Disclaimer: Not mine, all Tolkien's, no suuuuuuue!

Warnings: AU, slight OOC, slash, violence, torture, death, mind control, eventual lemon/lime, threesome, foursome, SERIOUS angst, dark, sap, some incest if you will...

Rating: Ranging from PG-13-NC-17

Pairings: Ecthelion/Glorfindel, Ecthelion/Sauron, Ecthelion/Erestor, Ecthelion/Glorfindel/Erestor, hinted Ecthelion/Turgon/Erestor/Glorfindel, Glorfindel/Turgon, Elrond/Celebrían

Summary: Ecthelion's fate changes the night he dies in Gondolin. Will his love for Glorfindel and Erestor change his fate once more...before it is too late?

A/N: Written for the NaNoWriMo contest (even though I had something *else* in mind grrrr *glares at muses*). It struck me one day during massage and begged to be written. It starts at the fall of Gondolin.

A/N2: A very special thank you to Nellas for the cover picture!! You have been awesome dearest!!

Enjoy and please review!

'thoughts'

{Fall of Gondolin, Hrívë 510 First Age}

Ash and smoke blanketed the air, screening the dark shapes that continued to pour into the once secret city of Gondolin. Screams of fear mingled with the roars of challenge and the wails of the mourning and dying as the clash of swords, axes, and spears rang throughout the besieged city. Baleful shadows scrambled through the debris that was a mixing of bodies and stone chunks broken from walls and buildings. Broken spear shafts and arrows littered the roadways as lithe elegant bodies stumbled along them in an effort to escape before a crooked blade or claws took their lives.

Fire seemed to add to the chaos, shadows and dancing light making it difficult to see where friend or foe may be hiding through the confusion and panic. The clattering of armor and boots on the pavement brought some hope to those trying to escape the inferno and massacre, but it was a dim hope as the numbers became clear in the carnage.

"To me, my men! To me!"

Turgon's voice suddenly boomed out, summoning his valiant soldiers from the Eleven Houses of Gondolin. He stood tall and regal in the once sparkling Courtyard of the King, tunic torn with several wounds, face ash and blood smeared, and hair mussed from close combat. But his eyes flashed with determination through his grief and despair and his body radiated his stubbornness and royal standing as High King of the Noldor, giving strength to his waning men as they took heart in his shining stature in the midst of all the mayhem.

Glorfindel led his men closer to his friend and King, rallying them with his words. "Fight, my soldiers! Do not let these Orcs know the meaning of mercy! Rally to the King!" he cried, encouraging them onwards as they fought desperately against the rising tide of Orcs. Suddenly, a screeching roar resounded around them as three Balrogs appeared, one of them the Lord Balrog himself...Gothmog. Their blackened bodies smoldered with the fires of their evil master Morgoth, molten as the core of Arda and as deadly as a blazing inferno. Their blades were the blackest of metals, wreathed in flames that would burn any they touched. Whips cracked and sent sparks flying as the Balrogs attacked almost gleefully, their agonizing bellows deafening and terrifying any and all who heard them.

"My King, run!" Ecthelion cried as he raced to his friend's side, seeing his beloved Golden Flower fighting nearby, but not near enough as the three monstrosities closed in on the small troop that surrounded the High King. He snarled in furious rage and renewed energy as he attacked with his men from the House of the Fountain on the encircling vermin that had invaded their city, slicing, cutting, and throwing aside any that dared stand in his way to his King's side. He took up stance alongside Turgon just as the Balrogs stormed in, their fiery whips and blazing swords cutting through their comrades with nary a sign of difficulty. He glimpsed Tuor fighting nearby before his own battle was sought once more by their enemies.

