The Last Rose of Summer by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

“Now the streets of Gondolin were paved with stone and wide, kerbed with marble, and fair houses and courts amid gardens of bright flowers were set about the ways, and many towers of great slenderness and beauty builded of white marble and carved most marvelously rose to the heaven. Squares there were lit with fountains and the home of birds that sang amid the branches of their aged trees, but of all these the greatest was that place where stood the King's palace, and the tower thereof was the loftiest in the city, and the fountains that played before the doors shot twenty fathoms and seven in the air and fell in a singing rain of crystal; therein did the sun glitter splendidly by day, and the moon most magically shimmered by night. The birds that dwelt there were of the whiteness of snow and their voices sweeter than a lullaby of music.”

from HoME – The Book of the Lost Tales Part Two – “The Fall of Gondolin”

 

The Last Rose of Summer

 

**

First Age 389 – The peak of summer.

~~

The sun was hot and unrelenting in its assault, the air thick and muggy, and it felt almost impossible to walk through the white city on this summer day. Even the animals grew tired, the birds staying in the trees of the private gardens in desperate search of a little shade under the rustling leaves. The streets of the usually busy city seemed to be entirely deserted during the hottest hours of the day; those who did not have to fulfil their duties stayed at home or enjoyed the peak of summer at one of the countless streams and springs that could be found just outside Gondolin.

The night, and the coolness that came with it, was eagerly awaited by many of Gondolin’s inhabitants. The shadows continued to lengthen as the sun went further down and people began to swarm through the streets again, impressively dressed in shimmering robes and elaborate jewelry as they headed in the direction of the North Gate, towards the House of the Golden Flower. Anticipation and excitement were visibly painted across their fair faces; Glorfindel’s summer festivities were legendary. The last rays tented the trees and marble walls in red and gold, transforming the hidden city in an even more surreal place than usual.

 

~~

It was customary for the noble Lords of Gondolin to celebrate – every week, beginning the week after Tarnin Austa, one of the great houses of Gondolin held an impressive celebration in honor of the labor it took to build the hidden city and of their King, who was dearly loved by all. The House of the Heavenly Arch marked the beginning of the special season, followed by the Houses of the Fountain and Swallow and their respective lords until the feast of the King marked the end of the endless celebrations.

Today, however, it was the night of the Golden Flower, and it would most likely become a night to remember. The Lord of the Golden Flower had certainly surpassed himself again; countless candles of different sizes illuminated the gardens, accompanied by torches, the air heavy with the scent of yellow flowers, the sigil of the House. It was certainly an extravagant affair.

Tables of different sizes were scattered throughout the impressive garden, some bigger ones to sit at, others that merely provided space to stand around. Additionally, smaller areas that offered a little more privacy were designed using the dense hedgerows. He had truly taken care of everything and was the perfect host, Aredhel observed. Gallant and attentive, utterly charming to everybody he spoke to – friendly to nobles and servants alike. At times the elf-lord reminded her of Celegorm, who was – at least towards her – equally considerate.

 

~~

Only moments after the sun had finally set, fireworks of exploding colors appeared on the cloudless sky, dark violet at first, but soon bright orange appeared in the sky like golden flames. Aredhel’s gaze automatically travelled skywards; ever since she has fled from the surreal twilight of the dark elf’s forest to her brother’s shining white city, not a single day had passed were she had not watched the sun rise or set, never tiring of the often other-worldly beauty. She had almost forgotten about the softness of the wind playing in her hair, about the warmth with which the rays of the sun kissed her ivory skin.

“Turukáno?” whispered Aredhel to her brother, whose mind seemed to be completely absent. He was staring into the crowd, but actually looking through it. “Is it about him again?”

They haven’t spoken about the matter – at least not recently – but Aredhel wasn’t blind, nor was she dumb. The King could easily fool others, but not his sister, who had returned to the white city together with her son some years ago. ‘Wise’ his brother was called among his people – and wise he certainly was, but not in this matter.

Turgon remained quiet for a long moment.

“As you wish, dearest brother,” she responded and shook her head just before she walked away to indulge in the pleasantries the lavish feast had to offer. If her brother wished to speak about what troubled his heart and mind, she would gladly listen and offer all advice she could give him, but she was in no mood to stand next to a mute King. Especially not when the feast of the House of the Golden Flower was famous for the fine food that was offered and the wine that would flow freely this night.

Aredhel’s gaze fell once more onto the expensive decorations that transformed the impressive garden into an almost magical place. The head of the house, Lord Glorfindel, had always had a thing for lavish extravagancies and utmost splendor, ranging from his shining golden armor to said decorations. She was certainly one who knew how to enjoy the pleasantries life had to offer, especially after the hardship she'd had to endure during her stay in Nan-Elmoth.

The King’s sister, like most of Gondolin’s inhabitants, harbored a strange fascination with the golden-haired elf ever since they had left the blessed realm together. Despite his rank and position, he treated all equally, acting carefree around nobles and others alike. Nine times out of ten he was smiling his broad and radiant smile that was so strangely intriguing, always up for a great statement or, if circumstances demanded it, for helpful advice. As if this was not enough already, Aredhel thought, he was charming to the core, radiantly beautiful with his piercing blue eyes and unexceptionally loyal towards those who were counted among his friends. More than once he had proven his loyalty to her brother, no, to his entirely family. It was Glorfindel who had tried to ease Turgon’s grief when Elenwë had died during the crossing of the Helcaraxë; in fact, it was he who had tried to retrieve the lifeless body floating in the icy water.

Aredhel had always considered him a loyal friend – of her own and her brother's – and she didn’t know when exactly her brother’s feelings towards the golden-haired elf had changed, nor if it was wise.

