingolfin, his dark hair catching the light of a thousand torches, stood at the center, welcoming guests with open arms. His eyes sparkled with pride and hope as he surveyed the gathering. This was more than a feast; it was a promise of unity.

Maedhros and Maglor arrived from the eastern March, their warriors close behind. Maedhros’ eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on familiar faces. “It’s been too long,” he remarked to Maglor.
Maglor nodded, his fingers idly strumming a harp he carried. “Too long indeed. But tonight is not for old wounds.”

Círdan, the shipwright from the Havens, approached with a smile that crinkled his weathered face. “Welcome, sons of Fëanor,” he greeted them. “May your songs bring peace to this gathering.”
Maglor inclined his head. “I shall do my best.”

From Ossiriand came the Green-elves, their garments woven from leaves and vines, blending seamlessly with their surroundings. They moved silently, like whispers on the wind. One of them stepped forward, offering a deep bow to Fingolfin.

“We bring greetings from Ossiriand,” she said softly.

Fingolfin’s voice boomed in response. “And we are honored by your presence!”

The Grey-elves mingled with their kin from Doriath, though only Mablung and Daeron had come from their secluded kingdom. Mablung stood tall and stoic beside Daeron, who played a lilting melody on his flute.

“King Thingol sends his regards,” Mablung stated simply.

Fingolfin clasped Mablung’s arm in a firm grip. “Your presence here speaks volumes.”

Elven children darted between tables and groups, laughter spilling from their lips as they chased each other in games of tag. Elders watched them fondly, memories of ages past reflected in their eyes.

Near one table laden with golden apples and silver goblets brimming with wine stood Galadriel, her gaze distant yet serene. Her brother Finrod joined her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“It’s been long since we’ve seen such joy,” Finrod observed.

Galadriel smiled softly. “Let us savor it while it lasts.”

The evening wore on, and music filled every corner of the gathering. Voices rose in song—some ancient ballads recounting heroic deeds, others newly composed to celebrate this momentous occasion.

Fingolfin raised his goblet high as he called for silence. The chatter died down almost instantly as all eyes turned to him.

“To unity,” he declared. “To hope.”

A chorus of agreement followed as goblets clinked together and the feast resumed its lively pace under the twinkling sky.

For this night at least, all differences were forgotten as Elves from every realm found common ground in celebration and shared purpose.

The feast continued well into the night when Mablung rose from his seat, his silver hair catching the starlight. He bowed low before Fingolfin's table, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"My lord, if it pleases you, I would perform the ancient sword dance of the Sindar."

A hush fell over the gathering. Even the children stopped their games to watch. Fingolfin leaned forward, interest sparking in his eyes.

"We would be honored to witness such a display."

The crowd parted, creating a wide circle in the center of the feast. Daeron lifted his harp and began a haunting melody that spoke of mist-covered forests and starlit nights.

Mablung drew his blade with fluid grace. The steel caught the light of the lanterns, sending patterns dancing across the faces of the onlookers. His feet moved in precise, measured steps as he began the ancient forms.

The sword became an extension of his body, weaving intricate patterns through the air. Each movement flowed into the next like water over stones. The blade sang as it cut through the night air, matching Daeron's rising and falling notes.

Faster and faster the dance went, until the sword was nothing but a silver blur. Mablung spun and leaped, his movements both deadly and beautiful. The gathered Elves watched in rapt silence, many having never witnessed this particular art of the Sindar before.

Daeron's music reached a crescendo, and Mablung matched it with a series of complex movements that had his blade whistling through the air in perfect harmony with the harp's song. His boots barely seemed to touch the ground as he moved, as if gravity held no sway over him.

The Green-elves leaned forward, their eyes wide with wonder. Even the sons of Fëanor watched with undisguised admiration. This was more than just a display of martial skill - it was art given form through steel and motion.

As Mablung's dance reached its apex, his movements slowed with deliberate control. The sword traced a final arc through the air, coming to rest in a perfect line that pointed directly at Fingolfin's throne. The blade remained steady as crystal, not a tremor betraying the exertion of the dance that preceded it.

The gathered Elves held their breath. This was more than mere ceremony - it was an ancient challenge, wrapped in the velvet glove of courtly gesture. By custom, such an invitation could not be ignored without grave insult to both challenger and the ancient traditions themselves.

Fingolfin's eyes sparkled with understanding. He rose from his seat, the movement fluid and graceful. His own blade, Ringil, hung at his side, its jeweled pommel catching the starlight.

Maglor's fingers stilled on his harp strings. Finrod leaned forward, his golden hair falling across his shoulder as he watched the scene unfold. The children who had been playing between the tables pressed close to their parents, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

"The Sindar honor us with their arts," Fingolfin's voice carried across the gathering. His hand moved to rest on his sword hilt, but he had not yet drawn the blade.

Mablung remained motionless, his sword unwavering in its challenge. His eyes met Fingolfin's across the space between them - respect and determination mingled in equal measure. The lantern light played across his blade, sending shadows dancing across the faces of those gathered around them.

"Then we of the Ñoldor must return this honor, as hosts of the Mereth Aderthad," Fingolfin declared, his voice carrying across the gathering. "Who among our people would match the grace of the Sindar's display?"

A hush fell over the assembled Elves. The nobles of the Ñoldor exchanged glances, each measuring their own skill against what they had witnessed. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft whisper of wind through the leaves above.

"Who shall step forward?" Fingolfin's gaze swept across his people.

From among the gathering, a young lord rose. His raven hair fell like silk around pale features that seemed carved from marble. He moved with natural elegance as he stepped forward and bowed deeply to Fingolfin.

"Your name, my lord?" Fingolfin asked, though his eyes sparkled with recognition.

"Ecthelion, of the House of the Fountain, my king." His voice carried clearly, musical even in simple speech.

Fingolfin nodded his approval, and Ecthelion stepped into the circle where Mablung had danced moments before. The gathered Elves watched intently as he paused, his eyes scanning his surroundings. Instead of drawing his sword, he turned to a nearby tree where spring blooms clustered on its branches. With careful precision, he reached up and selected a flowering branch, breaking it cleanly from the tree.

Ecthelion stood in the circle, the flowering branch held delicately in his left hand. With a fluid motion, he drew his long, bright sword with his right hand. The blade caught the lantern light, casting pale reflections that danced across the faces of the onlookers.

He turned and bowed deeply in Maglor’s direction. "Lord Maglor," he called out, his voice carrying over the silent crowd, "would you honor me by playing a piece to accompany my dance?"

Maglor inclined his head, acknowledging the request. "It would be my pleasure," he replied. "What tempo would please you, Lord Ecthelion?" Maglor adjusted his position, settling the harp more comfortably against his shoulder.

"Something that speaks of fountains and starlight," Ecthelion replied, his pale features serene as he positioned himself in the center of the clearing. He held the flowering branch in his left hand, its white blossoms stark against the dark of his sleeve, while his sword gleamed in his right.

The circle of onlookers widened further, giving him room to move. Even Mablung stepped back, curiosity evident in his expression as he waited to see how the Ñoldorin lord would match his earlier performance.

Maglor positioned his harp and began to play, his fingers dancing across the strings with practiced ease.

The music that flowed from Maglor’s harp was different from Daeron’s earlier melody. It was lighter, more intricate, weaving a tapestry of sound that filled the night air. Ecthelion began to move, his sword and the flowering branch becoming extensions of his body.

With each step, Ecthelion traced delicate patterns in the air with the branch while his sword mirrored these movements with sharp precision. The contrast between the two elements—one representing nature’s grace and the other martial skill—created a mesmerizing dance.

His feet moved with precision, gliding over the grass as if he were floating. The flowers on the branch trembled and shed a rain of petals around him as he spun and leaped. His sword flashed in intricate arcs that caught and refracted the light.

Maglor’s music rose and fell, guiding Ecthelion’s movements. The tempo quickened, and Ecthelion matched it with swift spins and complex steps that left those watching breathless. The combination of blade and blossom created a harmony of opposites that was both beautiful and poignant.

As Ecthelion’s dance reached its climax, he executed a series of rapid spins, his sword moving so fast it became a blur. Petals flew around him, dancing among his spread raven strands. Maglor's fingers flew over the strings, matching Ecthelion's pace in perfect synchronization.

With a final flourish, Ecthelion brought his sword to a halt before him, the tip pointing directly at Mablung. The crowd held its collective breath, eyes fixed on the slender blade that gleamed under the starlit sky due to Ecthelion's subtle gasps. In his other hand, the branch that once held flowers now stood bare, a stark contrast to the intricate dance it had just performed.

High above, the last blooming flower, which had been sent flying during Ecthelion's last graceful movement, began its descent. It floated down in a gentle spiral, caught in the currents of the night air. The silence was profound as all eyes followed its path.

The flower’s slow fall seemed to stretch time itself, each moment imbued with significance.

The delicate blossom finally touched down on the tip of Ecthelion’s sword with a soft flutter. It balanced there perfectly, a symbol of peace and unity between their peoples. A signal that transcended words.

A collective sigh of admiration swept through the gathered Elves. Mablung’s gaze remained steady, understanding dawning in his eyes as he realized what Ecthelion intended. Mablung stepped forward and lowered his own sword in response, bowing deeply to Ecthelion in acknowledgment and respect.

"Your skill honors us all," Mablung's voice was clear and strong. "May our paths always lead us toward peace."

Ecthelion inclined his head in return, his expression serene. "And may our hearts remain united in purpose."

The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, the tension that had gripped them melting away into joy and camaraderie. Fingolfin smiled broadly from his place of honor, his heart swelling with pride for both his people and the spirit of unity that had been so beautifully demonstrated.

Fingolfin stepped forward, his eyes glowing with pride and warmth as he addressed Ecthelion. "Your grace and skill are unmatched, Ecthelion of the Fountain," he declared, his voice carrying a tone of fond admiration. "You have honored us all with your performance."

Ecthelion bowed deeply, a humble smile playing on his lips. "Thank you, my king. It is my honor to serve and bring joy to this gathering."

Meanwhile, seated beside Turgon, Glorfindel found himself unable to tear his gaze away from Ecthelion. The fair face, the flowing raven hair, the effortless grace—it all captivated him utterly. He leaned slightly forward, golden locks spilling over his shoulder as he watched every movement with rapt attention.

Turgon noticed Glorfindel’s enthrallment and leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his eye. "You seem quite taken by our friend from the House of the Fountain," he remarked softly.

Glorfindel tore his gaze away just long enough to glance at Turgon, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "He moves as though he were born from starlight itself," he murmured. "I have never seen such elegance."

Turgon chuckled quietly, placing a hand on Glorfindel's shoulder. "Ecthelion is indeed remarkable. He has always possessed a unique blend of artistry and valor."

Glorfindel traced the rim of his silver goblet with one finger, his golden hair catching the lantern light. "Which prince does he follow?"

"None, as of yet." Turgon shifted in his seat, watching as Ecthelion graciously accepted praise from several gathered nobles. "The House of the Fountain remains unaligned. Though not for lack of trying on my brothers' and cousins' parts."

"Oh?" Glorfindel's eyebrows rose with interest.

"Over half the princes have made overtures." Turgon's lips quirked in amusement. "My brother Fingon made quite the passionate appeal last spring. He believes Ecthelion's martial prowess would complement his forces. Finrod argues their shared love of music makes them natural allies. Even the Sons of Fëanor sent envoys bearing gifts of diamond-studded flutes."

Glorfindel's eyes sparkled with mirth. "And what of you, my friend? Have you not thrown your lot into this contest of princes?"

As they spoke, Ecthelion moved through the crowd, acknowledging the admiration and gratitude of those who approached him with graceful nods and modest smiles. His presence commanded respect, and many watched him with hopeful eyes, aware of the significant influence he wielded.

Turgon's eyes followed Ecthelion's path through the crowd before answering Glorfindel. "I have made no formal overtures. Though I confess, the thought has crossed my mind more than once."
"What stays your hand?" Glorfindel leaned closer, genuinely curious.

"The House of the Fountain deserves to make its own choice, free from pressure or politics." Turgon took a measured sip from his goblet. "When Ecthelion pledges his allegiance, it will be because his heart leads him there."

A dozen muffled exclamations broke through the crowd. Heads turned westward as a brilliant silver light crested the horizon. It rose slowly, majestically, casting a pale radiance across the gathered Elves that made their fair features seem ethereal.

"Telperion's last gift," Fingolfin breathed, rising from his seat.

The light of the Moon painted everything in shades of silver and shadow. It transformed the feast grounds into something otherworldly - trees became pillars of mithril, and the scattered flower petals from Ecthelion's dance glowed like fallen stars.

Ecthelion's pale features turned upward, the moonlight making his skin luminescent. The new light caught in his dark hair, creating a crown of silver that rivaled any crafted circlet.

Finrod stepped forward, his golden hair now wreathed in silver. "The Valar have not forgotten us," he said softly.

The assembled Elves stood in reverent silence as the Moon continued its stately ascent. Its light touched the waters of the nearby pools, creating mirrors that doubled its radiance. Children pointed upward in wonder, their eyes wide with delight at this new marvel.

"A light in the darkness," Mablung murmured, his sword forgotten at his side as he gazed skyward.

The Moon's glow strengthened, and its perfect circle hung suspended above them like a great silver flower blooming in the night sky. Its light seemed to bless their gathering, as if Telperion itself smiled upon their unity.

Chapter Text

The night air around Lake Mithrim held a chill that cut through even the thickest cloak. The moon, in its steady ascent since the night of Fingolfin's feast, now bathed the waters in silver light, turning the lake into a shimmering expanse of quiet beauty. The swans glided silently over the surface, their white feathers glowing in the pale light.

Glorfindel moved with silent grace along the shoreline, his keen eyes scanning the darkness for any signs of disturbance. He was not alone on this patrol; several others from Turgon's house accompanied him, though they were spread out along different parts of the lake.

A slight rustling among the reeds drew his attention. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he approached cautiously. The moonlight revealed a figure stepping into view, and Glorfindel relaxed slightly when he recognized the tall form and raven hair.

"Lord Ecthelion," he called softly, sheathing his sword and stepping forward.

Ecthelion turned, his piercing gaze softening slightly as he recognized the voice. "My lord," he acknowledged with a nod. "Forgive me, I did not expect to encounter anyone else here tonight."

Glorfindel offered a warm smile, inclining his head. "We patrol these shores regularly," he explained. "The lake is serene but must be watched all the same."

Ecthelion's lips curved into a faint smile. "A wise precaution." He paused for a moment, studying Glorfindel's face. "Though I have seen you at Prince Turgon's side often, I do not know your name."

"Glorfindel," came the response as he extended a hand in greeting. "Of the House of the Golden Flower."

"Ecthelion of the Fountain," Ecthelion replied, taking Glorfindel's hand firmly.

The two lords stood there for a moment, hands clasped in silent camaraderie. The sound of water lapping against the shore and the distant calls of night birds filled the air around them.

"It is good to meet you properly," Ecthelion said after a moment, releasing Glorfindel's hand. "I have heard much about your prowess and valor."

"As have I about yours," Glorfindel responded with genuine admiration. "Your performance at the High King's feast was unforgettable."

Ecthelion chuckled softly. "I merely sought to bring some joy to our gathering."

"You succeeded beyond measure." Glorfindel glanced out over the moonlit lake before turning back to Ecthelion. "Will you join me on this patrol? Two pairs of eyes are better than one."

"I would be honored." Ecthelion fell into step beside Glorfindel, their movements synchronized as if they had trained together for years.

They continued their patrol along the lakeshore, their conversation flowing easily from one topic to another—shared tales of valor, thoughts on Ñoldorin's future, and even their mutual love for music and artistry.

The moon cast long shadows across the shoreline as the two lords walked, their footsteps barely disturbing the pebbles beneath. In the distance, a swan stretched its wings, creating ripples across the silver surface of Lake Mithrim.

Glorfindel's golden hair caught the moonlight as he turned to face his companion. "Your skill and valor are known throughout the realm, yet you remain unaligned with any of the princes."

"You speak of allegiance." Ecthelion's pale features remained composed, but a slight curl touched the corner of his mouth. "Tell me, Lord Glorfindel, does Prince Turgon send you to sound the depths of my loyalty?"

The playful tone in Ecthelion's voice brought a warm smile to Glorfindel's face. "The prince has his own methods. This curiosity is mine alone."

