@findvilas
Gwindor had been broken there in Nargothrond. He knew it. Turin had held him in the moment he ought to have passed, and all consciousness left him. In the brief glimpses of fuzzy, white fading, the pain subsiding, he thought of her. How he prayed if he was not spared, she would be. That at the very least, as always, his beloved Finduilas would not suffer the same hurt he would.
And Gwindor woke.
It was many hours later. There was yet a hand axe in his shoulder, yes, and he was still bleeding but a little, but he had not died. His white hair was matted with blood, yes, but he knew not if it was his own or those of the forces that now overran his home. And Gwindor escaped, just like the last time. Sliding over, past, through bodies of his own kind, finding a way through the watchful gaze of the dragon's host. And as he crossed the River Narog, practically crawling on his belly, a deep relief hit him.
He had to find Finduilas.
There was a grave, all that was left of her was a grave. He wept upon it for a time. He could not stay long. There were whispers of darkness in the hills, of orcs that answered to Glaurung.
The journey to Sirion was a daze. It may have been a week. Perhaps a season or half of a year. He was a shadow. It was as if his three years returned to Nargothrond was but a dream and a mirage, and he was once again wandering, a masterless thrall. Yet when he at last arrived, some of his own people were there. He was led by one of the makeshift guards to a tent that served, now, as an impromptu healing ward; the more solid buildings had been filled, and there was an overflow of refugees from the years of war in Beleriand.
Gwindor stayed. It was not just that he had nowhere else to go. Sirion, in spite of its crowds of those lost and displaced, between homes-- was a place where hope was still palpable. There was dignity and courage yet found here. Perhaps he was never again to be a guard of a proud city, but he, in time, occupied alone a small house near the sea, which a few of the people of Nargothrond had helped him build. The clean air was good for him. Perhaps better than the caverns. His strength was only just beginning to return.
Fifteen winters passed.
And then, came the word that Gondolin fell.
With many of the people of Sirion, Gwindor came to help, in whatever small way that he might. He had found that the single hand and weaker constitution he now possessed perhaps made him less useful as a guard-- but still a perfectly serviceable cook, ledger-keeper, and fisherman's hand. Thus, helped families write down names-- those of ones left behind, or who came ahead, or who may have been lost along the way.
There was a glimpse of a familiar gleam, a radiance from somewhere in the throng. That day, he was wearing purple. He hadn't done his hair in a few days. If he'd known he would see her-- perhaps he would have done things differently. Perhaps he would not have been sitting behind a wobbly table, his cane leaning on his chair, a prince who wrote down the names of those lost in another kingdom.
It couldn't have been.
He had wept upon her very grave.
