The Quick and the Dead by Tehta

Chapter 1

Author's notes:
0. As always, I welcome all forms of feedback, and cherish constructive criticism. And I want to thank Maggie, Claudio, and of course Lenine for their beta help, and Dwimordene for extensive comments. This fic was a birthday present for my longterm beta Eveiya. Hi, Eveiya!
1. One general comment that seems worth making is that the Elves of Gondolin were relatively inexperienced at dealing with battle. At best, they would have fought in one right after getting off the ice (as one version has it) and then participated in some minor skirmishes: they sealed themselves off before any other battles took place. They must have trained as warriors, else they would not have been as good as they clearly were, but surely no training would have prepared them for the aftermath of an utter rout.
2. The "Telerin custom" of cutting one's hair in grief is not from canon. It just made sense to me as an Elven custom, and it is/was done in some human cultures (e.g. Ancient Egypt.) Also, I enjoy being mean to Glorfindel: first I give him a closet case boyfriend, and then, I take away the hair... what is next, I wonder?

Read Chapter 1

"I think I finally understand," said Glorfindel.

"Understand what?" Ecthelion finished pulling on his second boot and looked up to where Glorfindel, fully dressed, stood fussing in front of the mirror. 

"The problem." Glorfindel's reflection made a face. "The problem that you–  That we have been having.”

“I see. And I am interested in your thoughts on the subject, but do you really have to bring it up in the changing room?"

This close to the entrance, they could hear the clang of practice weapons in the courtyard outside, while deeper in a few guardsmen splashed about under the water streams, washing off sweat. Still, nobody was within earshot. A year ago, that would have been quite impossible.

"Why cannot we talk here? Surely nobody can object to a discussion of our innocent friendship?" The last two words, though quiet, sounded surprisingly emphatic, but before Ecthelion could react--the matter they touched upon was complicated--Glorfindel continued. "Anyway, as I was saying, I finally understand the issue. It is my hair, isn't it?"

Ecthelion watched him tug at a few strands in an attempt to get them to hang straight. At its present length, his hair was obviously curly, and tended to fall into unfashionably asymmetrical shapes. "Your hair? What does that have to do with… with anything? I can see that the uneven ends bother you, but if you just got it evened out–”

"Evened out? But that would mean cutting it even more, thus delaying its regrowth. And so our innocent friendship would be prolonged."

Again, that emphasis on 'innocent friendship'… and Ecthelion understood at last. "You believe that I am physically repulsed by your short hair?"

"Exactly. We never had any problems until I cut it off."

"Yes we did." Ecthelion glanced towards the bathers, confirming that they were still disinterested. "Many. There was the time we did not speak for--"

"Not serious problems… serious innocent-friendship-type problems. The attraction between us has always been strong, and mutual, do you not agree? And now, well… Not that I blame you." Glorfindel grabbed a strand and held it out straight in front of his face. "Eru, I hate the way it gets while damp."

Ecthelion considered this theory. True, the short hair had been a shock at first: though half of his own men had shorn their hair after the Nirnaeth, Glorfindel was the last person he would have expected to follow the Telerin custom. And it was also  true that, ever since, looking at his friend had failed to provoke anything more than vague affection. He sat back, and closed his eyes, reviewing memories of Glorfindel's hair in its greatest splendour, swinging halfway down his back… even sweeping across his own skin.

No. Nothing.

Ecthelion reopened his eyes. "No, I do not think your hair makes any difference to me, at all. Besides…" He stood up and joined Glorfindel at the mirror. "As I have told you, I am perfectly willing to do anything you want."

"Yes, you and your perfect physical self-control." The look Glorfindel sent him from beneath his damp hair was heated: accusatory. His face had reddened slightly. "Your newly gained self-control. I congratulate you on it. Now goodbye. I will see you tomorrow."

"Right. Until tomorrow, then."