"Ah, then you seek answers for yourself." Ecthelion paused, watching a cluster of water birds take flight. "Each prince carries the weight of their father's legacy differently. Some rush toward destiny, while others..." He let the thought hang in the cool night air.

"And you would rather observe than choose?"

"I would rather choose wisely." Ecthelion's voice carried no hesitation. "The fate of our people hangs on such decisions, does it not?"

The sound of water lapping against the shore filled the silence between them. Above, the stars wheeled in their ancient paths, bearing witness to their exchange.

"Besides," Ecthelion added, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "perhaps I enjoy keeping the princes - and their loyal lords - guessing."

Glorfindel's laughter rang clear across the water, startling a nearby swan into flight. The sound carried an openness that few among the Ñoldor displayed in these uncertain times. His golden hair caught the moonlight as he turned to face Ecthelion fully.

"You play a dangerous game, my friend. The princes do not take kindly to such teasing."

"And yet here stands one of their most trusted lords, sharing midnight patrol with me." Ecthelion's pale features remained serene, but his eyes held a knowing glint.

A cool breeze swept across Lake Mithrim, carrying with it the scent of water lilies and night-blooming flowers. In the distance, the silver deposits in the mountains caught the moonlight, creating an ethereal backdrop to their conversation.

"Tell me," Ecthelion said, his voice dropping lower, "what draws you to serve Turgon?"

Glorfindel considered the question, watching the ripples spread across the lake's surface. "His wisdom. His vision." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "There is a quiet strength in him that differs from his father's fire."

"The High King's fire serves its purpose," Ecthelion observed, thinking of Fingolfin's fierce determination that had led them across the Helcaraxë.

"As does Turgon's patience." Glorfindel's response carried no reproach, merely statement of fact. "Each son of Finwë charts his own course."

Their patrol brought them to a small inlet where the waters ran deeper, darker. The moon's reflection fractured here, creating patterns that danced across the surface like scattered gems. Both lords paused, watching the play of light and shadow.

"Perhaps," Ecthelion mused, "it is not the princes we follow, but the paths they illuminate." His fingers absently traced the outline of his sword hilt, the same blade that had danced with such grace at the feast.

"And which path calls to you, Lord of the Fountain?"

Before Ecthelion could answer, a distant horn call echoed across the water - three short blasts followed by a long note. Both warriors tensed, their hands moving to their weapons.

"The western patrol," Glorfindel said, already turning toward the sound. "Something approaches from the mountains."

The two lords moved swiftly along the shoreline, their footsteps silent despite their haste. More horns joined the first, their calls echoing across Lake Mithrim's surface. The peaceful night transformed into one of urgent activity as other patrols emerged from their positions, converging toward the western shore.

Glorfindel's keen eyes spotted movement in the darkness. "There," he pointed toward a patch of shadow near the base of the mountains. Several figures darted between the rocks, their forms too distant to identify.

"Not orcs," Ecthelion observed, his hand relaxing slightly on his sword hilt. "Their movement is too graceful."

A flash of silver caught the moonlight - the gleam of Ñoldorin armor. The approaching group carried no torches, but their weapons reflected the stars above. At their head strode a tall figure whose bearing marked him as nobility.

"Prince Turgon," Glorfindel breathed, recognizing his lord's silhouette.

The prince's party reached the shoreline where Glorfindel and Ecthelion waited. Turgon's face bore an expression of grave concern, his white and gold sword half-drawn at his side. Behind him, a dozen warriors from his personal guard formed a protective circle around something - or someone.

"My lord," Glorfindel stepped forward with a bow. "We heard the alarm."

"Good. We need every sword." Turgon's voice carried the weight of command. "Scouts have returned from the northern passes with troubling news." He paused, his gaze falling on Ecthelion. "Lord of the Fountain, your presence here is fortunate. We could use your counsel as well."

The circle of guards parted slightly, revealing a wounded scout supported between two warriors. Blood stained his silver armor, and his face was pale with exhaustion.

"The passes," the scout gasped. "They're not as empty as we thought."

Turgon moved swiftly to the scout's side, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the moonlight. The wounded elf's breath came in sharp gasps, each intake of air clearly causing him pain. Blood seeped through his fingers where he clutched his side.

"Lay him down," Turgon commanded. The guards eased the scout onto a patch of soft grass near the shore.

Glorfindel knelt beside the injured elf, examining the wound with practiced eyes. A deep gash ran along the scout's ribs, the flesh torn in a way that spoke of serrated claws. "This was no accident."

"We found tracks," the scout managed between labored breaths. "Different from anything we've seen before. Deeper than orc prints, but lighter than troll marks." He winced as Glorfindel pressed a clean cloth to his wound. "Then they found us."

Ecthelion stepped forward, his keen eyes scanning the northern horizon. The mountains loomed dark against the star-filled sky, their peaks disappearing into shadow. "How many?"

"We couldn't count," another scout spoke up, his voice tight with tension. "They moved too fast, struck from multiple directions. Three of our company fell before we could retreat."

Turgon's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "These creatures - did you see them clearly?"

The wounded scout shook his head. "Only shadows, my lord. But their eyes..." He shuddered. "Their eyes glowed like amber in the darkness."

A cold wind swept across Lake Mithrim, rippling the surface and carrying with it the scent of something foreign - a sharp, metallic odor that made the horses stamp nervously. In the distance, a swan took flight, its wings beating frantically against the night air.

"Whatever they are," Glorfindel said, rising from the scout's side, "they're moving south. Toward the settlements."

Turgon turned to face the assembled warriors, his expression grave. "We cannot allow them to reach the camps. Glorfindel, gather your fastest riders. Ecthelion, I need your eyes on the western approach."

The night grew colder as the warriors dispersed to their assigned positions. Glorfindel's golden hair caught the moonlight as he mounted his horse, signaling to his riders. The House of the Golden Flower's cavalry moved like a wave of shadow and starlight, their armor gleaming as they spread out along the shoreline.

Ecthelion scaled one of the western outcrops with fluid grace, his keen eyes scanning the darkness. From his vantage point, he could see the entire approach to Lake Mithrim - the scattered boulders, the patches of shadow, and the silvery threads of streams flowing down from the mountains.

Turgon stood at the base of the outcrop, his white and gold sword now fully drawn. The weapon caught the moonlight, casting shifting patterns on the rocks around him. His guards formed a protective circle, their own blades at the ready.

The wounded scout's breathing had steadied under the care of the healers, but his words had left an unsettling weight in the air. The description of glowing amber eyes stirred ancient memories among the older warriors - tales of creatures that had stalked the darkness before the first sunrise.

A sudden movement caught Ecthelion's attention. Something large shifted between the rocks, moving with an unnatural fluidity that set his nerves on edge. He raised his hand in a silent signal, and below, Turgon's guards tightened their formation.

Glorfindel's riders had reached their positions, forming a wide arc that would prevent anything from slipping past toward the settlements. Their horses stood perfectly still, trained not to make a sound even in the face of danger.

The metallic scent grew stronger, carried on a wind that seemed to whisper with voices just beyond hearing. In the distance, more swans took flight from Lake Mithrim's surface, their wings beating frantically against the night air.

Then came the sound - a low, rumbling growl that seemed to emerge from the earth itself. It echoed off the rocks, making it impossible to pinpoint its source. The horses shifted uneasily, their riders keeping them in check with gentle hands and soft words.

Ecthelion's hand moved to his sword hilt as another shadow darted between the rocks, closer this time. The amber eyes the scout had described flashed in the darkness, and for a brief moment, they seemed to meet his gaze.

The amber eyes vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving only the whisper of movement among the rocks. Ecthelion's fingers tightened around his sword hilt, his keen ears picking up the subtle sounds of claws scraping against stone.

Below, Turgon raised his white and gold sword, the blade catching moonlight and casting pale reflections across the faces of his guards. The prince's expression remained composed, but his eyes narrowed as he tracked the movement in the darkness.

Glorfindel signaled his riders to hold their positions, the golden threads in his mantle gleaming as he shifted in his saddle. The horses beneath the warriors of the Golden Flower stood perfectly still, their training overriding their natural instincts to flee.

Another growl rolled across the landscape, deeper than the first, and this time it was answered by several others. The sounds came from different directions, confirming the scouts' report of multiple creatures. The metallic scent grew stronger, mixing with an unfamiliar musk that made the air feel thick and heavy.

The shadows between the rocks seemed to deepen, moving in ways that defied natural law. More amber eyes appeared, some higher than others, suggesting creatures of varying sizes. They moved with a fluid grace that spoke of predatory intelligence rather than mindless aggression.

Ecthelion's position on the outcrop gave him the clearest view of their movement pattern. The creatures were not advancing randomly - they were coordinating, attempting to create gaps in the elven defensive line. He caught Glorfindel's eye and made a subtle gesture toward the eastern flank where the shadows seemed to concentrate.

The warriors of the Golden Flower responded instantly, shifting their formation to strengthen that side without making any obvious movements that might trigger an attack. Turgon's guards similarly adjusted their positions, maintaining their protective circle while preparing for an assault from any direction.

The night air grew colder, and the moon's light seemed to dim as clouds gathered overhead. The surface of Lake Mithrim turned dark, its earlier silver sheen fading into an ominous black mirror that reflected the gathering shadows.

A high-pitched screech cut through the night air, and the amber eyes surged forward as one. The creatures emerged from the shadows, their forms a nightmare blend of wolf and serpent. Scales glinted beneath coarse fur, and their elongated heads bore rows of curved fangs.

Turgon's voice rang out clear and strong. "Hold the line!"

The warriors of the Golden Flower drew their swords in perfect unison, the metal singing in the cold air. From his vantage point, Ecthelion tracked three of the largest beasts as they circled toward the eastern flank. Their movements revealed an unsettling intelligence - they were testing the elven defenses, probing for weakness.

Glorfindel spurred his mount forward to meet the first attack. His golden hair streamed behind him as he raised his sword, the blade catching moonlight. The nearest beast lunged, its serpentine neck extending far beyond what seemed possible. Glorfindel's blade met scale and flesh, drawing first blood with a precise strike.

The creature's screech of pain triggered a wave of attacks. The beasts broke from their circular pattern, charging the elven lines from multiple directions. Their claws left deep gouges in the rock as they launched themselves at the mounted warriors.

Turgon's guards met the assault with disciplined precision, their formations never breaking despite the chaos. The prince himself stood tall, his white and gold sword flashing as he struck down a beast that came too close.

Ecthelion drew his own blade and leaped down from the outcrop, landing between two of the creatures as they attempted to breach the defensive line. His sword moved in a deadly arc, echoing the grace of his earlier dance but now with lethal purpose. The first beast fell, its amber eyes dimming, while the second recoiled with a hiss.

The night erupted into a symphony of clashing steel, bestial roars, and the sharp commands of elven warriors coordinating their defense. The creatures' attack pattern became clearer - they were not simply trying to break through, they were attempting to separate the elven forces, to isolate and overwhelm smaller groups.

The creatures' relentless assault had the elves teetering on the edge of chaos. Their intelligence and coordination made them formidable adversaries, and it was clear that more support was needed to hold the line.

From the eastern horizon, a new force arrived: Fingon's archers mounted on swift horses. They rode with a sense of urgency, their quivers full and bows strung. The moonlight gleamed off their armor, and the sound of hooves echoed through the night.

Ecthelion's keen eyes caught sight of them first. "Reinforcements from Fingon!" he called out, his voice carrying over the din of battle.

Turgon turned briefly to acknowledge the new arrivals, a brief flicker of relief crossing his face before he refocused on the immediate threat. "Archers, form up on the ridge!" he commanded, pointing to a higher ground that would give them a vantage point over the battlefield.

Fingon's archers wasted no time. They split into groups, each moving with practiced efficiency to their designated positions. In moments, they had formed a crescent line atop the ridge, their bows raised and ready.

"Loose!" came the order from their captain, and a volley of arrows darkened the sky. The arrows arced gracefully before plunging into the midst of the attacking beasts. Several creatures fell, their screeches piercing the night as elven arrows found their marks.

Glorfindel spurred his horse forward again, taking advantage of the brief lull created by the archers' arrival. His blade flashed as he cut down another beast that lunged at him from behind a boulder.

Ecthelion moved with renewed vigor, his sword slicing through scales and fur with deadly precision. He could see that the arrival of Fingon's archers had turned the tide - for now. The creatures were being driven back toward the rocks from which they had emerged.

Another volley of arrows rained down from the ridge, finding gaps in scales and striking vital points. The beasts' coordination faltered as more of them fell under the elven assault.

Turgon seized this moment to rally his forces. "Push forward! Drive them back!"

The warriors responded with a surge of energy, pressing their advantage. Glorfindel's cavalry moved in perfect harmony with Ecthelion's ground forces, creating an unbreakable wall of steel and determination.

From his vantage point on the ridge, Fingon's captain watched as his archers loosed another volley. The arrows flew true, each one a testament to elven craftsmanship and skill honed over centuries.

The creatures hesitated, their once-coordinated movements now disjointed and erratic. They sensed defeat but fought on with desperate ferocity.

Ecthelion parried a vicious swipe from one beast and countered with a swift thrust that pierced its heart. As it fell, he glanced up at Glorfindel, who nodded in silent acknowledgment of their shared victory.

Amidst the chaos, the chief of the creatures, larger and more cunning than the rest, realized their disadvantage. Its eyes gleamed with a predatory intelligence, scanning the battlefield for a way out. It saw an opportunity in Turgon, who stood momentarily exposed as he issued commands to his forces.

With a guttural snarl, the chief creature bounded over the rocks with unnerving speed and agility. Its eyes locked onto Turgon's back, the prince's white and gold sword raised high as he directed his guards. The beast's muscles coiled like springs, preparing to leap.

Ecthelion, ever vigilant, caught sight of the movement from his position. His heart raced as he shouted a warning. "Turgon! Behind you!"

Turgon spun around just as the creature launched itself at him. The beast's jaws snapped shut inches from Turgon's face, its foul breath washing over him. Turgon's reflexes were swift; he brought his sword up in a defensive arc. The blade caught the creature across its snout, drawing a line of black blood.

The chief beast recoiled with a roar of pain but quickly recovered, its amber eyes burning with rage. It circled Turgon, looking for another opening. The prince stood his ground, his expression resolute and unyielding.

Glorfindel saw the peril his lord was in and urged his horse forward through the melee. He cut down two smaller beasts that tried to intercept him, his golden hair streaming behind him like a banner of hope.

"Hold fast!" Glorfindel called out as he closed the distance.

The chief creature lunged again, this time aiming low to knock Turgon off balance. But Turgon anticipated the move; he sidestepped gracefully and brought his sword down in a powerful stroke that cleaved into the beast's shoulder.

The creature howled in agony but refused to retreat. It clawed at Turgon with desperate fury, scoring a glancing blow across his armor. Turgon staggered but did not fall.

The chief creature's frustration mounted as it took several steps back, its amber eyes fixed on Turgon with a predatory intensity. The prince, still recovering from the last attack, had not yet repositioned himself fully. The beast saw its opportunity and coiled its muscles, preparing for a final, fatal leap.

Glorfindel, seeing the imminent danger, spurred his horse forward with renewed urgency. "My lord, move!" His voice rang out in a terrified shout, a desperate warning to his lord. But the distance was too great, and the creature's speed was unmatched.

In that moment, a swift silver flash cut through the chaos of the battlefield. It moved with a grace and speed that defied belief, interposing itself between Turgon and the leaping monstrosity. As the creature's claws descended in a deadly arc, the silver figure took the full force of the blow, a spray of blood confirming the severity of the impact.

Yet even as the figure staggered under the weight of the attack, their sword arm moved with unerring precision. The blade found its mark, driving upwards from beneath the creature's jaw with such force that it pierced through the roof of its mouth. The beast's eyes widened in shock and agony as it found itself impaled on the elf's sword, its own momentum driving it further onto the blade.

For a moment, the creature hung there, suspended in a grotesque arch, its lifeblood pouring from the mortal wound. Then, with a final shudder, it went limp, the light fading from its amber eyes as death claimed it.

As the creature slid off the sword and crumpled to the ground, the identity of Turgon's savior became clear. Ecthelion stood there, his armor rent and blood flowing freely from a deep gash across his chest. Yet his eyes were bright and his stance unwavering, like an icy star.

