Fields of gold

Echtelion of the fountain

Picture by Anna lee, as seen here https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Ecthelion_of_the_Fountain

Laurëfindele's bombshell that Arda was flat sent Eleanor's brain in a flurry of questionings that she fired at him during the next few days. When words failed at conveying his meanings, her alien friend started to doodle more maps, and artful landscapes.

The young woman remarked that, when sketching, Laurë seemed in less pain than usual. Hence the art supplies that landed in his lap on Wednesday. His whole countenance brightened at the present, some inner joy shining in his eyes like those of a boy. Eleanor accepted his gratitude with a beaming smile; that expression upon his youthful face caused her heart to clench disturbingly in her chest.

His shoulder did not need bandages anymore, and Myriam, in one of her visits, voiced her puzzlement at the fast paced healing. Eleanor had shrugged, feeling guilty for lying to the nurse, but she couldn't possibly sell Laurëfindelë's origins. The fewer people knew, the less danger he would be in. And given the state he'd arrived in hospital, Eleanor did not want to take any chances. Already, the very notion that he had died, if only for a few minutes, unsettled her greatly.

Fortunately, Laurë had charmed Myriam with a few English sentences, and instead of gushing on his closing wounds, the nurse had been derailed by the brilliance of his mind – or his charm. A fast learner, for sure.

The only thing he did not seem inclined to learn was how to tend to the fire when she was absent. Even though afternoons were mild enough, the stone cottage remained frisky during the day, and especially when the sun dipped. Was Laurëfindelë impervious to the cold ? Perhaps his alienish constitution kept him warm ?

Mulling on those thoughts, Eleanor whipped them an easy meal of pasta, grated Parmesan and rocket salad to which she added a few pine kernels. Once the food completed, Laurë joined her at the kitchen counter, his gait much improved compared to the first few days he'd spent in her cottage. Pain killers were slowly discarded, and his left arm regained mobility by the day. Before they dug in the dish, he gestured to the pile of drawings completed on the coffee table.

"I show you my friends."

Eleanor froze, a fork filled with spaghettis hanging in the air.

"From Arda ?" she asked.

"Là," he responded. (yes)

The spark of sadness passed so fast in his blue eyes that she almost missed it. Almost. How could he feel, stranded in a strange world away from both family and friends ? His whole life had been uprooted. And even though knowing he might return, someday, sent a pang of wariness in her chest, Eleanor nodded her assent. Sharing his past could only soothe the wounds after all.

From their past discussions, she had gathered a war had broken up between one named Melko, and his people. Whomever that man was remained unclear; he felt like the Hitler of Arda. Laurë had babbled something about Vala that she could not fathom. All that she knew was that his city – Gondolin - was attacked, and this was where he was wounded, trying to defend those he loved.

The physiotherapist had been right – Laurëfindelë had been a soldier. Who would have known, with his gentle manners and welcoming personality ? He was nowhere remotely vulgar, neither too blunt. But it might explain why, even with a house that bore his name and sigil, he did not shy away from mundane tasks such as cleaning and cooking.

To think he was ready to share more of his story through sketches filled her heart with gratitude.

"I would love to," she responded.

His answering smile was discreet, but genuine. There was little conversation to be had around dinner, as Laurëfindelë floated in his own world, his gaze far, far away. Dare she say, in another galaxy ? A skilled painter would have made a masterpiece of him this evening. With his hair half tied back, oceanic eyes lost in thought, his tall frame and blond waves dancing around broad shoulders, Laurëfindelë was a work of art. The fact that this living model sat at her kitchen counter felt surreal; he almost seemed to glow, haloed in the setting sun that penetrated through the large French doors.

They cleared the dishes in tandem, exchanging a few words and learning new ones as was their routine. Water was set down to boil for an herbal tea. Then, once the kitchen was tended to, Laurëfindelë's fingers clasped her hand and gently tugged.

Eleanor's breath caught in her throat; It was an uncharacteristic move, for him, to touch her skin. He released her hand at once, whether because he felt her surprise, or realised how intimate the gesture was. So when she followed him to the sofa, Eleanor felt her skin weep for the loss.

He sat there, regal, yet unassuming, with three sketches in tow. Sitting down, the young woman awaited for him to present his pieces. What landed in her hand took her breath away. Tall, elegant building gleamed in the sunlight, surrounded by a ring of mountains in the distance. This sketch showed an elaborate fountain throning in the middle of a square, so artfully depicted that she could almost hear it gurgling. An elf sat there, playing the flute, his features equally elegant.

"Gondolin ?", she asked.

"Là. Ondolindë, in Quenya."

The young woman nodded; by now, she had gathered his people spoke two languages, one being derived from the other. Laurëfindelë preferred Quenya, but would sometimes talk of things in Sindarin. His city was one of those, for a reason she had yet to discover; perhaps its official name ?

Laurë's long finger pointed to the man, and she felt his voice waver when he presented the character he'd depicted so skilfully.

"Echtelion. House of the Fountain."

She felt his emotion when his finger gently caressed the paper.

"Echtelion Laurëfindelë-va meldo ?", she asked, a lump forming in her throat at the melancholy painted over his features. (Echtelion is your friend ?)

"Yes," he murmured."Meldo mara min." (The very best.)

His wistful tone suddenly triggered a spark of understanding; she had so rarely seen Laurëfindelë so depressed that she wondered whether Echtelion was a good friend, or his significant other. If so, her alien friend probably missed him terribly. Perhaps, too, that he was sick with worry.

"This man, he means a lot to you."

Laurëfindele nodded, but corrected her nonetheless.

"No man. Ellon."

Ellon ? What the hell is that ? A social status ? A sexual one ?

Puzzled, Eleanor watched the long black hair of Echtelion, and the beauty of his features, eyes closed, when he played the flute in the King's square. He seemed like a good man, one who could appreciate Laurëfindelë refined manners and gentle smile. She could almost see them, come what may, composing music or debating the King's decisions until the sun retreated behind the white peaks.

"What happened to him?" she asked, fearful to hear something evil might have befallen such an important character in his life.

Laurëfindelë trembling hand retreated, and he blinked moist away from his eyes. For a moment, he was silent. Eleanor gave him some privacy, contemplating the svelte spikes of white stone reaching for the sky. Every single line was elegant, almost ethereal. What kind of civilisation could possibly build such artful places ?

"Firië."

Eleanor frowned; this was a word she was unfamiliar with. But Laurëfindelë wasn't, for he trapped her in his gaze and translated for her sake.

"Dead."

There is very little written and illustrated about Echtelion's last battle. To think that elf killed the Balrog, the greatest Balrog to ever walk middle earth ! The same one that killed Feänor himself ! What a badass warrior.