Author's Notes:

Thank you for Mysterious Jedi for the technical beta-reading, and WendWriter for the thorough beating!

This chapter has been tempered into a more real situation thanks to WendWriter's helpful criticisms. It will create a rippling effect throughout the story… once we come to revising it, of course. For now, enjoy!

A young ellon whistled absently as he dusted the shelves and the books housed in them. The library – his House's – was big, easily half the size of the royal library of the hidden city in which he dwelt, but he managed to dust its 'occupants' in only a week. The only shelves left were those he was facing now.

Not that he minded however long it took. He found this job a worthy pastime, as it soothed his spirit. He had always been interested in books and scrolls and the knowledge housed in them, and, to him, taking care of them meant preserving the knowledge inside from any damage, or even from being forgotten. At a hundred years of age, maybe it was immature of him to think this way, but however strange it seemed to other people – including his parents, he persisted in it.

"Erestor? Erestor?"

The whistling ceased. The ellon tilted his head to one side.

"I am here, Ada! Do you need something?" he called back as he left the shelves and its duster behind, slipping through the narrow lanes to the doors of the library. The Lord of the Fountain seldom called for him thus. Today Ecthelion should have been at Lord Turgon's court with the other lords in his capacity as a royal advisor, presiding over what he often dubbed "petty cases," or in the northern tower, taking reports from his men, who kept vigil to protect the realm from trespassers.

"Yes, Ada?" Erestor emerged from the library with an expectant expression on his face. The look crumbled, though, when he beheld the distress in Ecthelion's countenance. His father was rarely upset.

`This can't be good at all,` he mused as he stared dumbly at the older ellon. His stomach lurched.

"Ada?"

"Our lord expects you, son. In fact, he wants both of us there. Let us go."

There was no explanation. Erestor, pathetically bewildered, was ushered away from the library, past the halls, and out of the front door to the scene of the 'fountainous' garden.

Glorfindel was there, fidgeting upon his impatient stallion, his expression matching that of his closest friend Ecthelion. On either side of him were two more horses, saddled but riderless. "We are going to ride to the palace's courtyard; that is the fastest way," the golden-haired lord informed them. "Turukáno needs us as soon as possible. I hope our speed can ease his heart a bit…"

"What happened?" Erestor demanded, grumbling under his breath when Ecthelion nudged him towards the nearest horse.

"Nolofinwë is dead," Glorfindel said bluntly, using the Quenya name of said person as was his custom.

Erestor nearly slipped back to the ground from the saddle in surprise.

A hollow feeling grew inside his chest as the news took root in his mind. One more high king had died in vain for the sake of three elusive jewels. He did not mourn Fëanor's death, as he held the arrogant madman responsible for all of this mess, but now he felt that he had lost a true king to the dark forces of Morgoth. His king.

Upon arriving at the appointed place, the youth's countenance was as somber and depressed as those of the two adults flanking him.

He was not worried about having an audience with Lord Turgon in the palace; the Lord's only child, Idril, was like an older sister to the lonely youth. He had often visited the palace and even supped with father and daughter sometimes. What worried him now was the missive roll gripped in the Lord's shaking hand.

Lord Turgon and Idril appeared to have just finished arguing, and Idril's eyes were red and swollen from much crying. The Lord was standing before the dais leading to his throne when the small company was permitted entry; he only acknowledged them with a slight dip of his head. But Idril rushed forward and flung herself into Glorfindel's ready arms, sobs racking her body.

"Come here, Erestor," Turgon said quietly between his daughter's sniffles. Erestor, reluctantly, tore his gaze away from Idril and approached the Lord with no small amount of trepidation.

"My lord," the youth acknowledged him in the same quiet voice, forcing himself to be as composed as possible before the grieving ruler of his city. He bowed stiffly, given the uncertainty of the situation, and also the heaviness in his heart which foreboded a great burden soon to be placed upon his shoulders.

"I have spoken with my advisers, my family, and yours regarding this," Turgon continued slowly after a span of silence. He looked over Erestor's shoulder for a moment and nodded, then addressed the bewildered youth before him again, "They have agreed. There are only a few people in this city who are able to compete with you in the matters of stealth and persistence. Moreover, you have already demonstrated on many occasions how well you can defend yourself in other missions for this realm."

At this point, Erestor's exasperation was boiling within him, dulling the edges of his sorrow for the death of the High King. Why would Lord Turgon not just get to the point, like Glorfindel did earlier? Not knowing what doom the King wished to lay upon him weighed more heavily upon him than the thought of the dangers he was certain to be asked to face. `Don't keep me waiting!` he demanded in thought.

Turgon could sense his agitation, it seemed. He sighed and said, "I charge you with delivering this missive to my older brother, Fingon, with all haste. Guard this roll with all your might, but burn or spoil it, rather than allow it to fall into the hands of the Enemy."

A dull relief washed over Erestor, now that he knew what the matter was. However, he then found himself worrying over whether or not he could carry out the task, despite Lord Turgon's trust in his abilities.

Regardless, he dipped his head respectfully to the Lord of Gondolin and said, "As you wish, my lord… When shall I depart?"

"Now."

Erestor winced, his eyes wide. `So soon?`

"A pack full of rations and other provisions has been prepared for you. My daughter insisted on that, although I had told her beforehand that you probably would not need such heavy load."

The surprised look in Erestor's face melted away, leaving only blankness. Why would he not need the rations and other provisions?

"Come. I have promised my daughter to escort her to see her grandfather's cairn. You shall accompany us on your way outside the city together with your parents and Glorfindel."