Around them, the battle was winding down. With their chief slain and their numbers thinned by elven blades and arrows, the remaining creatures were retreating back into the shadows, their once-coordinated assault now a disorganized rout. The warriors of the Golden Flower, along with Fingon's archers, pursued them relentlessly, ensuring that none would escape to threaten the settlements.

Chapter Text

The healers' tents buzzed with urgent activity as they brought Ecthelion in, his blood seeping through the makeshift bandages. The head healer directed them to lay him on one of the few remaining empty cots, her experienced hands already moving to examine the wound.

A scream pierced through the organized chaos of the healing tent. In the far corner, the scout who had first spotted the creatures thrashed on his cot, his earlier claw wounds now ringed with an ugly black discoloration that spread like ink through water.

"Hold him down!" The head healer abandoned Ecthelion's side, rushing to where the scout convulsed. "The wounds - they're spreading!"

Two assistants pressed the scout's shoulders into the cot while the healer cut away the bandages. The flesh around his wounds had begun to dissolve, eaten away by some unknown corruption.
"Check all claw wounds!" she called out across the tent. "Look for black spreading!"

The healers scrambled to examine their patients, and more cries of alarm rose as they discovered similar spreading corruption in other wounds. They stripped the bandages from Ecthelion's chest, revealing the first signs of blackening around the edges of his gashes.

"We need athelas, now!" The head healer's voice cracked with urgency. "And bring me the silver vessels - the ones from Valinor!"

The scout's condition deteriorated rapidly, his skin growing pale and clammy as the corruption spread through his body. His screams had weakened to whimpers, his strength failing as the poison worked deeper into his system.

Glorfindel burst into the tent, his golden hair matted with sweat and blood. His eyes widened at the scene before him - healers rushing between beds, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood mixed with something fouler. He spotted Ecthelion on the cot, the black corruption beginning to spider-web across his chest.

"What manner of evil is this?" Glorfindel's voice was barely above a whisper as he watched the healers work with increasing desperation to halt the spread of the mysterious poison.

Among the frenzied activity in the healing tent, Ecthelion lay still on his cot, his pale face a mask of serenity that contrasted sharply with the chaos around him. While other wounded warriors groaned and thrashed against the spreading corruption, his breathing remained steady, measured, as if he were merely resting after a long day of training.

"The poison spreads faster in those who struggle against it," he observed, his voice carrying the same musical quality it held during his sword dance at the feast, though now tinged with a slight strain. His eyes tracked the movements of the healers as they rushed between patients.

Glorfindel knelt beside Ecthelion's cot, his own face etched with concern. "How can you be so calm when-"

"When death might claim me?" Ecthelion's lips curved into a slight smile. "We all dance with death, my friend. Sometimes literally, as you saw at the feast." He winced as a wave of pain washed over him, but his composure never cracked.

The head healer paused in her frantic work to cast an appraising look at Ecthelion. His wound, though severe, showed slower progression of the corruption than the others. While black tendrils spread like wildfire across other patients' skin, the darkness around his wounds crept at a sluggish pace.

"Your stillness serves you well," she noted, pressing a fresh athelas-soaked cloth to his chest. "The poison seems to feed on fear and struggle."

Ecthelion nodded, as if this confirmed something he had already suspected. His gaze drifted to the tent's ceiling, and he began to hum softly - a melody that spoke of starlight and silver fountains, of peace in the midst of storm. Several nearby patients turned their heads toward the sound, their own breathing steadying as they listened.

The melody of Ecthelion's song wove through the healing tent, a thread of silver in the darkness. As more wounded elves focused on his voice, the spread of corruption seemed to slow across their wounds. The black tendrils that had raced beneath their skin now moved with the languid pace of winter sap.

Glorfindel watched in wonder as the young lord's music worked its own kind of healing. He had heard of Ecthelion's gift with song, but this was different - this was power drawn from somewhere deeper than mere talent.

"The poison responds to fear," the head healer said, her hands steady as she applied fresh athelas to another warrior's wounds. "His song calms them, gives them strength to resist."

In the corner, the scout who had first succumbed to the poison had grown still, his breathing evening out as he listened. The blackness in his wounds no longer spread with the same virulence, though the damage already done remained stark against his pale skin.

Turgon entered the tent, his armor still bearing the marks of battle. He moved directly to Ecthelion's cot, his face grave but composed. The prince had seen many battles, many wounds, but this corruption was something new - something that spoke of a darker power at work in the lands beyond their watch.

"Your valor saved my life," Turgon said, looking down at the wounded lord. "And now your song saves others."

Ecthelion's voice never faltered in its melody, but his eyes met Turgon's with clear recognition. Around them, the healers continued their work with renewed purpose, their movements falling into rhythm with the song that filled the air.

The athelas released its healing scent, mixing with the notes of Ecthelion's song to create something more potent than either alone. The black corruption began to recede, first from the smaller wounds, then gradually from the deeper gashes.

As the night wore on, Ecthelion's voice began to show signs of strain. The melody that had flowed like pure water for hours now carried a rougher edge, though its power remained undiminished. His face, earlier composed despite his wounds, had grown pale and drawn.

The other wounded warriors had stabilized under the combined effects of his song and the healers' ministrations. The black corruption had retreated from their wounds, leaving behind raw but clean flesh that could now heal naturally.

But Ecthelion's own wounds told a different tale. While he had focused his strength on helping others resist the poison, the corruption had worked its way deeper into his chest. Black lines spread from beneath the bandages, creeping up toward his throat like dark vines.

"You must rest," Glorfindel placed a hand on the young lord's shoulder. The skin beneath his touch burned with fever.

Ecthelion's melody faltered for the first time, his breath catching. He tried to continue, but the notes dissolved into a fit of coughing that left specks of blood on his lips.

The head healer rushed to his side, her hands swift as she pulled back the bandages. The wound had deepened, the edges now a web of black that pulsed with each labored breath. While Ecthelion had kept the poison at bay in others through his song, his own battle against it had suffered.

"The song," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I must maintain-"

"You've done enough," Turgon's voice cut through the protest. "More than enough."

Ecthelion's eyes closed, the last notes of his melody fading into silence. His chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular movements, each breath a visible struggle. The corruption, no longer held back by his will and voice, began to spread more rapidly across his skin.

The healers worked with renewed urgency as the corruption spread across Ecthelion's chest. His breathing grew more labored, each intake of air a battle against the poison that threatened to consume him. The athelas seemed to have little effect now, its healing properties overwhelmed by the virulence of the dark magic.

Glorfindel paced the length of the healing tent, his golden hair catching the lamplight. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, betraying the helplessness he felt watching his friend slip away.

"There must be something more we can do," Glorfindel turned to the head healer. "Some remedy we haven't tried."

The healer's face remained grim as she changed Ecthelion's bandages. "The poison resists our traditional methods. It's unlike anything I've encountered in all my years."

Turgon stood at the foot of the cot, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. His eyes never left Ecthelion's face, studying every slight change in his expression. The prince's fingers absently traced the pommel of his sword, a habit from his younger days when deep in thought.

"Send word to Fingon," Turgon commanded. "He keeps medicines from Valinor in his personal stores. Things our father brought across the ice."

A messenger darted from the tent, his footsteps fading into the night. The silence that followed was broken only by Ecthelion's ragged breathing and the quiet movements of the healers as they tended to the other wounded.

The black corruption had reached Ecthelion's throat now, creating a stark contrast against his pale skin. His eyes remained closed, but occasional tremors ran through his body as he fought against the poison's advance. The melody that had saved so many others now existed only in memory, his voice stolen by the very darkness he had helped others resist.

As the black corruption spread across Ecthelion's throat, a faint tremor passed through his lips. His face, usually composed and serene, now revealed the vulnerability of youth. The once unyielding resolve gave way to the stark reality of his age and the weight of his responsibilities as the chief of a noble house.

The healers worked with increasing desperation, their efforts focused on keeping Ecthelion alive until Fingon's messenger returned. The head healer's hands moved with practiced precision, yet her eyes held a flicker of uncertainty as she watched the poison's relentless advance.

Glorfindel knelt beside Ecthelion's cot, his eyes searching his friend's face for any sign of consciousness. "Ecthelion," he whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of hope and despair. "Hold on. Help is coming."

Ecthelion's eyelids fluttered briefly, a weak acknowledgment of Glorfindel's presence. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the darkness that sought to claim him. Despite the pain etched across his features, there was still a glimmer of determination in his eyes—a silent refusal to surrender.

Turgon stood nearby, his gaze fixed on the young lord who had saved him not once but twice that night. The prince's expression remained stoic, yet there was a depth of emotion in his eyes that spoke volumes. He understood all too well the burden of leadership and the sacrifices it demanded.

"He has courage," Turgon murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "More than many twice his age."

The head healer paused in her work to look at Turgon. "Courage alone won't save him," she said softly. "We need Fingon's medicines—and quickly."

Outside the tent, the sounds of battle had faded into an uneasy silence. The warriors of the House of Fingolfin had driven back the creatures, but at great cost. The full moon hung high in the sky, its silver light casting an ethereal glow over the encampment.

As they waited for Fingon's messenger to return with the precious medicines from Valinor, time seemed to stretch into eternity. Each heartbeat felt like an eternity unto itself as Ecthelion's life hung in precarious balance.

In that tense silence, Glorfindel took Ecthelion's hand in his own. "You're not alone," he said quietly. "We stand with you."

Ecthelion's grip tightened ever so slightly around Glorfindel's hand.

Footsteps pounded against the earth outside the healing tent, growing louder with each passing moment. The messenger burst through the entrance, his chest heaving from the sprint. Behind him strode Fingon, carrying a small wooden box inlaid with silver.

"Move aside," Fingon commanded, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. The healers stepped back from Ecthelion's cot as the prince knelt beside him.

Fingon opened the box, revealing glass vials nestled in velvet. Each contained liquids of different hues - some clear as starlight, others deep as forest pools. He selected a crystal vial filled with golden liquid that seemed to pulse with its own inner light.

"This was distilled from the last flowers that bloomed in Valinor before we left," Fingon explained as he unstoppered the vial. The scent of summer filled the tent, cutting through the metallic tang of blood and corruption.

Glorfindel maintained his grip on Ecthelion's hand as Fingon lifted the wounded lord's head. The prince pressed the vial to Ecthelion's lips, letting three drops fall onto his tongue. The effect was immediate - Ecthelion's breathing eased, and the black corruption halted its advance across his throat.

"More will be needed," Fingon said, recorking the vial with careful precision. "But this will hold the poison at bay until dawn."

Glorfindel leaned forward to press his palm against Ecthelion's forehead, checking if the fever had broken. The golden-haired lord's movement brought his face close to Ecthelion's, and in that moment, Ecthelion's arms shot up with unexpected strength, wrapping around Glorfindel's neck.

"Ammë..." Ecthelion's voice cracked, barely above a whisper, filled with a child's longing.

The sudden vulnerability in Ecthelion's voice struck those present. Here was no mighty warrior of the Ñoldor, no skilled dancer with sword and song, but a young elf calling for his mother in the depths of fever. His fingers clutched at Glorfindel's tunic with desperate intensity.

Glorfindel froze, caught between maintaining his dignity as a lord and responding to Ecthelion's need for comfort. After a moment's hesitation, he settled on the edge of the cot, allowing Ecthelion to maintain his grip.

Turgon turned away, his face tightening at this raw display of emotion. The prince had his own memories of leaving family behind, of choices that could never be unmade.

Fingon's eyes softened as he watched the scene unfold. He had seen many proud warriors reduced to such states by fever and pain, their carefully constructed walls crumbling to reveal the fears and longings they carried within.

The head healer busied herself with preparing more athelas, giving the lords a semblance of privacy in this intimate moment. But her movements were slower than necessary, her ears attuned to any change in Ecthelion's breathing that might signal distress.

Glorfindel hesitated for a heartbeat, then yielded to compassion. He cradled Ecthelion against his chest, one hand moving in slow circles across the fevered lord's back. The gesture came naturally, born from some deep memory of his own mother's comfort.

"Shhh, I'm here," he whispered in the softest Quenya, his voice pitched higher than usual to match a mother's tone. The pretense felt strange on his tongue, yet Ecthelion's grip loosened slightly at the sound.

Fingon and Turgon exchanged glances but remained silent, understanding that pride had no place in this moment of healing. The head healer continued her work, her movements deliberately quiet as Glorfindel continued his gentle deception.

"Rest now, my brave one," Glorfindel murmured, his fingers threading through Ecthelion's sweat-dampened hair. The black corruption had begun to recede from Ecthelion's throat, leaving pale skin in its wake. "Let the medicine work."

Ecthelion's breathing steadied, his face relaxing as he pressed it against Glorfindel's shoulder. His fingers loosened their desperate grip on Glorfindel's tunic, though they remained tangled in the fabric.

"The gardens," Ecthelion mumbled against Glorfindel's chest, lost in fever dreams of Valinor. "Show me the silver flowers again, Ammë."

"Soon," Glorfindel promised, his throat tight with emotion. "When you're stronger." He continued the slow, soothing circles across Ecthelion's back, feeling the tension gradually leave the younger lord's body.

Fingon watched the interaction between the two lords with a mixture of compassion and understanding. He reached for another vial from his wooden box, this one containing a silvery liquid that caught the lamplight like moonbeams on water.

"We'll need to apply this to the wound directly," he said, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing Ecthelion's fragile peace. "It will draw out the remaining corruption."

Glorfindel nodded but didn't move, unwilling to disturb Ecthelion's rest. The younger lord's breathing had finally evened out, his face relaxed against Glorfindel's shoulder.

The head healer approached with fresh bandages, her movements precise and practiced. Together with Fingon, she began to unwrap the old dressings from Ecthelion's chest. The skin beneath showed signs of healing - the black corruption had retreated to small patches around the wound's edges.

Ecthelion stirred slightly at their touch but didn't wake. His fingers tightened briefly in Glorfindel's tunic before relaxing again. The fever dreams seemed to have loosened their hold, replaced by genuine healing sleep.

"Hold him steady," Fingon instructed as he uncorked the silver vial. The liquid inside gave off a subtle glow, illuminating his hands as he carefully measured out three drops onto the wound.

When the silver drops touched Ecthelion's wound, he jerked awake with a raw cry. His back arched off the cot, every muscle tensing against the burning sensation that spread from the point of contact. The liquid gleamed like starfire as it sank into his flesh, seeking out the remaining corruption.

"Hold him," Fingon commanded, though Glorfindel had already tightened his grip.

Ecthelion thrashed against Glorfindel's chest, tears streaming down his face as the medicine worked its way deeper. His composure shattered completely, leaving only pain and vulnerability in its wake. The head healer moved swiftly, her hands steady as she wrapped fresh bandages around his chest.

Once the bandages were secured, Glorfindel gathered Ecthelion back closer again, cradling him as one would a child. He rocked back and forth in a gentle rhythm, one hand supporting Ecthelion's head as the young lord buried his face in the crook of Glorfindel's neck.

Ecthelion's shoulders shook with quiet sobs, his tears soaking into Glorfindel's tunic. His fingers clutched desperately at Glorfindel's back, seeking anchor against the waves of pain that still coursed through him.

"I'm here," Glorfindel murmured, continuing the gentle rocking motion. "Let it out, little one. Let it out."

The other lords maintained a respectful silence, averting their eyes from this private moment between the two lords. The head healer busied herself with clearing away the used bandages, though she kept watch over her patient from the corner of her eye.

Gradually, Ecthelion's sobs quieted, his breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of deep sleep. The medicine had done its work - the black corruption had retreated to a thin line around the original wound, and his skin no longer burned with fever.

Fingon checked the bandages one final time before repacking his wooden box. "He'll sleep through till morning now. The worst has passed."

Turgon stepped forward, his shadow falling across Ecthelion's sleeping form. "We should move him to proper quarters. The healing tent will be needed for others."

"My pavilion is closest," Glorfindel offered, still maintaining his protective hold. "And I have experience with fever-dreams."

The head healer nodded her approval. "Keep him warm. When he wakes, he'll need broth and fresh water."

With careful movements, Glorfindel shifted to lift Ecthelion in his arms. The younger lord stirred but didn't wake, his head lolling against Glorfindel's shoulder, arms still wrapped around Glorfindel's neck. The simple trust in that unconscious gesture touched something deep in Glorfindel's heart.