The battle continued to rage and falter as they fought desperately while Fire Drakes flew close and bathed the streets with flame, joining with the Balrogs’ butchery of the Elven race of Gondolin. Ecthelion knew his time would come soon as a gore covered axe met and smashed his arm, rendering it useless before his attacker was decapitated by his sword. But he did not stop in his battle, fighting steadily while the others tried to escape. He met with Glorfindel and smiled almost sadly at his lover, feeling warmth and love as his heartfelt though silent declaration was returned in the form of a special smile from the Lord of the Golden Flower before their interlude of devotion was interrupted by more attackers. He watched Glorfindel rush to their King’s side, yet did not follow as something caught his eye in the movements of his lover and their King.

The tenderness and devotion he saw there was something he had only seen for himself in the golden haired Lord, but it was now directed at the High King. He saw the strengthening smile that was exchanged between the two before a brief brush of lips precluded their parting to battle. Shaken at this sudden and inexplicable revelation, Ecthelion tried to understand just what this betrayal was to him in the hour of their destruction. His heart grew heavy and forlorn in loss, desolate at the infidelity that was only now shown to him. He knew not how long such faithlessness had been played out between the two, but it no longer mattered. He felt his heart grow cold with the darkness of loneliness and hurt before the blaze of his city’s falling registered with him. Hearing the call for retreat, he fought off the Orcs that attacked him with a viciousness born of betrayal and fury.

However, his gaze caught upon Tuor’s stumble and fall as the Balrog Gothmog reared up above him, calling his victory as he raised his blazing whip up for the final blow. Mustering his last dregs of strength and inherent rage, Ecthelion rushed over to Tuor’s aid, standing above him as he blocked the mighty blow with his bloodstained blade. His eyes sparkled with tears that trailed down his soot covered face in sticky trails as he faced the sneering Balrog. Leaping to the attack, he let out a wail of agony and anguish that echoed through the din of the bloodbath, startling many as he slashed at the Balrog in a glorious fight of light against shadow.

The clang of a sword being hit away rang out in the courtyard, almost silencing the battle as all who could watched in rising horror as Ecthelion of the Fountain was disarmed. Facing the Balrog, never did the Elf

Lord look so magnificent as when he stood, his hair blowing around him in sweeping ebony silk, his face hard with his grief and courage, while his eyes blazed with his defiance against fate as the Balrog Lord laughed almost cruelly while it rose up again to deliver the final blow to the noble Elf. But it was not to be as, with a final look over at his stunned lover, Ecthelion turned and rushed forward, his yell mingling with the Balrog’s roar of challenge and disbelief. He lowered his head and drove the spike that crowned his helmet up into the monster’s chest, piercing the molten chest to the core in a final deathblow.

A shriek of agony bellowed throughout the courtyard, drowning out the sobs of shock from the watching Elves as Ecthelion wrapped his legs around the Balrog’s thighs and pushed up. Ecthelion’s pale yet beauteous face was swiftly darkened as the heat from his falling enemy burned him, but his hold did not loosen as the mortally wounded Balrog stumbled back towards the murky fountain that stood in the center of the Courtyard of the King. With a scream of incredulity and pain, the Lord of the Balrogs plunged into the suddenly sparkling fountain as Ithil blessed its cool waters with its silver beams through the suffocating smoke and ash.

The sound of sizzling water mingled with the death cry of the Balrog as it fell in the deep pool, taking the dying Lord of the Fountain with it. Ecthelion felt the soft coolness engulf him, bringing a balm to his burning skin. And, as his eyes closed for the final time, he heard Glorfindel’s anguish filled voice float out over the din of combat, calling his name in immense grief as he disappeared into the soothing waters. But his heart was cold as his mind’s eye showed him once more the betraying kiss he had witnessed between his beloved and his High King. With his final living thoughts, he made a vow. ‘To the end of all things, I will have my vengeance for such a betrayal. Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower...all whom you care for and love will be lost to you...this I swear.’ With that, his faer left his body as it sank to the bottom of the fountain with his enemy and descended into the everlasting chill of Mandos’ Halls.

