Bloody silmarils, book I by Dilly

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Chapter 17: The bachelor flat.

- I am directly inspired by the Iliad and Kaamelott for the starting point of the sulking knight.
- I found it difficult to translate this chapter because there is a lot of colloquial language in the original French version.

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Turgon looked at the Fëanorian clock in front of him for the second time.

"Well," he said to the other members of the Round Table. "It is 10.10 and Ecthelion is still not here."

"Majesty," said Glorfindel. "I don't think he's coming."

"Why? Is he injured?"

"In a way. In his self-esteem... He took umbrage."

"Umbrage? But umbrage at what?"

"Well... he feels like you don't like him. Therefore he is offended."

"Wait a minute," said the king. "Ecthelion is 'vexed'? Am I dreaming? Since when am I supposed to love my knights?"

"Rather, let's say he thinks you despise him. According to him, you criticise him and discriminate against him all the time because of his age."

"Really?! But what is this generation of arrogant and touchy young people! Ah, we don't have the right to criticize them at all, all they admit is that we butter them up! Another one who has been too much pampered by his parents: he should have been given a few sword blows on the neck. But he’ll get what he deserves. I'll go and see him after our meeting. And if he gets disbarred, too bad for his mug ! Where does he live, actually?"

Most of the elf lords turned mechanically to Penlodh.

"Does anyone know where he lives?" asked Turgon again, because for once Penlodh didn't have the answer to his question.

"So there!" exclaimed Egalmoth. "You can't say Ecthelion is the talkative type. He's more the 'I look over your head and tolerate your existence' type. Telling us about his life, it's not one of his priorities!"

"It is true that he never talks to us," Galdor said then. "Or rather, he doesn't come to discuss with us."

"Sometimes he does, with me," said Enerdhil. "But it's always about his weapons. I think only Glorfindel knows him a little."

"That's right," the Lord of the Golden Flower confirmed. "And it seems to me that he lives in a flat in the town centre, in a street that goes down from the King's Square."

"That's correct," confirmed Penlodh, who had just consulted one of his registers.

"Perfect. Write down his address on a piece of parchment," said Turgon. "He'll see what I'm made of."

 

* * * * * *

 

That morning, when Ecthelion opened the door, he was dressed only in a short blue nightgown which brought out the width of his shoulders and his high height, although he was rather thin, and his body seemed to hang from this natural clothes hanger. He was pale and his blue-grey eyes were lined with dark circles. He didn't look very awake. His long black hair was tousled, and he rubbed his eyes, thinking he saw the king at his door.

But when he had rubbed them, the king was still there, immense and crowned. He looked grim.

Ecthelion closed the door.

"Oh shit."

 

* * *

 

"Ecthelion, open this door!" said the king.

The door opened again.

Ecthelion was still in his nightgown.

"Stay there," Turgon said to his bodyguards.

He broke into the flat, in front of an astonished Ecthelion.

"Ecthelion, my young friend, we need to have a serious conversation. Do you have something to drink?"

"I... I have some fruit juice, I think..."

He disappeared into one of the rooms overlooking the corridor.

"It's not very big," thought Turgon as he assessed the width of the vestibule and then the corridor.

It still looked like there were several rooms. But the lord of the Fountain did not seem to be a cleaning maniac. Clothes were hung here and there. On the floor there were bread crumbs and greasy paper from take-away food. On the largest of the walls, however, there was a picture of two warriors in armour, a man and a woman. The cartouche on the frame bore the words : "The city of Eithel Sirion, to his worthy heroes."

Ecthelion came out of the kitchen.

"You can go ... into the living room, it's at the end."

Turgon walked up the corridor. The living room was in an even messier state. There was a valuable metal bench seat, but the cushions were scattered on either side of the wooden coffee table that faced it. Opposite the sofa stood a small mechanical theatre, but also empty beer amphorae, there, and around the table. Turgon picked up a brown woolen sock whose quality of knitting left something to be desired.

"Do you wear this kind of socks?"

"It's not mine... It's Belin's... my squire."