Turgon held open the tent flap as Glorfindel carried Ecthelion into the cool night air. The full moon cast long shadows across the camp, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of athelas from the healing tent.

"I'll send word when he wakes," Glorfindel said softly to the princes.

Chapter Text

Fingon and Turgon watched as Glorfindel carried Ecthelion through the sleeping camp. The moonlight silvered their path, casting long shadows across the trampled grass. Guards nodded respectfully as the lords passed, their eyes lingering on Ecthelion's bandaged form.

In Glorfindel's pavilion, a servant had already lit the braziers and turned down the bed. The warm glow filled the space, chasing away the night's chill. Glorfindel laid Ecthelion onto the soft sheets with practiced care, but the younger lord's fingers remained tangled in his tunic.

"My lord," the servant whispered, "shall I fetch fresh water?"

"Yes, and extra blankets." Glorfindel settled on the edge of the bed, resigned to his position as Ecthelion's anchor.

Ecthelion's face retained its youthful vulnerability in sleep, the usual mask of lordly composure stripped away by fever and medicine. His dark hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink, a stark contrast to his pale skin. The bandages around his chest rose and fell with each steady breath.

The servant returned with blankets and a pitcher of water, setting them quietly beside the bed. Glorfindel dismissed him with a nod, then carefully arranged the extra covers over Ecthelion's sleeping form. The young lord mumbled something incomprehensible, his grip tightening momentarily before relaxing again.

Through the pavilion's open flap, the sounds of the camp filtered in - distant conversations, the stamp of horses, the occasional clash of weapons from the guard posts. But here, in this quiet space, time seemed to slow. Glorfindel found himself humming an old lullaby from Valinor, one his own mother had sung in days long past.

As dawn approached, Ecthelion's fever dreams began to fade. His grip on Glorfindel's tunic loosened, though his fingers remained tangled in the fabric. The golden-haired lord had maintained his vigil through the night, alternating between soft Quenya lullabies and moments of watchful silence.

Outside the pavilion, the camp stirred to life. The changing of the guard brought fresh footsteps past the entrance, and the smell of cooking fires drifted on the morning breeze. Servants moved quietly about their duties, their voices hushed near the healing tents.

Fingon arrived as the first rays of sunlight touched the eastern horizon. He carried the wooden box of medicines, its silver inlays catching the early light. The prince's keen eyes took in the scene - Glorfindel still perched on the edge of the bed, Ecthelion's peaceful rest, the untouched pitcher of water.

"His color has improved," Fingon observed, setting the box on a nearby table. He moved to check the bandages, his touch gentle and practiced.

Ecthelion stirred at the contact, his eyes fluttering open. Confusion crossed his features as he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. His gaze traveled from Fingon's concerned face to Glorfindel's tired eyes, then down to his own hand still clutching Glorfindel's tunic.

A flush crept up his neck as memories of the night's vulnerability surfaced. He released his grip on Glorfindel's clothing, fingers trembling slightly as they withdrew.

"My lords," Ecthelion's voice emerged as a hoarse whisper, stripped of its usual musical quality. "I... I must apologize for my behavior."

"There is nothing to apologize for," Glorfindel said firmly, though he straightened his posture now that he was no longer needed as a comfort. "The fever took you deep into memory."

Fingon uncorked another vial from his box, this one containing a clear liquid that smelled of mountain streams. "Here. This will help restore your voice."

Ecthelion accepted the vial with shaking hands, his fingers brushing against Fingon's as he took it. The liquid tasted of fresh snow and starlight, cooling the rawness in his throat. As he drank, memories of the previous night's battle flooded back - the wolf-serpents' amber eyes, the burning pain of their poison, and the desperate need to protect Turgon.

"Prince Turgon - is he-" Ecthelion started, trying to sit up.

"My brother is well, thanks to you," Fingon pressed him back against the pillows. "Though he'll have much to say about your reckless bravery once you're stronger."

Glorfindel stood from his perch on the bed's edge, stretching muscles stiff from the night's vigil. Sunlight streamed through the pavilion's entrance, catching in his golden hair like captured flame. His usually immaculate appearance showed signs of wear - his tunic wrinkled where Ecthelion had clutched it, dark circles beneath his bright eyes.

"The healers will want to change your bandages," Glorfindel said, his voice carrying a hint of exhaustion beneath its usual warmth. "And you need proper food, not just medicine."

Ecthelion's pale cheeks colored again as he noticed the state of Glorfindel's clothing. "You stayed all night?"

"Someone had to keep you from wandering off in search of silver flowers," Glorfindel's lips quirked in a gentle smile, though his eyes held understanding rather than mockery.

Fingon busied himself with his medicine box, allowing the two lords a moment of privacy. He could see the complex emotions playing across both their faces - Ecthelion's embarrassment warring with gratitude, Glorfindel's weariness softened by something deeper.

A servant entered with a tray of steaming broth and fresh bread, the simple breakfast filling the pavilion with warmth and comfort. The aroma stirred Ecthelion's appetite, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since before the battle.

"My lords," the servant bowed, setting the tray on a small table near the bed. "The High King requests your presence at the war council, Prince Fingon."

Fingon nodded, closing his medicine box with practiced hands. "I'll return later to check the bandages. Rest, and try not to undo all our hard work."

As Fingon departed, Glorfindel moved to help Ecthelion sit up against the pillows. The younger lord's muscles protested the movement, pain flaring across his chest where the wolf-serpent's claw had torn into him. His hands shook as he reached for the bowl of broth, and Glorfindel steadied them without comment.

"The night watch reported no further signs of those creatures," Glorfindel said, watching as Ecthelion managed small sips of the warm liquid. "Though the scouts found strange tracks leading north, beyond where we normally patrol."

Ecthelion lowered the bowl, his face troubled. "They were not natural beasts. Their eyes held intelligence, and their attack was coordinated."

"The High King thinks they might be new creatures bred in Angband's pits." Glorfindel's voice hardened at the mention of the dark fortress. "Your warning saved many lives last night."

The morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows through the pavilion's entrance. Outside, the sounds of the camp grew louder as more elves woke and began their daily tasks. The clang of weapons practice mixed with voices raised in morning song, creating the familiar rhythm of their temporary home.

Ecthelion finished the broth in silence, his thoughts turning to the battle. The memory of those amber eyes still haunted him, and the feeling of dark magic that had radiated from the creatures' twisted forms.

Ecthelion set the empty bowl aside, his movements still stiff from his injuries. The morning light caught the silver threads in his dark hair as he shifted against the pillows.

"I must thank you, Lord Glorfindel. Your kindness through the night..." His voice faltered, the memory of his fever-induced vulnerability making him look away. "Few would have shown such patience."

Glorfindel waved off the formality. "There's no need for titles between us, not after last night." The golden-haired lord's eyes held no judgment, only warmth. "Though I must admit, your grip on my tunic proved surprisingly strong for someone in your condition."

A ghost of a smile touched Ecthelion's lips at that. He pushed himself straighter, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged chest. "I should return to my own tent. I've imposed on your hospitality long enough."

"Are you certain you can make it there?" Glorfindel's brow furrowed with concern as he watched Ecthelion's careful movements.

"The walk will do me good." Ecthelion's voice carried more conviction than his shaking limbs suggested. "Besides, your pavilion should return to its proper state of order, not this..." He gestured at the rumpled bedding and scattered medical supplies.

Glorfindel watched Ecthelion's shaking legs in silence for several minutes. The younger lord's determination was admirable, but his body betrayed his weakness. Sweat beaded on Ecthelion's forehead from the simple effort of standing upright, and his fingers clutched the edge of the bed to steady himself.

Without a word, Glorfindel closed the distance between them in three long strides. Before Ecthelion could protest, the golden-haired lord slipped one arm behind his shoulders and the other beneath his knees, lifting him from the bedside in one fluid motion.

Ecthelion's breath caught in his throat, his body tensing at the sudden contact. The movement pulled at his wounds, drawing a sharp hiss of pain from his lips. His hands instinctively grasped Glorfindel's shoulders for balance, fingers curling into the wrinkled fabric of his tunic.

"Put me down," Ecthelion's voice wavered between command and plea. "I am not a child to be carried."

But Glorfindel's arms remained steady, cradling Ecthelion against his chest with careful strength. The morning light streaming through the pavilion's entrance caught in Glorfindel's hair, creating a golden halo that reminded Ecthelion of the lamp-lit halls of Valinor.

"No," Glorfindel agreed, his voice soft but firm. "You are a wounded warrior who saved our prince's life. Allow me this small service in return."

Before stepping out of the pavilion, Glorfindel paused. He shifted Ecthelion's weight to one arm, reaching for his own cloak draped across a nearby chair. With practiced ease, he swept the deep blue fabric around Ecthelion's shoulders, careful not to disturb the bandages beneath.

Ecthelion's fingers tightened on Glorfindel's shoulders as the morning breeze brushed against them. His pride warred with the reality of his condition - every small movement sent waves of pain through his chest.

"If you're worried about being recognized," Glorfindel's breath stirred the dark strands of hair near Ecthelion's ear, "you'd better hide your face properly in the crook of my neck."

A flush crept up Ecthelion's pale neck, but the sounds of the bustling camp beyond the pavilion's walls made the suggestion tempting. Already, voices drifted closer - servants and guards going about their morning duties. The thought of being seen so vulnerable, being carried like a child through the heart of the camp...

Ecthelion swallowed his remaining pride and turned his face into Glorfindel's neck. The golden-haired lord's skin was warm against his forehead, and the familiar scent of sunshine and summer grass enveloped him. The cloak's hood fell forward, shadowing what little of his face might still have been visible.

Glorfindel suppressed a chuckle at Ecthelion's swift capitulation, though he kept his arms steady to avoid jostling his wounded charge. The vibration in his chest made Ecthelion tense, but he remained hidden beneath the cloak's deep blue folds, his breath warm against Glorfindel's neck.

"Not a word of this to anyone," Ecthelion mumbled into the fabric of Glorfindel's tunic. His musical voice carried a note of warning despite its muffled delivery.

The morning air swept through the camp as Glorfindel stepped out of the pavilion, carrying his precious burden with measured steps. Early risers bustled about their duties, though most kept their distance from the golden-haired lord. Those who passed close enough to recognize him offered respectful nods, their eyes sliding curiously over the cloaked figure in his arms.

A group of young warriors practicing their sword forms paused their exercise, watching the lords pass. One started to call out a greeting but fell silent at Glorfindel's subtle head shake. The cloak-wrapped bundle in his arms shifted slightly, and Glorfindel adjusted his grip to better support Ecthelion's weight.

The morning dew still clung to the grass, dampening the hem of Glorfindel's boots as he walked the familiar path between the pavilions. Each step was carefully placed to minimize any jarring movement that might pain his wounded fellow lords.

The camp stirred to full wakefulness as Glorfindel carried Ecthelion through the winding paths between tents and pavilions. The morning mist clung to their ankles, swirling in their wake like ghostly followers. Guards changed shifts at the perimeter, their armor catching the early light.

Ecthelion's tent stood apart from the others, near a small grove of silver birch trees. The location suited his solitary nature, though now the distance seemed greater than usual. His breathing remained steady against Glorfindel's neck, but his fingers tightened their grip when voices passed too close.

A pair of servants approached, arms full of fresh linens. Glorfindel shifted his path to avoid them, feeling Ecthelion tense at their proximity. The servants' curious glances followed them, but they knew better than to question a lord of Glorfindel's standing.

"Almost there," Glorfindel murmured, his voice low enough that only Ecthelion could hear. The younger lord made no response save a slight nod against his shoulder.

The guards posted near Ecthelion's tent straightened as Glorfindel approached. One moved to hold open the tent flap while the other pretended great interest in adjusting his bracers. Neither commented on the sight of their lord being carried like a child, though their eyes followed the blue-cloaked bundle with concern.

Inside, the tent held the same austere elegance as its owner. A narrow bed occupied one corner, its covers still neat from disuse the night before. Books and scrolls lay carefully arranged on a small desk, and a silver flute rested in its open case nearby. The morning light filtered through the canvas, casting everything in soft shadows.

Glorfindel moved toward the bed with the same careful steps that had carried them across the camp. As he lowered Ecthelion onto the mattress, the cloak slipped away, revealing the younger lord's flushed face and tangled dark hair.

Ecthelion sank into his own bedding with barely concealed relief, though his fingers lingered on Glorfindel's sleeve before falling away. The morning light caught the silver threading in his dark hair, highlighting the pallor that still clung to his features despite the fever's passing.

Glorfindel stepped back, smoothing the wrinkles from his tunic with practiced motions. His golden hair caught the filtered sunlight, creating a warm glow that filled the tent's austere interior. The silence between them held none of the previous night's vulnerability, replaced by an uncertain tension.

"Your bandages will need changing soon," Glorfindel observed, his keen eyes noting the spots of red seeping through the white linen. "Shall I send for the head healer?"

"No," Ecthelion's musical voice carried a thread of steel beneath its exhaustion. "I can manage. You've done more than enough."

A knock at the tent's entrance interrupted any response Glorfindel might have made. One of the guards cleared his throat.

"My lords, Prince Turgon requests Lord Glorfindel's presence at the war council."

Glorfindel's shoulders straightened at the summons, though his eyes remained fixed on Ecthelion's pale face. The younger lord met his gaze steadily, chin lifted in subtle defiance of his weakened state.

"Go," Ecthelion said softly. "They'll need your counsel about those creatures."

Glorfindel lingered at the tent's entrance, his golden hair catching the morning light as he turned back to Ecthelion. "I'll return after the council. Try to rest."

"I am not one of your soldiers to command," Ecthelion's musical voice carried a note of amusement despite his exhaustion. He shifted against the pillows, hiding a wince as the movement pulled at his wounds.

"No, you're far more stubborn." Glorfindel's lips curved into a slight smile. "But even the most dedicated warrior needs rest after facing such creatures."

The guards outside shuffled their feet, a subtle reminder of the waiting summons. The morning breeze carried the sounds of the camp - clashing swords from the training grounds, voices raised in song, the rhythmic beat of hammers at the forges.

Ecthelion's fingers traced the edge of his bandages, his pale skin stark against the white linen. "The council will want to know about their eyes - that amber glow wasn't natural. And their movements..." He paused, brow furrowing at the memory. "They fought with purpose, not just bestial instinct."

"Save your observations for when you're stronger." Glorfindel stepped back through the tent flap, though his concerned gaze lingered on the younger lord. "I'll make sure Turgon understands the full extent of what we faced."

The guard cleared his throat again, more insistently this time. "My lord, Prince Turgon was quite specific about the urgency..."

"Yes, yes," Glorfindel waved a hand in acknowledgment, though his eyes remained fixed on Ecthelion's too-pale face. "Rest, my friend. That's not a command - merely a request."

Ecthelion's musical laugh turned into a slight cough, but he nodded. "Go, before our prince sends the entire guard to fetch you."

Glorfindel's departure left the tent in silence, broken only by Ecthelion's measured breaths. The morning light filtered through the canvas, casting dancing shadows across the scattered belongings that marked his temporary home. His fingers traced the edge of the bandages, remembering the searing pain of the creature's claws.

Outside, the camp bustled with activity. Soldiers drilled in formation, their weapons glinting in the sun. Messengers darted between tents, carrying reports and orders. The war council would be gathering now, lords and captains assembling to discuss the new threat that had emerged from the shadows.

Ecthelion shifted against the pillows, fighting the exhaustion that pulled at his limbs. The memory of Glorfindel's arms carrying him through the camp brought heat to his cheeks. Such vulnerability went against everything he had built himself to be - the stern, self-reliant warrior who needed no one's aid.

A servant entered with fresh water and clean bandages, moving quietly about the tent. She cast concerned glances at his pale face but said nothing, respecting his desire for solitude. The water pitcher clinked softly as she set it beside his bed, the sound mixing with distant voices and clashing steel from the training grounds.

His silver flute caught his eye from its case on the desk, its polished surface reflecting the morning light. Music had always been his refuge, but now his fingers felt too heavy to lift the instrument. Instead, he hummed softly, an old melody from Valinor that spoke of peaceful gardens and starlit fountains.