The silence surrounded him, encircling him as surely as the depthless cold that was drawing him into his new sanctuary. Ecthelion knew he was dead, but he could not give himself any reason to care. His heart had died as much as his body and he had no reason to truly heed his continuance in survival, even in Mandos’ Halls.  He found himself floating in a dim room and looked around in disinterest, allowing his senses to flow in his apathy. He noted a shifting in the shadows that surrounded him and focused a bit more on them, his face passive and emotionless, while his eyes were no longer filled with life and love, but instead with betrayal and numbness.

A figure slowly parted from the shadows and coalesced before the fallen Lord. Robes of deepest blue clothed the tall form, though they seemed to shift between blue and black as he moved. Hair as dark as the night sky flowed about the person, shimmering here and there as though with starlight as it brushed along the elegant form, defying the simple silver coronet that held the flowing silk in check, its dark sapphire center gleaming in a faint light that had no source. Ecthelion felt his gaze drawn up and held by the penetrating stare that was leveled on his person, eyes of almost fathomless black holding him in contemplation from within the alabaster chiseled face. A very small frown came to the thin lips that were centered in the poised face, earning a mirroring crease of the pale lips on Ecthelion’s face as they continued in their mutually silent contemplation of the other.

Sighing inwardly, Ecthelion relaxed slightly, still unable to truly care on what his fate was or who he was facing. “You are Námo...come here to lead me to your Halls?” he asked softly, dully as he stood stiffly before the Vala of death, his gaze lowering in an almost mocking bow of respect.

“Ecthelion of the Fountain...your heart had been injured just before you died and came to my realm in a most courageous act. Why do you make such a vow when forgiveness can be sought here in my Halls?” Námo asked instead, his voice both rumbling and piercing the darkness that enshrouded them as his gaze of infinity took in the nigh broken faer before him.

A thrill of almost fear swept through Ecthelion as he looked up at Námo once more.  But his face hardened once more in blank observation. “As you have told my people from the day of our creation and presentation into your fold, our fates are our own. Only Eru knows all and we are to follow our paths through it all. I have been betrayed by my heart’s keeper and mate for too blind was I to see that my love was not enough. But I will find my vengeance for the abuse of my trust, for that is what we are allowed through our feelings,” he answered coldly, the chill of his voice almost matching the wintry conditions that embraced his faer.

His emotionless state was cracked slightly as he witnessed the shade of sadness that lilted through Námo’s gaze. “So be it. I have given my warning and now your fate has been chosen. For better or for worse, you will walk the path of shadow until the light that you seek frees you from your sorrows. I only hope that you will realize it in time before you are lost for all time,” Námo decreed softly before offering a slender pale hand. “Come then to my Halls, Ecthelion of fallen Gondolin. You may rest until your time comes once more,” he offered gently.

Looking up at the Vala, Ecthelion wondered on the decree briefly before reaching a transparent hand up and resting it within the Lord of Death’s hand. He felt calm then as his icy shell melted some and he felt the grief that had been dwelling within him come out bit by bit. He was led through the shadows and down a darkened hall, looking around vaguely as they went along towards a set of rooms. He observed the vaulted ceiling that seemed to have no peak, even there in the hallways, while towering arches and pillars seemed to support the cresting ceiling. They came to a set of dark wooden doors that were framed by marble that held a shine of silver, reminding him of his own home in Gondolin and bringing out a pang of sorrow at the reminder of all he had lost besides his life. The doors were opened slowly and Námo stepped inside, waving his hand to encompass the rooms. "Welcome to your home in my Halls," he stated softly, a little smile on his lips once more as he turned to the intrigued faer.

Ecthelion peered in, curious on his new accommodations and saw the room was comfortably furnished with a plush four poster bed and a set of chairs that sat near a roaring fire within a stone fireplace, while a desk with writing utensils stood near what appeared to be a window seat that mirrored the one that had been in his own study, save that it was dark outside of those glass panes. His heart soared as he saw on the desk the silver flute that he had played often in his joyful times in Gondolin, more often than not accompanied by Glorfindel. But even the brief twinge of hurt that brushed through him at the thought of his lost lover did not stop him from going over and taking it up.