The king sat down on the bench, after checking that the place was clean. Ecthelion sat on the left side.

"Your squire leaves his socks at your house?"

"Oh, no... He lives here."

Turgon froze in a sharp freeze.

"I mustn't think about what this looks like..." the king thought to himself. "I mustn't think about what this looks like..."

"But do you realise what this looks like?!" he exclaimed.

"What does this look like?" asked Ecthelion most innocently.

"Oh... uh, nothing. But it's still unusual for a knight to live with his squire, a human being at that."

"He was being hazed at the barracks," explained Ecthelion as he filled the king's glass with fruit juice. "And he didn't even dare to say it. So as I had several bedrooms, I offered him to live with me. And he bakes very good bread."

"Thank you. He is a bit like your your servant, actually."

"He makes the bread because he comes from a mill, but I am the cook."

Turgon found it hard to imagine Ecthelion cooking. Besides, he could hardly imagine him living with someone else. In fact, he could hardly imagine him living at all.

"And this cat is yours too?"

He pointed to a large tabby cat lying on top of a chest of drawers. The cat was wearing a lace ruff around his neck.

"No, that's Belin's pet."

"Does he have a lace ruff around his neck or am I hallucinating?"

"That's definitely a ruff, Your Majesty. This cat has a taste for clothes. And sometimes, it almost looks like... he understands what he is told."

Ecthelion emptied his glass of juice, which made his Adam's apple and the line of his neck move until the border of his shirt. He put his glass back on the table.

"By the way, what did you want to tell me?" he asked, turning again to the king with his clear and cold gaze.

For ten minutes, Turgon had almost forgotten why he had come. But all of a sudden, he felt like tapping this impudent young man's neck again.

"In your opinion, Ecthelion son of Korma."

"Is it because I didn't come to the Council?"

"Right on."

"Do we have to come every day?" Ecthelion asked with a dull voice.

"Of course we have to come every day! And you know it very well!"

There was a silence.

"You don't say anything? Glorfindel told me that you didn't intend to come, because you thought I didn't give you enough importance."

"It would surprise me if he told you that... since that's not what I told him."

"He said that you thought I didn't like you and that I discriminated against you because of your age. "

"Well, it's the truth anyway."

Turgon's mouth stayed open.

"That's what you're always saying... That I'm useless, that I'm bad... So I don't have to come, right?"

The king joined his hands.

"Ecthelion..." he began with a flowery voice. Then his voice changed abruptly, and he seemed to grow in stature, when he was already very tall. "I don't care what you think or how you feel ! You are the head of the House of the Fountain, so you obey orders and you shut up! Does Glorfindel allow himself to miss meetings? He didn't miss a single one! Even when he wasn't a constable and he was just a young beginner like you ! So that's the last time you'll ever do anything like that... do you hear me? Otherwise I'll have you disbarred, and the title of nobility that your parents won, you can go and get it back in the public latrines!"

Ecthelion's face had broke down.

"Okay," he says. "I didn't want to..."

Turgon took his glass and finished it.

"Very well. We agree then. I'll see you at the next council."

His eye swung quickly to the left. The break down of Ecthelion's face did not last long. He was again as smooth as a statue, but looked sad.

"By the way... your human..."

"Yes?"

"Wouldn't you like to lend it to me, once in a while?"

"Why?"

"Just like that, out of curiosity..."

"No. Anyway he doesn't lend itself."

"To make you forgive yourself... "

"No."

 

* * * * * *

 

It was late at night. Belin was lying on a carpet in front of the mechanical theatre. His beard had begun to grow back on his chin, and his long blond hair was falling down on either side of his stunned face.

Behind him, sitting on the bench, Ecthelion was eating pieces of roast chicken that he had taken out of a bag bought at the local butcher's shop.

"It's a terrible story, mylord..." Belin said.

On the stage of the theatre, a giant spider had just appeared, accompanied by a black knight, and it began to suck on the two luminous trees, draining them of their sap.

"She's goin' to kill them, if she keeps doin' that, isn't she?"

"I'm not going to tell you the end," said Ecthelion in a knowing tone.