The tune drifted through the tent, carrying with it memories of a different life, before shadow and strife had driven them east. His voice, though weakened by pain and fatigue, retained its haunting beauty, weaving through the sounds of the military camp like a thread of silver in rough cloth.

When Glorfindel stepped into the council pavilion, a wave of heated discussion washed over him. Maps covered the long wooden table, held down by daggers and cups of wine. Captains leaned over the parchments, jabbing fingers at various locations while arguing their points.

"The creatures came from the northern passes-" Fingon's voice cut through the clamor.

"But what of the eastern border?" Finrod traced a line along the map. "If they've found paths through the mountains there-"

"We cannot spread our forces so thin," a captain interjected, his armor gleaming in the morning light filtering through the pavilion's opening.

At the head of the table, Fingolfin sat in silence, his sharp eyes taking in every gesture, every word. His fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the table's surface, the only outward sign of his thoughts.

Turgon looked up from his position near his father, catching sight of Glorfindel. "You were there when they attacked. What can you tell us of these beasts?"

The voices died down as heads turned toward Glorfindel. The golden-haired lord stepped forward, his mind clear despite his sleepless night. The memory of those amber eyes and twisted forms remained sharp in his thoughts.

"They were no natural creatures," Glorfindel began, his voice steady. "Wolf-like in form, but with scales like serpents. Their eyes held an unnatural amber glow, and they moved with purpose - coordinated attacks, not mindless aggression."

Fingolfin's fingers stilled their drumming. "You believe them to be bred for war?"

"Yes, my king. And there was something else - a darkness about them that spoke of fell magic."

The council chamber fell silent as the lords absorbed Glorfindel's words. Fingolfin's eyes narrowed, his mind already calculating the implications of such creatures. Beside him, Turgon's fingers traced the northern passes on the map, remembering the swift violence of the attack.

"How many fell to their claws?" Fingon asked, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

"Three guards dead, twelve wounded," Glorfindel replied. "Lord Ecthelion took the worst of it, protecting Prince Turgon from their leader."

At the mention of Ecthelion's name, several heads turned toward Turgon. The prince's face remained composed, but his hand tightened on the dagger pinning the map.

"He fought with exceptional valor," Turgon said. "The beast would have torn out my throat if not for his intervention."

Finrod leaned forward, golden hair catching the morning light. "These creatures - you said they moved with purpose. Did they target specific individuals?"

"They focused their attacks on those in command," Glorfindel confirmed. "The leader went straight for Prince Turgon, ignoring easier prey."

Fingolfin rose from his seat, and the pavilion grew even quieter. "Intelligence, coordination, and the ability to identify leadership. These are not mere beasts stumbling from the mountains." His gaze swept across the assembled lords. "Someone, or something, is breeding an army."

The implications hung heavy in the air. Every elf present remembered the horrors they had faced crossing the Helcaraxë, the twisted creatures that had harried their march east. But these new beasts represented something different - something that combined savage strength with tactical cunning.

"We must increase patrols along all mountain passes," Fingon declared. "Double the guard at night, when they seem to prefer attacking."

Fingolfin nodded in agreement. "And send word to our allies. Círdan should be warned - if these creatures can cross the mountains, they may try for the coastal settlements next."

"And what of the wounded?" Finrod's voice carried across the council pavilion. "Ecthelion's intervention may have saved more than just Turgon's life - his blood might hold clues to fighting these creatures."

The lords shifted uncomfortably at the mention of blood. The memory of the black corruption spreading through the wounded was still fresh in their minds.

"The healers have contained the poison," Fingon replied, his fingers absently touching the pouch where he kept the remaining golden remedy. "But its nature troubles me. It acted with purpose, like the beasts themselves."

Glorfindel's jaw tightened at the memory of Ecthelion's fever, the way the darkness had crept through his veins. "The corruption seemed drawn to strength and fear. The worse the wounds, the faster it spread."

"A weapon designed to target our strongest warriors," Turgon's voice held a cold edge. His hand still rested on the dagger pinning the map, knuckles white with tension. "First the beasts single out commanders, then their poison ensures that even if we survive the initial attack..."

"We lose our best defenders anyway," Fingolfin finished, rising from his seat. The morning light caught the silver in his dark hair as he moved to study the map more closely. "This is no random assault. Someone is testing our defenses, learning our weaknesses."

The council chamber fell silent as the implications sank in. Outside, the sounds of the camp continued - steel on steel from the training grounds, voices raised in song, the steady beat of hammers at the forges. But within the pavilion, each lord's mind turned to the same dark thought: what other horrors waited in the northern shadows?

Fingon straightened, his warrior's instincts pushing through the grim speculation. "We need samples of the poison. If we can understand its nature, perhaps we can develop stronger remedies."

"Agreed," Fingolfin nodded. "But we must move carefully. These creatures' blood may be as dangerous as their claws."

"There may be more to learn from the living than the dead," Finrod spoke, his voice carrying the weight of ancient wisdom despite his youth. "Lord Ecthelion's wounds - they were the deepest, yet he lives. His resistance might tell us something valuable."

Glorfindel's golden head turned sharply at the suggestion. "He needs rest, not more prodding from healers."

"Peace, friend," Turgon raised a hand. "None suggest disturbing his recovery. But when he is stronger, his experience could prove crucial."

The council's attention shifted as a messenger slipped into the pavilion, moving quickly to Fingolfin's side. The High King's expression remained neutral as he read the parchment, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on its edges.

"More reports from the northern passes," Fingolfin announced. "Similar creatures have been sighted near the eastern settlements. No attacks yet, but the patrols report hearing strange howls in the night."

Fingon's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt. "How many sightings?"

"Three separate reports, all describing the same amber eyes." Fingolfin laid the parchment on the map, using it to mark the locations. "They're moving along the mountain chain, testing different points of entry."

"We should send riders to warn the outlying settlements," Finrod suggested, tracing the path of the sightings with his finger. "Many of our people still live in scattered groups, vulnerable to sudden attacks."

The council members nodded in agreement, their faces grave. The morning light streaming through the pavilion's opening seemed dimmer now, as if the weight of their discussion had somehow muted its brightness.

"The patrols will need to be reinforced," Turgon added, his tactical mind already calculating the distribution of forces. "But we must be careful not to weaken our central defenses. If these are indeed coordinated attacks..."

"Then spreading our forces too thin is exactly what the enemy wants," Fingon finished his brother's thought.

Fingolfin rose from his seat, his silver-threaded dark hair catching the morning light. "We will split our forces carefully. Fingon, take a company of archers to reinforce the eastern settlements. Turgon, strengthen the northern passes with your best warriors."

"And what of the wounded?" Glorfindel's voice carried across the pavilion. His thoughts returned to Ecthelion's pale face in the morning light, the way the younger lord had tried to mask his pain.

"They remain here under guard," Fingolfin declared. "If these creatures return, they may target those weakened by their poison."

Finrod stepped forward, his golden hair a sharp contrast to the dark wood of the council table. "I'll examine the beast's remains. Perhaps there are clues in their flesh that could help us understand their nature."

"Take precautions," Fingon warned. "Their blood may carry the same corruption as their claws."

The council dispersed with swift efficiency, each lord moving to fulfill their assigned tasks.

Chapter Text

As Glorfindel turned to leave, Turgon caught his arm.

"A moment," Turgon said, his tall frame casting a shadow across the council table. "I would see Ecthelion before we strengthen the northern defenses. His insight about the creatures could prove valuable."

Glorfindel nodded, stepping aside as the other lords filed out of the pavilion. Turgon gathered several maps from the table, rolling them carefully before tucking them under his arm. The morning light caught the silver threads in his dark robes as he moved.

"Wait here," Turgon said. "There's something else we need to discuss." He turned to speak quietly with his father, their heads bent close together over one final document.

Glorfindel stood near the entrance, watching the camp come alive with renewed purpose after the council's decisions. Messengers darted between tents, carrying orders to the various companies. The clash of steel from the training grounds grew more intense as warriors prepared for deployment to the settlements.

His thoughts drifted back to Ecthelion, wondering if the young lord had actually heeded his advice to rest. Knowing Ecthelion's stubborn nature, he probably hadn't. The image of those amber-eyed creatures flashed through his mind again - the way they had moved with such terrible purpose, targeting Turgon with deadly precision.

Fingon paused beside him on his way out, adjusting the strap of his quiver. "Watch over him," he said softly, not needing to specify who he meant. "Those wounds were meant for my brother."

Before Glorfindel could respond, Fingon had moved on, already calling out orders to his archers. Turgon finished his discussion with Fingolfin and approached, his face set in determined lines.

"Shall we?" Turgon gestured toward the path leading to Glorfindel's pavilion.

"Actually, he's returned to his own tent," Glorfindel said, turning away from the path to his pavilion. "He insisted this morning, said something about not wanting to impose further."

Turgon's eyebrows lifted. "Stubborn, isn't he?"

"Like trying to redirect a river with bare hands." Glorfindel led the way through the camp, past groups of soldiers preparing for deployment. The morning sun cast long shadows between the rows of tents, and the air carried the scent of leather and steel from the armory.

They wound through the section where the unaligned houses had set up their quarters. Ecthelion's tent stood apart from the others, marked by a simple banner bearing the symbol of a silver fountain. Two guards snapped to attention as Glorfindel and Turgon approached.

"He's already refused the healer's visit twice this morning," one guard reported without prompting. His tone carried equal measures of exasperation and admiration.

"Of course he has." Glorfindel exchanged a knowing look with Turgon. The prince's lips twitched in what might have been amusement, though his eyes remained serious.

"This way, my lord." Glorfindel gestured toward the tent's entrance, letting Turgon take the lead. The rolled maps under the prince's arm caught the morning light, their edges casting thin shadows across the packed earth.

Inside the tent, sunlight filtered through the canvas, casting a soft glow across the sleeping figure. Ecthelion lay curled on his side, dark hair spilling across the pillow in stark contrast to his pale skin. His fingers clutched the blanket close to his chest, bunching the fabric like a child might hold a treasured comfort item. The tension that usually marked his features had smoothed away in sleep, making him appear younger, more vulnerable.

His breathing came slow and steady now, without the labored quality it had held during his fever. The bandages wrapped around his torso showed no signs of fresh bleeding, though they would need changing soon. His silver flute rested on a small table nearby, within easy reach should he wake and desire its familiar comfort.

Turgon paused at the entrance, taking in the scene. The mighty warrior who had saved his life now looked almost fragile in repose, though both men knew better than to voice such thoughts when Ecthelion was awake. The prince's eyes lingered on the bandages, remembering the savage force of the creature's attack.

Glorfindel touched Turgon's arm lightly, gesturing for them to step back outside. They didn't need to discuss it - both understood the importance of letting the wounded elf rest undisturbed. The maps and questions could wait until Ecthelion woke on his own.

The morning sun cast long shadows as Turgon and Glorfindel walked away from Ecthelion's tent, their boots silent on the packed earth. The prince's fingers traced the edge of his maps, his mind already calculating distances and defensive positions.

"His settlement lies too far from the main circle," Turgon said, his voice low enough that only Glorfindel could hear. "Out here, they're vulnerable to attack."

Glorfindel glanced back at the scattered tents of the unaligned houses. "The independent lords value their autonomy."

"Autonomy means little if they're dead." Turgon stopped, spreading one of his maps across a nearby barrel. His finger traced the current layout of the camp. "Here - between the northern and western quarters. There's space enough for Ecthelion's people, and the position would strengthen our overall defenses."

"You'd give him a place in the inner circle?" Glorfindel studied the indicated location. It was prime territory, usually reserved for the most prominent houses.

"He earned it with his blood." Turgon's hand drifted to his throat, where the beast's claws would have torn if not for Ecthelion's intervention. "Besides, his warriors are disciplined, well-trained. Having them closer would benefit everyone."

"He'll resist." Glorfindel knew Ecthelion's pride, his fierce independence. "He chose to remain independent for a reason."

"Then we must give him better reasons to change his mind." Turgon rolled the map with practiced efficiency. "The outer settlements are no longer safe. These creatures proved that. We need every skilled warrior we can trust close at hand."

The morning sun climbed higher as Turgon and Glorfindel made their way back toward the council pavilion. Around them, the camp buzzed with renewed activity as warriors prepared for deployment to the outlying settlements.

"His skill with the flute could be put to better use as well," Turgon said, his eyes distant with calculation. "The healing tents would benefit from his music, and the children need instruction."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. "Using every argument at your disposal?"

"These are dangerous times. Pride must yield to practicality." Turgon's fingers traced the edge of his maps. "The outer settlements are exposed. One coordinated attack could-"

A sharp whistle cut through the air. Both lords turned to see Fingon striding toward them, his dark hair bound back for travel. Behind him, a company of archers assembled, checking bowstrings and arrows.

"The eastern patrols report more sightings," Fingon said, his voice low. "Three settlements abandoned their homes in the night. They're making their way here, but the roads aren't safe."

Turgon's jaw tightened. "How many?"

"Nearly two hundred. Mostly families with young ones." Fingon adjusted his sword belt. "We ride to escort them in. The creatures seem to avoid larger groups, but I won't take chances."

"Take my fastest riders," Turgon offered. "They know the eastern paths better than most."

Fingon nodded in thanks, then turned to Glorfindel. "How fares our wounded friend?"

"Resting, finally," Glorfindel replied. "Though he's already trying to return to duty."

A faint smile crossed Fingon's face. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me." His expression grew serious again. "Keep him close. If these attacks continue, we'll need every sword we can trust."

The prince departed, leaving Turgon and Glorfindel to watch as his company assembled. The morning light caught on arrow points and sword hilts, turning them to brief flashes of silver.

"Two hundred more refugees," Glorfindel murmured. "The camp grows crowded."

"All the more reason to reorganize our defenses," Turgon replied. "Starting with those most exposed."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the camp in a warm, golden glow, Turgon and Glorfindel made their way back to Ecthelion's tent. The smell of roasting meat and herbs wafted through the air, signaling the end of the evening meal. Around them, elves gathered in small groups, talking quietly or singing soft melodies.

Ecthelion sat on the edge of his cot, carefully wrapping fresh bandages around his torso. His dark hair fell forward, obscuring his face as he worked. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Turgon and Glorfindel ducking into his tent.

"My lords," he said, starting to rise. A wince crossed his face as the movement pulled at his wounds.

"Please, don't get up," Turgon said, waving for Ecthelion to remain seated. "We came to see how you were faring."

Ecthelion's fingers tightened on the edge of the cot. "I'm well enough, thank you." His gaze flicked to the maps under Turgon's arm. "But I suspect that's not the only reason for your visit."

Turgon exchanged a glance with Glorfindel before spreading one of the maps across a nearby table. "You're right. We've come to discuss the safety of your people."

Ecthelion's brow furrowed as he studied the map, taking in the proposed relocation of his settlement. "My people are capable of defending themselves."

"I don't doubt their skill," Turgon said, his voice even. "But these attacks have proven that the outer settlements are vulnerable. We need to consolidate our defenses."

Ecthelion's jaw tightened. "And you think the solution is to absorb us into your own houses?"

"Not absorption," Glorfindel interjected, sensing the rising tension. "Merely a strategic relocation. Your people would remain under your command."

"The position would allow for better coordination with the other warriors," Turgon added. "And your settlement would have the added protection of the inner defenses."

Ecthelion's fingers traced the symbol of his house on the map, a silver fountain gleaming in the lamplight. "We've always maintained our independence."

"And that independence is not in question," Turgon assured him. "This is about the safety of your people, not political alignment."

Ecthelion was silent for a long moment, his eyes still fixed on the map. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. "My people are not pawns to be moved at will."

"No one is suggesting that," Glorfindel said, his tone gentle. "But times are changing. The enemy grows bolder. We must adapt our strategies to meet the threat."

Turgon leaned forward, his expression earnest. "I'm not asking you to swear fealty, Ecthelion. I'm asking you to consider what's best for your people. The outer settlements are no longer safe."

Ecthelion's hand drifted to his bandaged side, his fingers brushing the edges of the cloth. The memory of the creatures' amber eyes flashed through his mind, the way their claws had torn through armor like parchment. He thought of his people, the families that depended on him for protection.

Ecthelion's expression softened as he traced the proposed location on the map. "How many could this area accommodate?" His voice had lost its earlier edge.

"The space could house three hundred warriors and their families comfortably," Turgon replied, his finger circling the marked territory. "With room for training grounds and communal areas."