With an almost childlike smile, he brought the familiar instrument to his lips and began to play, losing himself into the lilting melody that poured forth from his faer and causing him to completely forget the presence of the Vala. He poured all of his love, loss, and heartache in that simple song, allowing it to grow and pour out from him in an ever increasing cadence that floated throughout the Halls. Námo watched him with a slight crooking of his lips as he listened to the at once cheerful and melancholic melody that filled the Halls. He only hoped that the music would be a sign of Ecthelion’s healing before his fate took the dangerous path that was now placed before him.

Without a word, Námo left Ecthelion to see to the other faer that were now entering his Halls, most especially Turgon and Glorfindel. He had read Ecthelion’s wishes and knew that, until they were brought together again, the Golden Flower and the Fountain could never see each other in the Halls. It was Námo’s duty now to be sure that those desires were fulfilled until such time as they were no longer valid.

Unfortunately, he knew that they would indeed be the breaking point in the fates drawn out, but he could do nothing more for it. The threads were cut, the paths placed, and the journeys started. Until then, darkness would rule them. As he went along his shadowed Halls, the Vala considered what Ecthelion's fate would be from hence on. Filled with pain and regret, he would give in to an evil that could lead him to damnation, for he would be reborn soon. But love still lingered in the melody that Ecthelion's course and would be the key...if the Lord of the Fountain took it to open the gates of his heart. And, even though he already knew the outcome, Námo also understood that a single misstep would lead to the opposite result.

An almost audible sigh left the Lord of the Dead's lips as he came finally to the room where two more faer awaited him. Both were looking around in the usual confusion that death brought the souls as well as sorrow from the losses and destruction of their home and people. He went in silently, nodding slightly in greeting as they turned to him in surprise before bowing lowly to him in obeisance. “Turukáno of Gondolin, High King of the Noldor and Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower...you come to my realm after a great calamity,” he greeted them as he laced his slender pale fingers together.

“Gondolin...” Turgon trailed off as he looked up, his face pinched with his anguish as he gazed up at the Vala.

“Gone. You fought bravely, but Melkor’s powers were too great even for your noble people, Turukáno. For now, let your hearts be eased in my Halls. Forgiveness and humility shall come to you in time,” Námo replied gently, his fathomless eyes kind with his welcome.

“Ecthelion...where is Ecthelion?” Glorfindel suddenly demanded as he stood, his face anxious and filled with fear while his eyes were wide in his pale face. He moved forward and knelt again, this time at Námo’s feet as he pleaded with the Vala of Death.

Eyes saddening slightly, Námo gazed down at the worried Elf Lord. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before turning away slightly and pacing a bit. The two Elves watched him apprehensively, fearing suddenly that the worst had happened to their friend. “You were careless at the end, Glorfindel of Gondolin,” he finally stated before turning to them, taking in the apparent shock that changed into horror as they realized what he meant. “He saw your affection before he left. He knows...of your betrayal.”

“It was not betrayal!” Glorfindel cried as he stood once more, his faer fairly glowing with his anger and dismay as he faced the Vala. His face crumpled in anguish as he held his hands out, pleading. “We were going to tell him and connect us all...you know this...you must know this! You know all that Eru knows!” he exclaimed as his soul shivered with the revelation of what he had seen on his lover’s face before Ecthelion had sacrificed himself to save Tuor.

Tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement, Námo watched the agitated faer. “And when would you have told him, Glorfindel of Gondolin? Or you, Turukáno? When would you have gone to your best friend and comrade and told him that you and his lover were intimate for three hundred years while they were together?” he asked quietly, his voice neither judgmental or harsh in reprimand, merely stating the truth. He turned and faced them again, straightening to his formidable stature as he gazed at them, his face now impassive. “Your paths are set...and they are no longer on the same direction as Ecthelion’s.”