Further bemused by the invitation, the youth bowed and, upon Turgon's nod of dismissal, walked out of the throne room.

He waited on the front courtyard on his horse, which had been brought by a stable hand from the stables by the King's Tower, only hopping down to the ground when Turgon emerged from said tower. Idril followed him, clutching the aforementioned pack in her arms, her face as grim as Erestor's.

Turgon said nothing, only motioning to Erestor to remount his steed. The Lord himself mounted his, which another stable hand had brought for him. His movement was mirrored by Idril, Ecthelion and Glorfindel nearby.

No one said a word as they rode away from the centre of the city, and the tense silence lingered until they had reached a path that led to the Encircling Mountains. There Finera, Erestor's mother, met them.

To Erestor's further confusion, they dismounted there, and Turgon entrusted the horses' temporary care to the guards, who was the men under Ecthelion. They trekked up the narrow, rocky path, instead of letting him go on his way through the gated tunnel – the only way out from the hidden city. Finera, mimicking the others, did not talk. She walked beside Erestor, a hand in her son's, imparting strength to him in silence.

They halted before a newly-built cairn around mid-day. "Here lies my father," said Turgon quietly, breaking the silence. "May he find pardon and peace in the care of Lord Námo at the Halls of Mandos."

Overwhelmed, Erestor put his hand on his heart and bowed his head. The enormity of what was being asked of him finally sank in. The letter to the brother of his liege lord most likely contained the details of how this mound of rocks came to be. Until now, he had not realized in full how great an honour it was, and how terrible a burden it was to bear.

Finera was weeping openly. Idril was crying anew.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion stood still some paces from the women, faces empty. But Turgon joined Erestor, with his head bowed.

"My lord," Erestor murmured, and turned away from the cairn. His eyes met Turgon's, and for the first time since the audience in the King's Tower, they were clear and sharp, full of understanding and grim determination.

"Would you deliver this grievous news to Fingon yourself?" Turgon asked hesitantly. Erestor chuckled wrily to himself to the irony of a lord being uncertain of his own subject.

"I imparted the news also in my missive, but I felt that it would not be enough…"

"Yes, my lord. I… At least I shall try," Erestor cut him off, while smiling in sheepish apology. "Your wish is my command, my lord. However, I cannot really trust myself in this. Still, I shall try my best; it is the only one you deserve." He bowed his head to Turgon, who then surprised him by embracing him as a father would a son.

"Your parents are fortunate indeed to have you as their child, Erestor." the prince of the Noldor smiled a bit ruefully. He now reverted to be the father of his friend, as was his wont when in close companies, since the formalities had been dispensed. Acknowledging the change, Erestor gave him a half-grin and Returned his embrace. Idril had been waiting by then, hovering nearby, and when she saw the chance, she captured him in a large, albeit shaky, hug.

Erestor stowed the missive in a cylindrical container attached to a lariat beneath his tunic, then shouldered the pack handed by Idril. Finera his mother came over afterwards to bid him farewell and hand him his travelling cloak, while Ecthelion, who seemed suddenly fragile, came in tandem with Glorfindel. The men gave him a bear hug each, their eyes moist with unshed tears.

Idril held him close again afterwards. "Safe journey, my brother and friend, and come home. Do not deprive me of my only young companion in this white city, would you?" she whispered softly into his ear, then winked in a half-hearted manner.

"Take this also to my brother, Erestor," Turgon said softly as he belted a sword he had been carrying to the younger Elf's waist. Erestor, realising – after a moment – whose blade it had been, gasped with horror and stammered, face red with humility. Yet the Lord of Gondolin cut him off. "Should you need to defend yourself somewhere on the way (although I doubt you will face any danger save falling), do not hesitate to use it; it is not a decoration, after all. But please do not let it fall into the hands of the Enemy. Ringil now belongs to my brother, as is his right."

Erestor, more flustered and bemused than before, bowed low. Turgon, smiling gravely, led the younger Elf away from the cairn, straight to an Eagle who had just swooped down to meet them.

"Greetings, my lord." Both ellyn bowed before the mighty Great Eagle, one of the guardians of the city. Behind them, the rest of the company followed suit.

Never before had Erestor been so close to such a being. The Eagle was huge.

And he spoke fluently in the tongue of the Elves too, as had been long rumored in the realm.

Dipping his head in greeting to Turgon and his companions, the Eagle said, "Come, young Erestor, climb onto my back."

The youth's eyes widened comically. He actually jumped back a pace out of sheer fright and awe. He had thought that he would embark on the journey on horseback.

The Great Eagle chuckled, a half-screeching, half-grinding sound unpleasant to the ears but warm to the heart. His keen black eyes sparkled with mirth and amusement. "Come, Elfling," he said. "The sooner we go, the sooner your little feet step on firm ground again."

Erestor, if someone other than his family or friends – or this magnificent Eagle – had said it, would have taken great offence; but as it was, he obediently clambered up the Eagle's back behind the joint of the giant bird's left wing. Ecthelion helped his son settle himself on the Eagle's shoulders, then stepped back. He seemed rather amused, but concern showed in his eyes, too.

"Safe journey, son," he called.

"Do not let go of Lord Thorondor's neck. I could not bear to lose you," added Finera with a half-smile.

Thorondor took a short run and launched himself into the air. Erestor hunched, shell-shocked and shivering, the feathers on the back of the great Eagle's neck clutched tightly in his hands as the sound of the farewells faded away.