Ecthelion watched him leave, taken aback by this display of emotion; when they had discussed the matter in private, Glorfindel had been calm and understanding. Of course, that had been before their wounds had healed; before Ecthelion had recovered enough to win a sparring-match as thoroughly as he had won today's. Had Glorfindel's outburst been triggered by that? By a vanity hurt both by the defeat and by what he saw in the mirror? The vanity made him seem like the old Glorfindel, but the anger felt even more alien than the explosive grief that had led him to cut his hair.

It was all too strange. Ecthelion headed home himself, walking through a city that seemed oddly quiet, as if the losses of the Nirnaeth had amounted to half its population rather than a few thousand soldiers. The people he passed looked subdued, and moved more slowly than he remembered. 

It felt as if the song of Gondolin had changed key from major to minor.

But such fanciful thoughts were unproductive, and he had work to do. The battle had revealed much about Morgoth's forces, and few people understood that this new knowledge needed to be collected and preserved--and now even Glorfindel, usually a reliable ally in such matters, was acting strangely. Hopefully, he would recover from his odd mood in time for their next meeting.

---

Ecthelion's hope proved vain. Glorfindel barely took the time to dump the papers he had brought onto a table before starting up once more.

"So, Ecthelion," he said, his voice tight. "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

"What sort of anything?" asked Ecthelion while studying him closely, looking for clues. "Um… Your hair looks better. Have you seen a hairdresser?"

"Actually, yes, I have. Though I am surprised you'd notice, considering that-- You see, I went to The Silver Braid, on the Way of Running Waters. They were having a special on trims. And I heard the stylists talking." He straightened in a challenging way. "Turns out that one of them is married to the cousin of the sculpture teacher of the woman who runs your local linen shop."

Ecthelion tried to decipher this. "Which cousin? The one who sells tacky costume jewellery at the Southern Market--I think her name begins with N--or the one who works as a scout of Galdor's?"

"I do not know. Although it makes sense that you would."

"Well, yes," said Ecthelion, "indeed it does, seeing as I have lived in this neighbourhood for centuries, but going by your dark tone I must assume that--"

"There is no need to be snide. Anyway, do you truly have nothing to tell me? With regards to the linen shop, perhaps?"

The only connection Ecthelion could make between Glorfindel and the linen shop was that the shop was where he bought his bedsheets, but this did not seem very significant, especially not given their recent issues. "No, I am afraid not," he said.

"How about if I were to inform you that people have seen you spending a lot of time there lately?"

"Then I would reply that you are probably right." The owner's son, a signifer in his second company--an excellent flautist, too--had died of an Orc spear to the chest. "But I am not sure how this concerns you."

Glorfindel flinched. "Ecthelion…" he began, then stopped, looking so miserable that Ecthelion decided to make more of an effort.

"I go there on my rounds," he said. "When I visit the dead men's families. And I really do not understand why you are this… troubled. Explain?"

"You do not?" asked Glorfindel. He seemed to pull himself together. "It is the daughter, of course. The barber said that you spend so much time with her that he hopes to hear of a betrothal soon. Apparently, you walk her everywhere, and--"

"I walk with her to choir rehearsals, because that is where we are both going. She is betrothed to one of my men." Second company, too, now missing, presumed dead--hopefully dead, really, in Ecthelion's view. Not that he could share this dark thought with anyone. "And even if she wasn't, this is hardly the time for romance."

"So you seem to think." Glorfindel looked away, his face blank. "And yet, with so many people hurt and lonely, I cannot help feeling that--"

"Anyway,” continued Ecthelion, “the idea of me getting betrothed to a woman is completely laughable."

"Is it? I know you believe that marriage is the desirable, natural state--you have certainly suspected me of longing for it often enough--and right now you cannot even claim it would be particularly unfair to the woman. Since I am sure that in your generosity you would be able to do anything she wanted, and it is not as if you would be distracted by, as you term them, unnatural  desires.."

Ecthelion heard, again, the resentment behind these words, and recognized it as jealousy. Why had he not noticed it sooner? He felt as if he had been watching a bad, disjointed play he had a major part in, and had missed his cue. "I am sorry," he said. "I suppose I should have begun by saying that I could never do that to you."

Glorfindel did not seem satisfied. "Do what to me? Would a marriage of yours really make that much of a difference to my life as it now stands?"