“Nay! This can not happen! Ecthelion! Ecthelion hear my voice!” Glorfindel called frantically as he ran towards the door. But he stopped as he came to the entrance and looked out into the darkness that continued on before him, swallowing up anything that may have led him to his beloved. He suddenly sobbed harshly as he leaned against the doorway and rested his head on his arm. He looked up as he heard a soft flute playing in the darkness, recognizing his lover’s music as it enfolded him. However, before he could call out for Ecthelion again, the music became melancholy, tearing at his heart as he saw an image in his mind of Turgon and himself kissing softly during battle and knew that his chance to ever ask for forgiveness and a chance to explain was gone from him.

Turning back into the room before sliding down to the ground, the golden haired Lord stared at the other side of the doorway blankly, tears slowly trailing down his pale cheeks. “Ecthelion...forgive me...” he whispered in a choked voice. He closed his eyes tightly as his mouth trembled with his fight to control his desolation.

Turgon watched his friend as the music continued to twine around them, feeling his own heart break with guilt and anguish. He bowed his head as his fists clenched tightly within his lap, trembling with the force of his misery. “We...were going to tell him this night. It was all supposed to be just the three of us forever on, for I loved them both so dearly,” he murmured numbly, his own face wet with his tears as he stared at his hands. He did not feel the sympathetic gaze that was trained on him as he continued in his remorse. “They were my two closest friends after I lost Elenwë...all I had when I set out to create Gondolin. My love for them knew no bounds and then...” he stopped, his voice shaking with his emotions.

“And then, a thousand years ago on a night when Ecthelion was stationed on the Gate, you admitted your love to Glorfindel in a drunken confession. Then, afterwards, you planned to include Ecthelion, but you stalled, fearful that you would lose Ecthelion when you admitted to your liaison. Days grew to months...months grew to years...years grew to centuries. And he never knew, content with his love for Glorfindel and never suspecting that there was a deeper relationship going on between the two of you,” Námo finished for Turgon as he watched them both. “And never did you two think that perhaps, if you would have spoken immediately with him, then your paths would now be as intertwined in death as well as life.”

A shudder went through the faer of the former High King as his head hung even lower. He could never find it within himself to ever absolve his actions to both his best friends and his people for the amount of betrayals he had perpetuated that night. He curled into himself, grieving for all he had done to cause such anguish through his foolish pride. ‘I am as arrogant as my cousins...my hands are as stained with blood as theirs,’ he realized in despair.

“Nay, son of Fingolfin. Your hands are not as stained as the sons of Fëanor. You did not kill your kin, only did not listen through your pride. All happens through the will of Eru,” Námo declared softly as he bowed his head again, having heard all of Turgon's silent realizations. He looked up and smiled slightly as the two Elves gazed at him dully in their pain. “Rise, Children of Ilúvatar. Your pain will ease in time and, until the time that you will find your redemption, you shall reside here in peace.”

“I will know no peace....until I can find my redemption in Ecthelion’s arms,” Glorfindel whispered brokenly as he stared at his feet listlessly.

Nodding silently, Námo accepted the declaration, knowing that it might indeed be the one thing that would save Ecthelion from his fate. Holding his hand out, he helped Turgon to stand and then went over to Glorfindel. He then aided Glorfindel to his feet and led them each to their new homes, which were conveniently near each other.  He watched them go into their rooms and lay down forlornly on their beds to rest for now. He bid Irmo his brother to give them peaceful dreams in the hopes that it would ease their sorrow, but knew that it might not do much.

Their paths were separate for now, for Turgon’s fate would be made in Aman while Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s fates would first reside in Arda. Perhaps they would be reunited, but he knew there was another path that would twine with theirs...if things worked right. But until they knew of the right way, they would remain separate.

For now, they would rest and heal until their rebirths and, hopefully, they would be able to remember their light through the shadows.

TBC