"I should mention..." Ecthelion shifted on the cot, wincing slightly. "The House of the Fountain doesn't stand alone. We've formed tactical alliances with the Houses of the Heavenly Arch and the Swallow. Our warriors train together, share patrol duties."

Glorfindel's eyebrows rose. "Egalmoth and Duilin's houses?"

"Yes. We've found strength in combining our specialties - their archers complement our swordsmen." Ecthelion's fingers drummed against his knee. "Any relocation would need to account for all three houses."

Turgon studied the map with renewed interest. "The space could be expanded eastward, toward the training grounds. That would accommodate all three houses while maintaining their proximity to each other." He traced new lines on the parchment. "The archers would have clear sight lines to the walls, and the location would put your combined forces in an ideal position to respond to threats from any direction."

"You've thought this through," Ecthelion observed, a note of respect creeping into his voice.

"I try to consider all possibilities," Turgon replied. "Including the advantages of keeping allied houses together."

Ecthelion's fingers traced the edge of the map, his mind calculating distances and defensive positions. The lamplight caught the silver threads in his dark hair as he leaned forward, studying the proposed layout with growing interest. Despite his initial resistance, the tactical advantages were becoming clear.

"The terrain here slopes gently," he noted, indicating a section near the proposed training grounds. "Egalmoth's archers could use that elevation to their advantage."

Turgon nodded, spreading another map beside the first. "And Duilin's swift-footed warriors would have clear paths to respond to any threat." His finger traced the network of roads that would connect the three houses. "The combined positioning would strengthen our entire northern defense."

"The houses would maintain their individual identities," Glorfindel added, noting the subtle tension in Ecthelion's shoulders. "Each with their own banners and customs."

A cool evening breeze rustled through the tent, carrying with it the distant sound of flutes from the camp. Ecthelion's head tilted slightly, listening to the melody - one of his own compositions, now being played by others. The music seemed to ease something in his expression.

"I'll need to consult with Egalmoth and Duilin," he said finally, his voice measured. "We made our alliance as equals. Any decision must be mutual."

"Of course," Turgon agreed. "Take the maps. Discuss it with them." He rolled the parchments carefully, passing them to Ecthelion. "But don't wait too long. The northern passes grow more dangerous with each passing day."

The weight of responsibility settled across Ecthelion's shoulders as he accepted the maps. Three houses, hundreds of lives - all depending on his judgment. He thought of the families in his care, the children who played near the fountains, the warriors who trusted his leadership.

"I'll send word to them tonight," he said, setting the maps aside with careful precision. "We can meet tomorrow to discuss the details."

Turgon and Glorfindel stepped into the cool night air, leaving Ecthelion to his rest. The moon cast silver light across the camp, turning the tent canvas into ghostly shapes against the darkness.

"Three houses at once." Glorfindel's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "Fingon will be beside himself when he hears."

Turgon shot his friend a sideways glance. "Is something amusing?"

"Only that every prince from here to the coast has been courting those three houses for allegiance." Glorfindel's golden hair caught the moonlight as he grinned. "And here you are, offering them prime territory in one sweep."

"It's practical strategy," Turgon said, though a smile tugged at his lips.

"Oh yes, very practical." Glorfindel's eyes danced with mischief. "I'm sure Finrod will see it exactly that way when he learns you've secured both the finest warriors and the swiftest archers in one move."

"My cousin has his own concerns in the south."

"And yet he sent three envoys to Egalmoth last month alone." Glorfindel ducked under a low-hanging banner. "Even Fingon's been trying to win Duilin's favor since midwinter."

Turgon's attempt at maintaining his serious expression cracked. "Perhaps I should mention it at the next council meeting. Purely for strategic purposes, of course."

"Of course." Glorfindel's laughter echoed softly through the night air. "I'm sure they'll all appreciate your... tactical wisdom."

The next morning dawned clear and crisp. Ecthelion stood at the entrance of his tent, watching the sun paint the eastern sky in shades of gold and rose. His wounds still ached, but the corruption had faded to nothing more than a memory of darkness.

A messenger arrived with notes from both Egalmoth and Duilin, accepting his invitation to meet. The three lords gathered in Ecthelion's tent as the morning mist still clung to the ground. Egalmoth's blue mantle sparkled with crystal stars in the early light, while Duilin's swift movements betrayed his restless energy.

"These creatures worry me," Egalmoth said, studying the maps Turgon had left. "My scouts report their numbers grow with each passing night."

Duilin traced the proposed territory with a practiced eye. "The elevation would suit our archers well. And the clear paths would allow for quick deployment."

"But the price?" Ecthelion asked, watching his friends' reactions carefully. "Moving closer to the inner circle means closer ties to Turgon's people."

"We've maintained our independence this long," Egalmoth replied, adjusting one of the crystals on his mantle. "But independence means little if our people lie dead."

"My thoughts exactly." Duilin's fingers drummed against the table. "Besides, Turgon offers this as allies, not subjects. The difference matters."

Ecthelion touched the mark of the Fountain on the map, remembering the terror in the eyes of the wounded warriors in the healing tent. "Then we are agreed?"

Both lords nodded, their decision made with the swift certainty that had marked their alliance from the beginning.

"Though I suspect," Egalmoth added with a slight smile, "that certain other princes will be less than pleased with our choice."

Duilin laughed, the sound bright and swift as his movements. "Indeed. I received three letters from Finrod's people last week alone. Each more eloquent than the last." He pulled a folded parchment from his tunic. "This one compared our warriors to 'stars falling from the heavens in their swiftness.'"

"Only three?" Egalmoth's crystal-adorned cloak sparkled as he shifted. "I counted five from various courts. Though none quite so poetic."

"The southern lords do have a way with words," Ecthelion said, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his pale fingers tracing the map's edges. "But words won't shield our people from those creatures."

"No," Duilin agreed, his humor fading as he remembered the amber eyes in the darkness. "And Turgon offers more than pretty phrases. He offers walls, defensible ground, and tactical advantage."

Egalmoth nodded, his finger traced the hilt of his curved sword. "Not to mention his guards are well-trained. They'll complement our own forces nicely."

"And his smiths," Duilin added. "The weapons coming from their forges are exceptional. My warriors have admired their work."

The morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows through the tent's entrance. Outside, the sounds of the camp grew stronger - the clash of practice swords, the calls of warriors at drill, the distant notes of a flute carrying across the cool air.

The sun had climbed to its zenith when a tall figure in the colors of the House of the Fountain approached Turgon's pavilion. The guards recognized the silver-trimmed armor and stepped aside, allowing the elf to enter.

Inside, Turgon and Glorfindel bent over a table covered in reports from the northern borders. The scout's footsteps drew their attention. The elf dark hair fell in warrior braids past his shoulders, and he carried himself with the precise bearing of one used to command.

"My lords." He bowed, hand over heart. "I am Elemmakil, lieutenant to Lord Ecthelion. I come with a message from my lord.”

Glorfindel set down the parchment he'd been reading. "How fares your lord?"

"He grows stronger by the hour." A flash of pride crossed Elemmakil's face. "My lord Ecthelion extends an invitation.

He requests the honor of your presence this evening at his quarters. Both of you, if your duties permit."

Turgon straightened, exchanging a quick glance with Glorfindel. "Did he mention the purpose?"

"He spoke of formal matters requiring discussion." Elemmakil's hand rested on the pommel of his sword, a gesture reminiscent of his lord. "Lords Egalmoth and Duilin will also be in attendance."

"Tell your lord we would be honored," Turgon replied, his voice carefully neutral despite the spark of interest in his eyes.

Elemmakil bowed again and retreated. The lieutenant departed with the same precise movements with which he'd entered, his footsteps barely disturbing the rugs covering the tent floor.

"Well," Glorfindel said once they were alone. "It seems our friend has made his decision."

Chapter Text

The evening brought a subtle shift in the camp's atmosphere. Guards changed their posts with practiced efficiency while the last rays of sunlight painted the western sky in deep purples and golds. The scent of cedar wood smoke drifted through the air as cooking fires were stoked for the evening meal.

Turgon and Glorfindel approached Ecthelion's tent, now flanked by guards bearing the silver fountain emblem. Inside, lanterns cast a warm glow over the gathered lords. Egalmoth's crystal-adorned mantle caught the light, scattering tiny rainbows across the tent walls. Duilin stood near the entrance, his natural restlessness contained in the formal setting.

Ecthelion rose from his seat, moving with careful grace that betrayed his still-healing wounds. He wore formal robes in deep blue, trimmed with silver thread that matched the color of his eyes. A circlet set with a single white gem rested on his dark hair.

"My lords," Ecthelion inclined his head. "We thank you for coming."

The formality in his tone drew everyone to attention. This was no casual gathering, but a moment that would reshape the political landscape of their people.

"After careful consideration," Ecthelion continued, his clear voice filling the tent, "the Houses of the Fountain, the Heavenly Arch, and the Swallow have reached an accord." He gestured to his fellow lords, who stepped forward to flank him. "We accept your offer of relocation and the proposed territory."

Turgon's expression remained carefully neutral, though a glimmer of satisfaction crossed his eyes. Glorfindel, less constrained by protocol, allowed a small smile to play across his features.

"However," Egalmoth added, "we have certain conditions to discuss regarding the maintenance of our independence and the integration of our forces."

Duilin nodded, his swift movements stilled by the gravity of the moment. "We come as allies, not vassals. This must be clearly understood."

"Our conditions are reasonable," Ecthelion said, unrolling a parchment on the table before them. His pale fingers traced the careful script. "Joint patrols between our forces, shared training grounds, and equal representation in military councils."

Turgon studied the document, noting the precise language that preserved the three houses' autonomy while establishing clear lines of cooperation. "These terms are fair."

"We've also outlined the distribution of resources," Egalmoth added, his crystal-adorned mantle catching the lamplight. "Our craftsmen will work alongside yours, but maintain their own forges and workshops."

Glorfindel leaned forward, golden hair falling across his shoulder as he examined the proposed arrangement. The document detailed everything from patrol schedules to the placement of guard towers, leaving little room for future misunderstanding.

"The House of the Swallow has one additional request," Duilin said, stepping forward. "Our scouts require unrestricted access to the northern passes. We cannot effectively monitor enemy movements if bound by standard patrol protocols."

"Agreed," Turgon replied without hesitation. "Your scouts' speed and skill are legendary. It would be foolish to restrict their movements."

Ecthelion pulled a second document from beneath the first. "We've prepared a formal declaration of alliance." His voice carried the weight of centuries of tradition. "If the terms are acceptable."

The tent fell silent as Turgon read through the declaration. Outside, the evening breeze carried the distant sound of flutes - members of the House of the Fountain practicing their nightly songs. The melody wove through the air, a reminder of the unique character each house would maintain.

"These terms honor both our needs and our independence," Turgon said at last, reaching for a quill. "Let us make it official."

The scratching of quills filled the tent as each lord signed the declaration in turn. First Turgon's flowing script, then Ecthelion's precise hand, followed by Egalmoth's elaborate flourish and Duilin's swift strokes. Glorfindel added his signature as witness, the golden light from the lamps catching the still-wet ink.

Elemmakil appeared with cups of wine, distributed them with the careful grace that marked all his movements. The dark red liquid caught the lamplight, casting ruby shadows across the parchment as the lords raised their cups.

"To alliance," Ecthelion said, his voice carrying the musical quality that made even simple words sound like the beginning of a song.

"To strength in unity," Egalmoth added, the crystals on his mantle creating a constellation of light as he moved.

"To swift action," Duilin's words matched his nature - quick and direct.

"To the future," Turgon concluded, his voice carrying the weight of authority that came naturally to him.

The wine tasted of summer berries and ancient vineyards, a flavor that reminded them all of peaceful days in Valinor. As they drank, the flutes outside shifted to a new melody - one of Ecthelion's compositions that spoke of hope and determination.

Glorfindel studied the signed document, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Three of the most independent houses in the camp, now aligned under a single purpose. The political implications would ripple through all the elven realms, though that hardly seemed to matter compared to the immediate tactical advantages their union would bring.

The northern defenses would be stronger for this alliance. Three distinct fighting styles, three different approaches to warfare, all working in concert. The wolf-serpents would find no weak points to exploit, no gaps in their combined vigilance.

The logistics of moving three houses required careful planning. Ecthelion spread a detailed map across the table, marking potential routes with precise movements of his fingers.

"The House of the Swallow should move first," Duilin said, indicating the eastern paths. "Our scouts can secure the route for the others."

Egalmoth nodded, adjusting one of the crystals on his mantle. "The House of the Heavenly Arch will follow. Our archers can provide coverage from the ridges while the House of the Fountain completes their transition."

"Two weeks," Ecthelion calculated, his silver eyes scanning the terrain. "We'll need at least that much time to move everyone safely."

Turgon studied the proposed schedule. "The northern garrison can spare forces to assist with the relocation. Extra hands will speed the process."

They worked through the details - which families would move first, how to transport the forges, where to establish temporary camps along the route. Each decision was measured against both security and practicality.

"Then it's settled," Turgon said, rolling up the maps. "The movement begins at first light in three days."

Glorfindel stood, his golden hair catching the lamplight. "I'll coordinate with the garrison commanders about the additional forces."

The lords exchanged formal farewells, clasping hands in the warrior's grip that spoke of trust and shared purpose. Turgon and Glorfindel departed into the cool night air, leaving the three allied lords to their final preparations.

Turgon and Glorfindel walked through the camp's torchlit paths, their footsteps silent on the packed earth. The night air carried the mingled scents of pine and woodsmoke, along with the last echoes of flutes from Ecthelion's tent.

Glorfindel caught the slight upturn of Turgon's lips, a rare break in his usually stern demeanor. The prince's eyes held a satisfaction that went beyond mere political victory.

"You planned this from the beginning," Glorfindel said, keeping his voice low as they passed a group of guards.

Turgon's smile widened a fraction. "I saw the possibility. Three independent houses, each with unique strengths, all sharing similar concerns about autonomy." He adjusted the fold of his silver-trimmed cloak. "Their alliance makes them stronger than any single house under direct command."

"And brings them into your sphere of influence without forcing their submission." Glorfindel shook his head, golden hair catching the torchlight. "The wolf-serpent attack merely accelerated your timeline."

"The attack revealed the wisdom in unity." Turgon's expression sobered. "Though I would not have chosen such a costly demonstration."

They passed the healing tents, where a few lanterns still burned as the healers tended their charges. The reminder of Ecthelion's wounds hung between them.

"Still," Glorfindel observed, "you look entirely too pleased with yourself."

"Three of our strongest houses, working in concert." Turgon allowed his satisfaction to show fully now that they walked alone. "The Heavenly Arch's wealth, the Swallow's speed, the Fountain's discipline - combined without a single order given." His eyes held a hint of mirth. "Sometimes the best command is to simply step back and let allies find each other."

Glorfindel's keen eyes caught the deeper currents beneath Turgon's satisfaction. "Not to mention how other houses will view this alignment. Three of the most fiercely independent lords, now working in concert with your forces?" He brushed a leaf from his sleeve. "The implications won't be lost on them."

Turgon paused near a towering pine, its branches casting shifting shadows in the torchlight. "You think they'll seek similar arrangements?"

"They'd be fools not to. The combined strength of the Fountain, Heavenly Arch, and Swallow speaks for itself." Glorfindel's voice dropped lower. "Though I wonder how your brothers will take this news at tomorrow's council. Are you prepared for Fingon's questions? Or Aegnor's sharp observations?"

A ghost of amusement crossed Turgon's features. "You mean am I ready to face accusations of gathering too much power too quickly?"

"Something like that." Glorfindel's golden hair caught the moonlight as he tilted his head. "Three of the wealthiest and most militant houses, all aligned with your interests in a single evening. The council will have opinions."

"Let them." Turgon's voice carried the quiet confidence of one who had considered all angles. "This alliance formed of its own accord, through shared interests and mutual respect. No one can claim I forced their hands."

"True enough." Glorfindel adjusted his sword belt. "Though that won't stop the speculation."

Turgon and Glorfindel reached the prince's command tent, its blue and silver banners rippling in the night breeze. Inside, maps and reports covered the central table, each marked with recent sightings of wolf-serpents and proposed defensive positions.

"The real challenge begins tomorrow," Turgon traced a line along the northern passes. "Moving three houses without leaving gaps in our defenses."