So, he was back to that again. "Should I answer that seriously, or were you just indulging in your new pastime of dragging the act of bodily union into every sentence?"

"A serious answer would be most welcome. And I did not just mean sex, although I am not surprised that you assumed so. After all, you have never felt comfortable expressing affection in any other way."

"That is just not true." Ecthelion could still remember the time when a simple touch could bring a joy that had nothing to do with lust. "Anyway, even if things are… different between us, I obviously cannot marry another. I know we have no formal arrangement, but the way we have spoken of the future… I have all but given you my word."

"Your word." Glorfindel stared at him, unblinking. "Is that really what this is about, for you? Oh well, I hereby release you from any such obligation you might feel. How does that--"

"You cannot."

"What?"

"You cannot release me from my obligations," explained Ecthelion, "not even if they concern you. Only the Valar can do so. Or Eru, of course."

"Then it is too bad for you that neither the Valar nor Eru seem to be taking much interest in our welfare anymore, isn't it?”

Ecthelion was surprised to hear Glorfindel express such dark sentiments about the gods--surprised, and relieved,  to have his own misgivings echoed by someone he respected so deeply. "The Valar. I agree, they may well have turned away from Middle-earth, but as for what this means for us…"

"Yes?"

Glorfindel looked expectant. Ecthelion took a moment to think of the best way to resolve his moral doubts. "Well, I am sure you would agree that doing the right thing just so that other people can witness one doing it is not particularly laudable. I believe this applies to the sight of the Valar as well, so even if they have stopped paying attention, I still have a duty--"

"Duty!" Glorfindel shouted, before regaining control and continuing in a low, but still angry, tone. "While of course I am glad to find out exactly what I am to you, I would like you to know that you can take your duty and shove it up your arse. Luckily for you, you will not even have to pretend to enjoy it."

This quip seemed to bring him some satisfaction, so that for a moment he looked almost smug. Then he turned around and strode out the door, slamming it so hard that it rebounded and remained ajar.

It was a good dramatic exit, Ecthelion knew that much, but beyond that his sense of drama failed him. Should he have yelled back? Followed? Or would that have ruined things even more? He did not know, so he sat down at the table, and, after a few moments, started leafing through Glorfindel's abandoned notes, which were, after all, important.

Most of the sheets contained drawings: Glorfindel was, as usual, responsible for the illustrations of the book they hoped to produce. Over time, he had developed a simple but lively drawing style, suitable for composing exciting etchings of Dark creatures in action. These sketches, however, looked different. Instead of preparing to strike, the monsters simply floated at the centre of the page, amid diagrams of their preferred weapons. It made the illustrations look more solemn, serious; Ecthelion supposed he approved. He picked up the topmost one--an Orcish archer--and tried to recall how he had seen such troops used in the battle.

"You went straight to work." Glorfindel stepped back through the half-open door and closed it. "So calmly, too. Oh, Ecthelion. You really do not feel anything anymore, do you? I know, I know, my resentment is ugly and pointless and I should go home. I hope it is all right if I just… sit here for a moment. Until I calm down."

"Of course." Ecthelion watched him choose a window seat, lean back in it and glance around the room as if lost. How could he imagine there was anything wrong with his hair? It shone brightly as ever, especially with the sun behind it, and the strands that fell against his eyebrows and cheekbone were like little arrows pointing out his fine features.

"I really do like your short hair just fine, you know," he said.

Glorfindel did not respond to this, but his scan of the room became more deliberate, until it looked like he was cataloguing all its contents--well, all its contents besides Ecthelion. This non-scrutiny felt oddly uncomfortable. Without fully considering his actions, Ecthelion rose and walked over to the window. Then, since standing there above Glorfindel felt wrong, he crouched down beside him.

"You are right," he said. "I do not seem to feel much these days. I am so sorry this hurts you, but by the Valar--wherever they may be--it has nothing to do with you."

“It does, though.” Glorfindel looked at him at last. "Perhaps you should take some of my feelings? I have far too many, good and bad both.” He shifted forward. “It might help if you were to grieve properly. Cut your hair as I have, even."

