“What did Estel say to you, last night, Elrond, that caused you to hold your tongue?”

Elrond smiled as Glorfindel leaned forward, waiting. “He is still a child.” He burst out laughing, “And Estel only eight-eight himself!”

Glorfindel laughed too. “He is right. Legolas is still a child in many ways. And,” he emphasized the word, “he is the son of Thranduil.”

Doubling over in laughter, Elrond choked out, “So is Thranduil still a child, for that matter.” He paused, looked at his friend and mentor, and laughed again, “As am I to you, my Lord.”

“Enough of that,” Glorfindel sighed. “We will speak of my age no longer, nor the difference between ours. Have I not asked this before?”

Elrond walked to the escarpment and sat on one of the parapet’s stone benches that faced the White Tower. “Do you know they call this,” and he pointed towards the towering spike before them, “the Tower of Ecthelion?”

Why?” Glorfindel started, moved forward and stared at the building before him.

“Some of it has to do with Denethor’s father, the Steward Ecthelion, strengthening it, but I think it is more than that. Was not Ecthelion’s title 'of the Fountain?' And do we not have a fountain before us and a remnant of Nimloth itself? Have you not noticed that the nobles of Gondor use the Elven names – Ecthelion, Denethor, Finduilas?

“I noted,” Glorfindel said ruefully. “that Denethor took the names of men for his sons, Boromir at least.”

“Was not the House of Húrin friend and ally to Thingol?” Elrond countered. “Did not Ecthelion…” The Lord of Imladris stopped at the pain on Glorfindel’s face. “I would not be here today if not for Ecthelion… and for you,” he finished quietly.

Walking to the fountain, Glorfindel touched the water. “I have decided I hate fountains,” the Elven Balrog slayer said. “We stood side by side that day, Ecthelion and I, captains in Thingol’s army. The city was on fire. Orc, dragons, Balrogs – Morgoth threw every weapon he had against the city. I remember the buildings burning brightly from the breath of the Balrog; the fires mixed their flames with the torches that the people of Gondolin held as they stood, defenseless, on the walls, waiting for the feast of the Gates of Summer to begin. Instead, the gates of Angband opened.”

“It was an Elf who betrayed Gondolin, Elrond, not a man. Long have you held men in contempt, particularly Estel, once he left childhood behind. His time had not yet come, my friend.” Glorfindel walked back to the escarpment, put his hand on Elrond’s shoulder, and smiled. “Arathorn’s son, your son, has come into his own, has he not. Fulfilled every foretelling of yours. Will you let him have Arwen’s hand?”

“Did you lead this conversation to this path?” Elrond asked testily.

“You know the loss of one you held dear, your own love and the mother of your sons. Would you have Estel and Undómiel suffer the same loss?

“It is different! He is a man.”

“As was your father’s father,” Glorfindel laughed again. “Is the Evenstar of greater blood than Idril, Turgon’s own daughter, and, I might add, granddaughter of Fingolfin himself!” He spoke more gently. “I do not have to remind you of your lineage.”

“You do not!”

“Was Ecthelion’s death in vain, then? Did he save Eärendil for nothing?” Glorfindel’s voice held as much anger as Elrond’s just had. Elrond stood and left his side. Glorfindel did not follow. Tears stung his eyes as he thought of his friend and warrior brother lying dead in the fountain, his precious blood mixing with the fountain’s clear waters.

Elrond walked back to him and sat. “‘Do Elves always die when they kill Balrogs?’ I remember asking my father that question. He told me of Adanedhel’s flight from Gondolin with his mother and father. You yourself died, fighting the Maia that day.”

Glorfindel looked up. “Forgive my words regarding Arwen. Your loss will be greater than any I will ever endure. Those I have lost, I will see again, either in the Halls of Mandos, or in Valinor, once they are released. No such grace will be given to you. Arwen will be lost to you for all eternity. Forgive me.”

“She will be with my Adanedhel. He will watch over her.”

“She will be with Estel,” Glorfindel replied. “He will watch over her. I cannot see Estel out living her.”

Elrond caught his breath. “I was cruel to her, hoping to sway her through grief, telling her of his expected death, and the sorrow she would feel until her own mortal body gave way to sorrow and death.”

Glorfindel knew the tongue of Elrond – he could use it to sway most to his will. That Arwen did not sway was testament to her own will. “She is as headstrong as her father. Will you speak to her?”

Heaving a deep sigh, Elrond nodded.

Glorfindel bowed and took his leave. His heart had grown heavy at the thought of the Fall of Gondolin. He went to Finduilas’ garden – shown to him three days ago by the Steward Faramir - sat and wept.