"The timing works in our favor." Glorfindel studied the patrol routes. "The moon will be full for the next week, giving us clear visibility for night movements."

A guard entered, bearing a message scroll sealed with the emblem of the House of the Fountain. Turgon broke the seal, his eyes scanning the precise script.

"Ecthelion requests additional healers during the relocation." He passed the scroll to Glorfindel. "His house still has warriors recovering from the wolf-serpent attack."

"I'll speak with the healing houses at first light." Glorfindel set the scroll aside. "Though I suspect Fingon will want to oversee any movement of the wounded personally."

The tent flap rustled again as a guard entered, his silver armor catching the lamplight. "My lords, Prince Fingon asks to speak with you both. He waits in the council pavilion."

Turgon exchanged a knowing look with Glorfindel. It seemed the questions about their new alliance would begin sooner than expected.

Moonlight silvered the edges of the council pavilion as Turgon and Glorfindel approached. The glow of lanterns within cast long shadows through the entrance, where two guards stood at attention. Inside, voices carried through the cool night air.

They entered to find Fingolfin seated at the head of the council table, his silver circlet catching the lamplight. Finrod stood near a map-covered wall, his golden hair gleaming as he turned to acknowledge their arrival. Fingon leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, a knowing smile playing at his lips.

"Brother," Fingon pushed away from the pillar, "I hear you've been busy this evening."

"News travels swift as an arrow from the House of the Swallow, it seems," Turgon replied dryly.

Fingon's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Three houses in one night? I must admit, I'm rather jealous. Here I've spent months trying to convince the smiths to coordinate their forges, and you manage to align three of our most independent lords over a single cup of wine."

"Was it the wine that sealed the deal?" Finrod asked, amusement coloring his tone. "Or perhaps one of Ecthelion's enchanting flute melodies?"

Fingolfin remained silent, but his eyes held approval as he watched his sons' exchange. The High King understood better than most the delicate dance of politics that had led to this moment.

"Come now," Fingon continued, clapping his brother on the shoulder, "you must share your diplomatic secrets. How does one convince Duilin to sit still long enough to sign a treaty? I've never seen him remain in one place for more than a few minutes."

Turgon chuckled, the rare sound echoing through the council pavilion. "Perhaps I simply caught him on an unusually patient evening." His eyes met Fingon's with genuine warmth. "Though I suspect the wolf-serpent attack had more to do with it than any diplomatic skill on my part."

"Ah yes, nothing brings people together quite like a common enemy," Fingon mused, settling into one of the carved chairs. His fingers drummed against the wooden armrest. "Still, three houses - the Fountain's military precision, the Heavenly Arch's wealth, and the Swallow's speed. It's quite the combination."

"And each maintaining their independence," Finrod noted, moving away from the map wall. "That's the clever part. No formal submission required, just a mutually beneficial alliance." His golden hair caught the lamplight as he tilted his head in appreciation of the strategy.

"The terms were their own," Turgon said, his posture relaxing slightly under his brother's good-natured teasing. "I merely provided the opportunity."

Fingolfin's slight nod spoke volumes. The High King recognized the delicate balance his son had struck - strengthening their position without forcing the proud houses to bend their necks.

"Though I must ask," Fingon's eyes sparkled with mischief, "did Egalmoth's crystals blind everyone into agreement? I've seen fewer stars in the night sky than on that mantle of his."

This drew another chuckle from Turgon, deeper than the first. The tension in his shoulders eased further as he recognized his brother's jesting for what it was - not criticism, but acceptance wrapped in humor.

"Well," Finrod said, moving to pour wine for those gathered, "we should discuss the practical implications. Three allied houses moving simultaneously will draw attention - and not just from our own forces."

Fingolfin leaned forward, his silver circlet catching the lamplight. "The enemy has proven more cunning than we anticipated. These wolf-serpents were no mindless beasts."

"Which is precisely why the timing of this alliance matters," Turgon accepted the wine from his cousin. "United, these houses bring complementary strengths. The Swallow's scouts can spot threats before they materialize. The Heavenly Arch's archers can rain death from above. And the Fountain's warriors can meet any direct assault."

Glorfindel nodded, his golden hair shimmering as he moved. "Their combined forces will significantly strengthen our northern defenses."

"Assuming they survive the relocation," Fingon straightened in his chair. "Moving three houses at once creates vulnerabilities. The wolf-serpents may see an opportunity."

"Ecthelion has already considered this," Turgon spread a detailed map across the table. "The Houses will move in stages, maintaining defensive positions throughout the transition. Duilin's scouts will sweep ahead while Egalmoth's archers cover the flanks."

Fingolfin studied the proposed routes with keen eyes. "And what of the wounded? The House of the Fountain still has warriors recovering from poison."

"They've requested additional healers for the journey," Glorfindel indicated the marked rest points on the map. "With your permission, my lord, I'd like to coordinate with the healing houses at first light."

The High King nodded his approval. "See that they have whatever they need. We cannot afford to lose more warriors to that black corruption."

Fingon rose from his chair and moved to study the map more closely, his fingers tracing the proposed routes. "The timing of the moves concerns me. Three weeks of transition leaves too many opportunities for attack."

"Two weeks," Turgon corrected. "Ecthelion calculated the minimum time needed for safe passage."

"Even better." Fingon's eyes lit with approval. "Though we'll need additional patrols along these ridges." He indicated several elevated positions overlooking the planned route.

Finrod joined them at the table, his golden hair catching the lamplight as he leaned forward. "The House of the Heavenly Arch could position archers here and here." He pointed to two strategic overlooks. "Egalmoth's people have exceptional range with their bows."

"And the Swallow's scouts can cover these passes," Glorfindel added, marking several narrow defiles with small tokens. "Duilin's warriors are the swiftest among us - they can respond quickly to any threat."

Fingolfin observed the discussion with quiet satisfaction, noting how naturally his sons and nephew worked together. The High King's silver circlet gleamed as he finally spoke. "The houses will need supplies for the journey. Coordinate with the quartermaster at dawn."

"Already arranged," Turgon replied. "Egalmoth's wealth ensures they'll want for nothing during the transition."

"Of course," Fingon smiled. "The House of the Heavenly Arch never travels light - I expect their supply train will sparkle like the stars themselves."

"Better that than the alternative," Finrod noted. "These wolf-serpents seem drawn to weakness. A well-supplied force presents a harder target."

The night breeze stirred the pavilion's hangings, carrying with it the distant sound of flutes from the direction of Ecthelion's encampment. The musical notes floated through the cool air, a reminder of the strength that lay in their differences - each house contributing its unique gifts to their common cause.

Chapter Text

Dawn painted the eastern sky in pale gold as the House of the Swallow mobilized. Duilin's scouts, their dark blue and purple garments blending with the lingering shadows, spread out in precise formations. Their arrows bristled in quivers decorated with delicate feather patterns.

"First wave, move out," Duilin called, his voice carrying across the camp. His warriors responded with fluid efficiency, melting into the landscape ahead of the main column.

Behind them, the House of the Heavenly Arch assembled in glittering ranks. Egalmoth's people had somehow managed to make even their supply wagons sparkle, the gems on their shields catching the first rays of sunlight. Their archers took positions on the ridges overlooking the planned route, their jeweled weapons creating rainbow patterns in the morning light.

The House of the Fountain formed the rear guard, their silver-bright armor gleaming. Ecthelion, still bearing traces of his recent wounds, sat astride his horse at the column's head. Elemmakil rode beside him, keeping a watchful eye on his lord's condition.

"The passes are clear," a scout reported, materializing beside Duilin. "No sign of wolf-serpents in the northern approaches."

Egalmoth adjusted his curved sword, the crystals on his mantle throwing scattered light. "My archers report the same. The ridgelines are secure."

"Then we begin," Ecthelion said, his flute secured at his belt alongside his sword. He raised his hand, and the first wagons began to roll forward, their wheels crunching softly on the frost-covered ground.

The combined might of three houses moved like a well-orchestrated dance - Duilin's scouts flowing ahead like swift shadows, Egalmoth's archers watching from above like living stars, and Ecthelion's warriors providing the steady heartbeat of protection around the civilian column.

The morning sun climbed higher as the three houses wound their way through the passes. Duilin's scouts maintained their fluid dance ahead of the column, while Egalmoth's archers kept their jeweled watch from the heights above. The wagons rolled steadily forward, protected by the silver-armored warriors of the Fountain.

A flash of gold caught the sunlight ahead - Glorfindel appeared around a bend in the path, leading a contingent from the House of the Golden Flower. Their shields bore the rayed sun device, bright against the morning sky.

"The healers await you at the new settlement," Glorfindel called out, bringing his horse alongside Ecthelion's. "We've prepared the infirmary tents first, with extra supplies from Fingon's stores."
Ecthelion nodded, some tension easing from his shoulders. "Good news for our wounded. The journey taxes them, even with the careful pace."

"My warriors will supplement your guard rotation," Glorfindel gestured to his gathered forces. "Allow your people some rest when we reach the inner circle."

Duilin materialized beside them, his purple and blue garments swirling. "The scouts report clear paths ahead. We could increase our pace if needed."

"No," Ecthelion's pale features tightened. "We maintain this speed. I won't risk the wounded or the supply trains."

From his position on a nearby ridge, Egalmoth's voice carried down. "Agreed. Steady progress serves us better than haste."

The House of the Golden Flower integrated smoothly into the formation, their golden-haired warriors taking up positions along the column's flanks. Their presence added another layer of protection to the already formidable combined forces of the three allied houses.

The houses continued their careful progress through the northern passes. A cool breeze carried the scent of pine and frost, rustling through the banners of the four houses - the purple and blue of the Swallow, the jeweled standards of the Heavenly Arch, the silver-white of the Fountain, and the golden rays of Glorfindel's folk.

Ecthelion shifted in his saddle, his recent wounds making themselves known despite the healers' work. Glorfindel noticed the slight grimace that crossed his face.

"The next rest point lies just beyond that ridge," Glorfindel pointed ahead. "We can pause there while Duilin's scouts sweep the path forward."

"The wounded need the break," Elemmakil added from Ecthelion's other side. "And the supply trains could use a moment to regroup."

Above them, Egalmoth's voice carried down from his position on the heights. "My archers report movement to the north - but it's only a herd of deer fleeing eastward."

"Still, their flight might mean something follows," Duilin materialized beside the group, his swift appearance startling several horses. "I've sent more scouts to investigate."

"Keep the column moving steadily," Ecthelion straightened in his saddle, masking his discomfort. "We'll assess the situation at the rest point."

The combined forces continued their advance, each house performing its role with practiced precision. The Swallow's scouts flowed through the landscape like living shadows, while the Heavenly Arch's archers maintained their glittering watch from above. The warriors of the Fountain and Golden Flower formed an impenetrable guard around the civilian wagons, their weapons catching the morning light.

A light melody drifted back from the supply trains - someone had started singing an old traveling song from Valinor. Other voices joined in, the familiar tune spreading through the column like a warm breeze. Even some of Duilin's stern-faced scouts could be seen mouthing the words as they passed.

The song carried through the column, providing rhythm to their measured advance. Even the wounded seemed to draw strength from the familiar melody, their faces relaxing as the music washed over them.

Egalmoth descended from his ridge position, his crystal-studded mantle catching the light. "The deer herd crossed eastward into the valley. My archers tracked them until they disappeared into the tree line."

"Nature often warns us before danger strikes," Glorfindel said, his golden hair shining in the morning sun. "But animals also flee from our own movements."

A scout in purple and black materialized beside Duilin. "The northern passes remain clear, my lord. No tracks beyond those of common beasts."

The rest point came into view around the next bend - a sheltered hollow nestled between two rocky outcrops. The space offered natural protection, with clear sight lines in all directions. The Heavenly Arch's archers immediately claimed the high ground, their jeweled weapons glinting as they took up positions.

"We'll rest here for an hour," Ecthelion announced, his voice carrying despite his weariness. "Tend to the wounded and check the supply trains."

The Houses moved with practiced efficiency. The Fountain's warriors established a defensive perimeter while the Golden Flower's people helped secure the wagons. Duilin's scouts maintained their fluid dance around the perimeter, their dark colors blending with the shadows cast by the morning sun.

Healers moved among the wounded, changing bandages and administering medicine from Fingon's stores. The song that had accompanied their journey faded into quiet conversation as the column settled into their brief respite.

Glorfindel dismounted beside Ecthelion, offering a steadying hand as the other lord swung down from his saddle. "Let the healers check your wounds while we have the chance."

"The others need attention more than I do," Ecthelion started to protest, but Elemmakil was already leading a healer in their direction.

"A lord who neglects his own health cannot properly serve his people," Egalmoth remarked, joining them. His curved sword caught the light as he moved. "Take the rest, my friend. We have enough eyes watching the paths ahead."

Glorfindel's grin spread across his face as Egalmoth backed his position. The golden-haired lord crossed his arms, satisfaction evident in his stance.

"Listen to our bejeweled friend here," Glorfindel said. "His wisdom sparkles as bright as his mantle today."

Ecthelion's pale features cracked into a smirk. "Already aligning yourself with other lords, Egalmoth? I thought we had at least a few more days before the political maneuvering began."

"Says the one who orchestrated this entire alliance," Egalmoth shot back, the crystals on his mantle catching the sunlight as he gestured broadly. "Though I must admit, it's refreshing to see you accept help for once."

"Help?" Ecthelion raised an eyebrow. "This sounds more like a conspiracy. Next you'll tell me Duilin's in on it too."

"I'm in on what?" Duilin appeared beside them, silent as shadow despite his purple and dark blue garments.

"Our apparent plot to keep Lord Ecthelion from reopening his wounds through sheer stubbornness," Glorfindel explained, his eyes dancing with mirth.

The healer approached with fresh bandages, and Ecthelion surrendered with a theatrical sigh. "Very well. I know when I'm outnumbered."

"Finally, he learns," Egalmoth's curved sword caught the light as he adjusted his stance. "Though I suspect it's more about choosing his battles than actual wisdom."

Over the next two weeks, the landscape of the northwestern quarter transformed as the three houses established their new settlements. The House of the Fountain's silver-white pavilions rose like morning mist near the streams, while the House of the Heavenly Arch's jewel-toned dwellings caught sunlight in dazzling displays. The House of the Swallow's tents, in their subtle purples and blues, nestled between their allies' settlements like shadows at twilight.

Children from the House of the Fountain quickly found playmates among Turgon's people, their laughter mixing with the sound of rushing water. The women of the Heavenly Arch brought their weaving looms, setting them up in shared spaces where their colorful threads caught the light like their warriors' jeweled weapons. The House of the Swallow's families adapted swiftly, their natural grace helping them blend seamlessly into their new community.

The Golden Flower's people proved especially welcoming, opening their gardens and common areas to the newcomers. Soon, it became difficult to tell where one house's territory ended and another began. Women from all four houses gathered to share songs and stories, while children played games beneath the watchful eyes of warriors from different banners.

Tents rose in ordered rows, their colors reflecting their houses - silver-white for the Fountain, jewel-toned for the Heavenly Arch, dark blues and purples for the Swallow. The new settlement took shape with the efficiency typical of the Noldor, each house contributing its unique aesthetic to the emerging community.

Markets sprang up between the houses, where goods and crafts from all four kindreds were traded freely. The sound of flutes from the Fountain mixed with the rainbow-scattered light from the Heavenly Arch's crystals, while the swift messengers of the Swallow darted between the golden-flowered paths laid out by Glorfindel's people.

The evening breeze carried children's laughter through the settlement as Idril danced among the elflings, her golden hair catching the last rays of sunset. The young ones from the House of the Fountain had crowned her with lilies, while children from the Heavenly Arch offered her strings of colored beads. Even the usually reserved offspring of the Swallow's warriors joined in, their natural grace matching Idril's fluid movements.

"I haven't seen her this carefree since our flight," Turgon said, watching from a hilltop as his daughter taught the children a ring-dance from Valinor. The simple joy in her movements reminded him of her mother.

Glorfindel stood beside his prince, his golden hair stirring in the evening air. "There were few young ones among our people after the Ice. It does her heart good to hear children's laughter again."

Below them, Idril caught a stumbling elfling before he could fall, spinning the child's misstep into part of the dance. Other children crowded around her, eager to learn the steps. Their small faces glowed with admiration as she demonstrated the proper way to twirl.