"What should I grieve for? I am alive, and newly healthy. Everyone I love best lives still. I have not lost anything."

"Haven't you?" Glorfindel's face softened. "I lost a third of my men. I knew most of them well: the ones who had not come over the Ice, I had watched train up from raw recruits."

"Of course. It is similar for me. But surely their families--"

"Yes, perhaps their families' pain is greater than mine," said Glorfindel, "but that does not make my grief meaningless. And then of course I seem to have lost, well… something a bit more personal."

"Your ideals?"

"What? No, I was talking about you."

Ecthelion laid a hand on his arm. "But, as I keep telling you, you have not lost me."

"I feel like I have. Yes, you are here physically--though not very physically, and sorry, I will stop bringing that up now--and intellectually, I suppose. But you just do not seem to be the Ecthelion I remember."

"I can understand that. But, to be fair, you are not exactly yourself, either."

"I take it you do not mean only the hair?"

"No." Ecthelion reached up to touch one of the strands framing Glorfindel's cheek. "I mean the bitterness, as evidenced by snide comments and, now, the shouting. And the lack of trust, in me and the gods both--all that seems very unlike you."

"I do not always feel like myself these days, but, well… whoever I am, I am here. Talking to you. Or trying to."

"So am I." Their gazes met, and held. Ecthelion recalled thousands of similar moments, thousands of sparks of connection–and yet, none came. Glorfindel, too, must have sensed the emptiness. He looked away, mouth twisted with sadness, prompting Ecthelion to conclude with, "But this will pass, I promise."

Glorfindel's mouth untwisted and even formed a faint smile. He sent Ecthelion a sideways glance. "Now I am sure you are not my Ecthelion, giving me such hopeful wisdom. But perhaps you are right. Still…" He looked away again. "While we wait for this passing to take place, I do so hate being a mere duty to you."

"Surely you know you are never that! You must. If nothing else, you have to admit that I tend to handle my duties well, and I have not--"

"Have not been handling me much at all? No, sorry--and thank you for the attempt at reassurance. It just feels so strange being the only one who needs anything. Strange, and wrong. Don't you want to feel alive?"

"No, why should I? How could I, when the whole city is grieving?"

“Is it guilt, then?” Glorfindel asked. “That, I can understand. After all, men died by my order, and--"

“By mine, too,” said Ecthelion. “But it was hardly the first time. I was ready for it. And I am sure we both did everything we could, both back there, for the men, and for their families since. I simply meant that, as I look at all the bereaved, I do not understand why fortune has been so much kinder to me. I will not add to this injustice."

"That sounds very noble, and yet…" Glorfindel ran a hand through his hair. It did not take him very long. "How does avoiding personal happiness actually help all the grieving, bereaved people? Is there some natural law, some total sum of happiness allowed in the city? Are you trying to pass them your share?”

"Do not be absurd. I am simply trying not to flaunt my good fortune in front of those who lack it.”

“But denying your good fortune–or ignoring it, or trying to ruin it, whatever it is you are doing–can hurt people, too. And what does that do to that total sum of happiness?”

Glorfindel had not indicated himself, but his message was clear--and thought-provoking. “The outcome is not ideal, clearly,” said Ecthelion. “But I am not choosing any of this. I just…” He shrugged. “Is any of this making you feel better?”

“No. Well, maybe. It has given me an idea.” Glorfindel’s expression was resolute.  “It has led me to, regretfully, deduce that you would feel more interest in having sex with me if I were dead."

"What?" Ectheluon closed his eyes, to shut out the image that had flashed before them. “No, no, do not say that."

"Why not? I do not mean it in the tasteless way, you know--though surely even my acting skills might be up to faking death, if you think it might help. I mean that, if I had died, you would still feel--"

"I know what you mean."

"Well, do you think I am wrong?"

"I have no idea." Ecthelion’s heart was racing. He took a deep breath. “And I find this whole topic pointless.”