"The Houses bring new life to our settlement," Turgon observed, a rare smile softening his stern features. "Perhaps this is what we needed - not just allies in war, but families to remind us what we're protecting."

The dance concluded with Idril and the children bowing to each other, their combined laughter rising like music into the deepening twilight. A few mothers appeared to collect their little ones, but Idril convinced them to let the children stay a while longer for stories.

"One more tale," she called out as the group settled in a circle around her. "This time about the Two Trees of Valinor."

The elflings gathered close, their eyes wide with wonder as Idril began to speak. Her voice carried clearly to where Turgon and Glorfindel stood, painting pictures of golden and silver light for children who had never seen such marvels.

The scent of cooking fires wafted up from the settlement as women from the gathered houses emerged from the communal kitchen area. Their aprons bore traces of the day's work - flour dust, herb stains, and the occasional splash of broth.

"Come, little ones! Dinner awaits," called a silver-haired lady from the House of the Fountain, her voice musical even in its motherly command. The children stirred from their circle, but lingered near Idril, reluctant to end their story time.

A group of women approached, their garments a mix of the houses' colors - the jewel-tones of the Heavenly Arch, the dark blues of the Swallow, the silver-white of the Fountain. They surrounded Idril like a flock of bright birds, taking her hands in theirs.

"My lady, you must join us," said one wearing the rainbow-hued ribbons of the Heavenly Arch. "We've made lamb broth today, with herbs from the new gardens."

Another woman, her dark blue dress marking her as one of the Swallow's folk, touched Idril's arm. "And fresh fish from the lake! You cannot refuse - we insist."

"The children would love to hear more stories over dinner," added a third, her silver-trimmed sleeves catching the last light.

From his vantage point, Turgon watched as the women gently but firmly steered his daughter toward the cooking fires, their voices mixing in cheerful insistence. Idril cast a laughing glance over her shoulder at her father as she was swept along, clearly amused by their maternal fussing.

The ladies drew her into their midst like a cherished younger sister, their hands gentle on her shoulders and arms as they guided her toward the communal dining area. Their voices rose in a happy chorus of menu descriptions and gentle scolding about how thin she looked.

The evening meal brought together warriors and families from all four houses. Long tables stretched beneath open pavilions, laden with steaming bowls of lamb broth and platters of lake fish. The mingled scents drew people from their tasks, gathering them in clusters of silver, gold, jewel-tones, and shadow-dark colors.

Ecthelion sat between Glorfindel and Egalmoth, his wounds finally healing enough to allow comfortable movement. The three lords shared quiet conversation as their people settled around them, the natural divisions between houses blurring in the fellowship of the meal.

"Your flautists have been teaching some of our younger musicians," Egalmoth mentioned, reaching for a piece of bread. The gems on his sleeves caught the lamplight. "I heard them practicing near the stream this morning."

"Music knows no boundaries between houses," Ecthelion replied, his voice carrying its usual melody. "Though I notice your archers have been sharing techniques with Duilin's folk as well."

Duilin appeared silently behind them, claiming the empty space beside Egalmoth. "Better arrows make better defense. Your lieutenant Elemmakil showed interest in our fletching methods yesterday."

The conversation paused as Idril approached their table, surrounded by her new escort of house-mothers. They fussed over her seating, ensuring she had the choicest portions of fish and the warmest bowl of broth. Their maternal attention brought rare smiles to the faces of the stern lords - a glimpse of normal life amidst their warrior duties.

"The children ask for you to sing after dinner," one of the women told Ecthelion, her silver-trimmed apron marking her as one of his house. "They've grown fond of your voice."

"How can I refuse such a request?" Ecthelion's fair features softened. "Though perhaps Lord Glorfindel might join us with some tales of Valinor as well?"

Glorfindel's golden hair caught the lamplight as he nodded. "Stories and songs - a proper evening for our new community."

Chapter Text

The days following the settlement's establishment fell into comfortable rhythms.

The four lords swiftly formed a close bond, their camaraderie blossoming like a flowering vine. Each morning, they would gather to plan joint patrols, their heads bent together as they pored over maps and discussed strategies. Their warriors moved with a newfound unity, weaving seamlessly between houses as they scanned the horizon for any sign of threat.

On days when no patrol was needed, the lords would venture into the wilderness, their laughter echoing through the trees as they tracked their prey. Ecthelion, his wounds now healed, moved with a dancer's grace, his keen eyes spotting the slightest movement. Egalmoth's arrows would whistle through the air, felling the swiftest of beasts, while Duilin's hounds flushed out the more elusive quarry. Glorfindel, with his boundless energy, would often race ahead, returning triumphantly with the day's catch.

As the women of the four houses worked together to dress the animals and preserve the meat, a sense of camaraderie blossomed. They shared techniques for tanning hides and weaving garments, their voices mingling in easy conversation. The bounty was divided evenly, ensuring that no one went without.

In the evenings, the settlement would come alive with music and laughter. Ecthelion's lilting voice would weave intricate melodies, accompanied by the gentle plucking of Turgon's musicians' harp. Egalmoth's deep baritone would join in, his rich tones blending with the higher harmonies of Duilin's family. Glorfindel, ever the enthusiastic dancer, would whirl and twirl, leading the children in joyful steps.

As the days turned to weeks, the four houses grew ever closer, their bonds forged in the crucible of shared experiences. They sparred together, their blades clashing in a dance of steel, each lord pushing the others to new heights of skill. Ecthelion's fluid movements mesmerized, Egalmoth's strength and precision awed, while Duilin's cunning tactics left their opponents reeling.

Through shared patrols and training sessions, Glorfindel found his gaze drawn more and more to Ecthelion. The Lord of the Fountain moved with an ethereal grace that caught the light like dewdrops on spider silk. His raven hair fell in waves down his back, and when he spoke, his voice carried the warmth of summer winds.

During their morning sparring matches, Glorfindel's heart quickened at each clash of their blades. Ecthelion's pale skin glistened with exertion, his keen eyes focused and bright. Their weapons danced together in perfect rhythm, neither willing to yield ground, yet each movement flowed like water over stones.

"Your footwork has improved," Ecthelion said one morning, lowering his blade. A rare smile graced his features, transforming his usually composed expression into something that made Glorfindel's breath catch.

"I had an excellent partner." Glorfindel wiped his brow, golden hair gleaming in the dawn light.

In the evenings, when Ecthelion played his flute by the fountain, Glorfindel would find excuses to linger nearby. The music spoke of distant shores and starlit waters, of dreams that sparkled like frost on winter branches. Sometimes their eyes would meet across the courtyard, and Glorfindel would feel a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the evening fires.

Even Egalmoth noticed the change in his friend. "You watch him like a hawk tracks its prey," he said during an archery session.

Glorfindel's arrow flew wide. "I admire his skill with the blade, nothing more."

"And his skill with the flute? And his voice? And the way his hair catches the moonlight?" Egalmoth's knowing laughter caused Glorfindel to flush to the tips of his ears.

But it was true - everything about Ecthelion drew Glorfindel's attention. The way he commanded his troops with quiet authority, how he showed endless patience teaching young warriors, even the subtle arch of his eyebrow when amused. Each new discovery only deepened Glorfindel's fascination with the Lord of the Fountain.

One evening, as they walked the perimeter together, Ecthelion paused to study the sunset. The fading light painted his features in soft gold, and Glorfindel's breath caught at the sight. When Ecthelion turned to make some observation about the watch rotation, he found Glorfindel staring.

"Is something amiss?" Ecthelion's head tilted slightly, causing a lock of dark hair to fall across his face.

"No," Glorfindel replied quickly, fighting an unfamiliar urge to brush that errant strand back. "I was just thinking how well our houses work together."

Ecthelion's smile, rare and brilliant, made Glorfindel's heart skip. "Indeed. I find myself grateful for the alliance, and the company it brings."

Their shoulders brushed as they continued their patrol, and Glorfindel felt the contact like a spark against his skin. He found himself creating more reasons for their paths to cross - additional training sessions, security reviews, shared meals. Each encounter revealed new facets of Ecthelion's character that drew Glorfindel deeper into fascination: his dry wit, his dedication to his people, the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled.

From his elevated position on the settlement's highest terrace, Turgon watched the four houses move in harmony below. The alliance had exceeded his expectations, transforming what began as a strategic necessity into a thriving community. Warriors from different houses sparred together in the training grounds, their distinctive colors blending as they moved. Children darted between market stalls wearing mixed emblems, while craftsmen shared techniques that had once been closely guarded secrets.

But it was the growing connection between his kinsman and new lords that drew his knowing smile. Glorfindel, usually so aware of his surroundings, seemed oblivious to how his eyes followed Ecthelion's every movement. The Lord of the Golden Flower would position himself where he could best observe Ecthelion's training sessions, ostensibly reviewing troop formations. His normally confident demeanor would shift subtly whenever the dark-haired lord approached, his usual easy grace becoming almost hesitant.

"My lord." Egalmoth appeared at Turgon's side, his blue mantle catching the morning light. "The defensive arrangements are proceeding well."

"Indeed." Turgon gestured to where Glorfindel stood watching Ecthelion demonstrate sword techniques to a group of young warriors. "And other arrangements seem to be developing naturally."
Egalmoth followed his gaze and chuckled. "Glorfindel believes himself quite subtle. I've never seen him so distracted during archery practice."

Below, Ecthelion adjusted a recruit's stance, his hands moving with precise grace. Glorfindel shifted his weight, fingers tightening on his sword hilt. The morning sun caught his golden hair, creating a halo effect that made him appear almost luminous - except his attention remained fixed solely on the Lord of the Fountain.

"The houses have aligned better than I hoped," Turgon said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Though some alignments were perhaps... unexpected."

The morning light cast long shadows across the training grounds as Ecthelion concluded his demonstration. His students dispersed, leaving him alone with his thoughts - and Glorfindel's lingering presence at the edge of the yard. The Lord of the Golden Flower approached, his footsteps quiet against the packed earth.

"Your teaching methods are quite effective." Glorfindel's voice carried warmth that matched the rising sun. "I noticed how you adapted the stance for each student's build."

"Different flowers require different care to bloom." Ecthelion sheathed his practice blade, dark hair falling forward as he bent to retrieve a dropped shield.

Glorfindel moved to help, their hands brushing as they both reached for the shield's rim. The brief contact sent a jolt through both lords, causing them to pause mid-motion. Their eyes met, held, then darted away.

From his vantage point near the archery range, Egalmoth exchanged knowing looks with Duilin. The Lord of the Swallow nocked an arrow, his keen eyes tracking the two figures in the yard.

"They dance around each other like moths circling flame," Duilin murmured, releasing his shot. The arrow struck true, splitting his previous shaft.

"And yet neither seems to notice the other's orbit." Egalmoth adjusted his curved sword at his hip. "Though everyone else can see it plain as daylight."

In the training yard, Ecthelion and Glorfindel had fallen into discussion about patrol rotations, standing closer than strictly necessary. Their voices carried on the morning breeze, mixing with the sounds of the awakening settlement. Warriors of all four houses moved about their daily tasks, the different colors of their livery creating a tapestry of unity and strength.

The sun climbed higher, casting golden light across Glorfindel's hair and highlighting the subtle flush that colored Ecthelion's pale cheeks as they continued their conversation, lost in their own world even as life bustled around them.

The first attack came at dawn, when shadows still clung to the northern ridges. Wolf-serpents slithered through the mist, their amber eyes gleaming with malevolent intelligence. But Duilin's scouts had spotted their approach long before they reached the settlement's borders.

"Sound the horn!" the Swallow's voice cut through the pre-dawn silence.

Arrows from Egalmoth's archers rained down from concealed positions along the ridgeline. The curved flight of his arrows caught the beasts from unexpected angles, finding gaps in their scaled armor.

The creatures attempted to circle west, seeking weakness in the defensive line. They found Ecthelion's warriors waiting, their spears forming an impenetrable wall. The Lord of the Fountain stood at the center, his blade flashing silver in the growing light.

"Hold the line!" Ecthelion's clear voice carried across the battlefield. "Drive them back!"

Glorfindel's forces emerged from hidden positions, cutting off the creatures' retreat. The Golden Flower's warriors moved with precision, their coordinated attacks leaving no room for the enemy to regroup.

Three more attempts came in the following days. Each time, the joint forces repelled them with increasing efficiency. The houses had learned to read each other's movements, anticipating their allies' tactics without need for verbal communication.

"They probe for weakness," Egalmoth observed during a council meeting, his crystal-studded mantle catching the lamplight. "Yet find none."

"Our combined strength proves greater than they anticipated." Ecthelion traced the attack patterns on the map before them. "The houses move as one."

The next assault came during a storm, when visibility dropped to mere feet. But Duilin's scouts had developed a system of bird calls that carried through the worst weather, alerting the defenders well in advance. The wolf-serpents found themselves caught between Glorfindel's cavalry and Ecthelion's infantry, their attack crumbling before it truly began.

After each failed attempt, the creatures retreated further north, leaving fewer of their numbers behind. The joint patrols of the four houses maintained constant vigilance, their coordinated efforts ensuring no enemy survived to report back to their master.

Word of the four houses' successful defense spread quickly through the eastern settlements. As attacks intensified along the outer circle, other noble houses watched with growing interest how Turgon's allied forces repelled threat after threat with minimal losses.

Lords and ladies from lesser houses began arriving at Turgon's gates daily, seeking audience. They brought gifts and pledges of loyalty, each hoping to secure protection under his growing influence. The prince received them in his great hall, where tapestries depicting the four allied houses' victories adorned the walls.

"My people suffer greatly from these attacks," Lord Galdor of the House of the Tree said, his green cloak dusty from travel. "We seek the strength found in unity."

Similar pleas came from the House of the Pillar and the House of the Tower of Snow. Their settlements in the outer circle had weathered repeated assaults, their isolated positions making them vulnerable to the enemy's probing attacks.

Fingon and Finrod also received petitioners, but none matched the stream of nobles seeking Turgon's protection. His successful integration of the Houses of the Fountain, Golden Flower, Heavenly Arch, and Swallow had created a model others wished to emulate.

"The eastern quarters burn while we debate," a representative from the House of the Harp declared during council. "Our scouts report increased activity along all approaches. We cannot stand alone."

Turgon considered each request carefully, consulting with his allied lords. Ecthelion and Glorfindel advised caution, noting that too rapid expansion could strain their defensive capabilities. Egalmoth suggested focusing on houses whose skills would complement their existing forces, while Duilin emphasized the importance of maintaining clear command structures.

"We must balance protection with prudence," Turgon said, studying the latest reports of eastern incursions. "Each new alliance changes the shape of our defense."

The attacks on the outer settlements continued to escalate. Smoke rose daily from the eastern quarters as wolf-serpents and other fell creatures tested defenses, seeking weak points. More refugees arrived with each assault, bringing tales of coordinated attacks that suggested increasing intelligence behind the enemy's strategies.

"The House of the Tree brings warriors skilled in both club and spear," Glorfindel traced the map where Galdor's forces currently held position. "Their strength would fortify our inner defenses."

Ecthelion nodded, his pale fingers drumming against the table's edge. "Galdor's people are among the bravest I've known. Their green-clad warriors could guard our most vital positions."

"And what of the Houses of the Pillar and Tower of Snow?" Egalmoth adjusted his curved sword, "Their Loremasters possess knowledge that could prove invaluable."

"Indeed." Turgon rose from his chair, moving to examine the settlement plans spread across the council table. "Their scholars could establish schools, train our young in the ancient arts. Knowledge of our enemy may prove as vital as steel."

Duilin stepped forward, his archer's eyes sharp. "The Lambengolmor among them have studied the creatures of Angband extensively. Their insights could help us better understand these wolf-serpents."

"Unite Galdor's strength with the wisdom of the Loremasters," Ecthelion mused, his voice carrying the melody of deep thought. "One to guard our walls, the others to fortify our minds."

"The children need teachers," Glorfindel added, golden hair catching the morning light streaming through the high windows. "And our warriors would benefit from the ancient battle-lore the scholars preserve."

Turgon studied the faces of his allied lords, seeing the wisdom in their counsel. The House of the Tree would provide the muscle needed to secure their growing settlement, while the learned folk of the Pillar and Tower of Snow would strengthen them through knowledge and understanding.