 "Well, I do not. Because I am convinced that I am dead right. And so-- Oh, do not look so sickened, I know this is no time for punning. In fact," Glorfindel grinned to himself in a self-satisfied and rather familiar way, "I will declare a moratorium on puns. But as I was sa--"

"I did believe you were dead," said Ecthelion. "When your banner went down, near the end."

Glorfindel's eyes widened, then dropped to his knee, which Ecthelion seemed to have grabbed. After a moment’s thought, he reached over and picked up Ecthelion’s hand,  wrapping it around his own wrist until Ecthelion's fingers touched his pulse-point and felt its strong beat. "Well, you were wrong,” he said. “I am very much alive. Just as I promised you I would be.”

"Obviously, I did not quite believe in your foresight."

"Obviously." Glorfindel sat in silence for a while, both hands now wrapped around Ecthelion's. "But.. Tell me, when my banner went down, what did you think? Was it anything like 'No, Eru, not that, anyone but him?'"

Ecthelion shook his head, confused.

"Well, that is what I thought," said Glorfindel. "Several times. It is disgraceful, really. But I expect you prayed for the selfless thing instead."

"What selfless thing?"

"'Please, Eru, let him die before me so I am the one who gets the loneliness and grief?'"

"No." Ecthelion shook his head again, with more vehemence.. "Of course not. I had no time for personal prayers. I barely had time for thought. I just… got on with my duties."

"Of course you did," said Glorfindel almost fondly. “As you did just now, when I left. It is all you have been doing lately, as a defence, I am convinced of it. And I am equally convinced that you should stop doing it and think about what happened instead." He nodded to himself. "It might take several days, or weeks, even, but I bet that in the end you would feel alive again."

Ecthelion found this very unlikely, but saying so, and thus destroying Glorfindel's hopes, seemed discourteous to the point of cruelty. Besides, he was not interested in proving his point, not now, when thoughts of the battle made him cold inside. He decided to try a diversionary tactic. "You know," he said. "I think we could try it now, if you wanted.”

A frown disrupted Glorfindel's expression. "Try what?”

In answer, Ecthelion rose up, put his free hand on Glorfindel's face, and leaned in to kiss him--but Glorfindel twisted away and grabbed his shoulder, keeping him at arm's length. "I do not want your pity," he said.

"Pity? Why should I pity you? No, I do want this." This was no lie: Ecthelion's body, at least, felt eager, especially those parts of it that were touching Glorfindel… and a few that, apparently, hoped to be touching him soon. Strange. "Perhaps you are right, and talking about… things… is causing my feelings to come back."

"Really?" asked Glorfindel warily. "But, surely, nobody gets over their problems through a single conversation, no matter how illuminating?"

“I would not know: it was your theory. Now, do you want to come to bed before the moment passes, or not?"

Glorfindel did not respond at once, but in the silence that followed mistrust faded from his face, replaced by a hope so obvious that Ecthelion felt almost guilty. His body's sudden readiness could not be described as desire, not exactly. It was more that the recent, agitating turn in the conversation made him long to act, to do something he could not quite define but which undoubtedly needed to involve Glorfindel.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, come on, then." Glorfindel rose, and pulled Ecthelion up after him. "Before you change your mind."

They kissed quickly as they stumbled over to the bed, then broke off to undress with the usual efficiency, developed during hurried meetings so numerous that they had become routine. Glorfindel kept the lead as they lay down together, rolling them both until he was stretched out beneath Ecthelion. As he looked up, his eyes held a challenge: do you actually want this?

This unexpected wariness stirred Ecthelion in a complex way. It was wrong, unnatural for Glorfindel to have doubts, whether about Ecthelion or about the Valar--the two matters felt confusingly intertwined. Ecthelion raised himself on his elbows, using his arms to construct a shelter around Glorfindel, a place of safety. It seemed silly, but when Glorfindel reached up to caress his shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss he knew his silliness had not been noticed.

There was some leftover salve on the bedside table, fortunately not of the impractical numbing kind. Ecthelion used it on both of them while Glorfindel continued running his hands over his upper arms and chest, as if to relearn their shape, or perhaps to accustom himself to the new scars. No doubt he was already accustomed to the jagged line that marked his own left side and that, thankfully, moved out of Ecthelion's view when he shifted closer, allowing him to focus instead on the physical sensations as they joined. Still, he rebuilt his arm-shelter before beginning to move. 

And it was as easy as that. He had not needed to concentrate on staying in the moment, at all. He paused, surprised.

"I am really not pretending, you know," he said.

"Good," replied Glorfindel rather breathlessly.

"I do so want you to regain your faith, to--"

Glorfindel's fingers dug into his lower back. "Do this like you used to," he said, "and I might."

So, Ecthelion stopped talking, and did it like he used to.  It was simple enough: after all those years every effective touch, every movement was familiar, so that it felt as if his body could have enacted them all even in his absence. But that seemed unfair, somehow, so Ecthelion made himself remember the falling banner, green and gold, and saw again the empty sky it had left behind.

The memory shook him. He closed his eyes to block it and pressed his face against the side of Glorfindel's neck, where he should have been able to bury it in warm, bright hair. The few strands that brushed against his cheek and forehead only served to emphasise the change, and yet he was so happy to find them there that the happiness felt as tangible as Glorfindel's body beneath him. 

The combination proved too much to bear. The next time he moved, his body spasmed, the pleasure that rushed through him almost painful--and not entirely welcome, since he was aware that his timing was bad: far too fast.

Before raising his head, he blinked a few times. His eyes felt moist. He must have squeezed them shut too tightly.

"Sorry," he said. "So sorry."

"No, no, this is a good thing," said Glorfindel with a sincerity so shiningly transparent that Ecthelion thought he must have misjudged the situation, but when he slid out from between Glorfindel's now relaxed legs and reached down below he realised that, unfortunately, he had not.

"Truly." Glorfindel caressed his shoulder. "It is."

Ecthelion rearranged himself so that he lay on his side, and let his hand continue its explorations. "We can try again, if you do not mind waiting a moment."

"Hmm," said Glorfindel as Ecthelion's fingers found a rhythm. "No. Waiting… is not..."

"Or we could switch, I mean--"

"No." Glorfindel shook his head, half in negation, half in passionate reflex, but his eyes remained locked with Ecthelion's. Oddly, Ecthelion found the guilt over his inadequate performance lessen. This was good, too, watching his beloved get lost in pleasure without getting distracted by sensations of his own. Almost as good as feeling it all himself, once more. He relaxed into the moment.

Glorfindel did not shout his name as he came, but there could be no doubt that it was what he had been thinking. Ecthelion kissed him, and withdrew his hand.

"I should clean up the mess," he said.

The noise Glorfindel made in response was completely disinterested, and so, since the mess was almost entirely his problem, Ecthelion did not get up. Instead, he shifted closer and laid his head on Glorfindel's chest. "Or we could have another go. I imagine I would do better." He let his fingers trace patterns over a hipbone, occasionally brushing that new scar. "Let me know."

Glorfindel laughed a little, making Ecthelion's head bounce. "Can we rest for a bit, first?" he asked.

Ecthelion tried to, but a subtle feeling -- an unexpected contentment, a flicker of a long-forgotten joy -- made it impossible to stay quiet. "You know, I do feel better," he said.

"Good. And no doubt you will feel even better once you know," said Glorfindel, "that I love and worship the Valar once again."

"Do you?" The hyperbole was both disturbing and implausible. Ecthelion tried to change the subject. "No thanks to me. Again, I must apolo--"

"Ecthelion," said Glorfindel into his hair, "you are an idiot."

"I do realise that, believe me. But you cannot really mean that, about the Valar. Your bitterness sounded so grim, so great, that surely something as small as--"

"Small? Such modesty.” Ecthelion heard him sigh. “Seriously, though, I know that this… interlude cannot fix anything. But I cannot help feeling that it has its uses, even beyond being something for us to do when we cannot, or will not, talk to each other. If nothing else, it makes a wonderful reminder that we are neither of us alone."

"Yet," thought Ecthelion, but he did not say it. He just closed his eyes, and listened to the beat of Glofindel’s heart.