 

~~

She left her brother’s side and wandered around, sipping at the sweet wine every now and then. The summer festivities could easily become all-night affairs, at least for the host and the other lords and their friends; the King’s sister, who greatly cherished the pleasant and carefree company of Gondolin’s nobles and a goblet of good wine, was often found among the last who remained – as the only woman among men. But Aredhel has always been different in that regard, favoring male company and a good hunt over the boredom of knitting and sewing.

The candlelight flickered, causing the shadows to dance on the marble wall that surrounded the impressive garden of the House of the Golden Flower. Slowly darkness descended upon Gondolin, which made the entire scenery even more beautiful; a gentle and cool breeze danced through the leaves of the trees, chasing away the heat of the day.

“Lady Itarillë,” The golden-haired elf greeted nonchalantly, adding a compliment that made the prince blush ever so slightly, much to her father’s distaste. He was like a butterfly that night, Turgon noticed, swarming from one guest to another, holding short conversations with everybody who had arrived at his mansion.

“Lord Laurëfindil,” Idril responded politely with an almost shy smile. “You certainly have surpassed yourself this year.”

“Thank you my lady,” The elf-lord said with an equal smile, bowing slightly before his King’s daughter. “I hope you will thoroughly enjoy yourself this night.” Glorfindel had always wondered how many suitors the King’s daughter had turned down over the years. She was charming and beautiful, shining like the sun itself with her blond hair that was so rare among the city’s inhabitants, highly popular. But she was hardly seen in male company and never had any rumors reached his ears.

The tranquility was only interrupted by divine flutes being played in a nearby pavilion and the soft sound of gushing fountains that decorated the gardens. Busy servants with decanters filled with wine swept past the gathering crowd, refilling the silvery goblets repeatedly.

For Turgon, Glorfindel’s provocative gaze lingered a moment too long on his fair daughter, and would their conversation have lasted longer, he certainly would have taken precautions, even if he KNEW the blonde’s interest in women was only of a friendly nature. Whilst his eyes were fixed on them, Aredhel held informal conversations with Duilin and Penlod, smiling and laughing.

Aye – life was good this night.

“My Lady Irissë,” Glorfindel said delightfully. “Beautiful and stunning as ever – such a temptation.” Simultaneously his face unfurled into an expression of pure mirth that Aredhel couldn’t help but return.

“Since when are you, of all men, interested in women, Lord Glorfindel?” Aredhel laughed heartily as she took the offered hand.

“You may never know,” responded Glorfindel with a twinkle in his eyes as they began to walk.

‘My sister, my own sister.’ Turgon knew just how absurd his thoughts were, but he couldn’t help them. Glorfindel and Aredhel were stunningly beautiful together, and a wave of jealously uncoiled in his stomach. ‘How dare he?’

The King’s stare of disapproval didn’t go unnoticed by Aredhel, who still pretended she hadn’t seen it as he walked with the host, but her brother’s odd behavior that night troubled her deeply.

Turgon had changed so much over the last few centuries – not for the better, she was tempted to admit. Elenwë’s death, the death of his beloved wife who he had cherished beyond measure, marked a complete change in his nature. He had always been pensive, rather introverted –lacking the carefree attitude of his siblings and cousins, but with every passing year his paternalism grew. The fear of another loss was certainly the cause of his behavior, but it was not easier to tolerate with this knowledge Aredhel had acquired. A fierce possessiveness began to occupy his heart. She had experienced the golden cage herself, and now she feared for several others. Countless times she had asked him, no, begged him to bid her leave – but he had always denied her. Until the end, when she could no longer stand being robbed of her freedom, of everything she loved so much. “I am your sister and not your servant, and beyond your bounds I will go as I see fit.” In her frustration, she had screamed words that had long echoed in both their heads when she was lost.

Her brother was a good king – wise, righteous and fair, caring deeply for his people and their safety. But when it came to his own family, he easily overdid it, she reflected as she walked beside the golden-haired elf through the grounds.

“I beg your pardon, Irissë,” Glorfindel interrupted her musings as he came to a sudden halt. “But it seems as if Penlod desires a word with me.” She followed the blonde’s gaze until it fell on Penlod, who stood only a few meters away from her brother, waving his hand in their direction. “Undoubtedly,” she said with a pleasant laugh that was like music to Glorfindel’s ears, encouraging her friend to go. He was glad that she was back in the safety of Gondolin.

Until now, Glorfindel had avoided the King’s company apart from brief words when he had arrived, so as not to raise any suspicion – just as Turgon had bidden him to do. But now, standing only a few meters away from him and his gaze falling upon the dark-haired Noldo, he couldn’t ignore him any longer.

Turgon looked simply stunning in his scarlet robes, decorated with silvery ornaments on its sleeves and ends, his head adorned by a silvery circlet holding a massive garnet in its middle – there was no other word to describe him.

“My king.” Glorfindel paused a second too long between the bow of courtesy he was offering and the words that followed, a genuine smile tucking at his lips and mischief sparkling in his eyes. “I’m glad you’ve honored me with your presence.” For the blink of an eye he allowed his fingertips to brush against Turgon's arms. Much to his distaste, such a chaste caress was already more than the King would allow publically.

“The pleasure is all mine, Laurëfindil. As always, you have surpassed yourself with the celebrations.” Over the years Glorfindel had mastered them to perfection.

“I am flattered that you enjoy my taste – in everything.” Glorfindel couldn’t help it; he was a natural flirt, much to the King’s dislike, and Turgon prayed to the Valar that the words would go unnoticed by passersby.

“My King,” Duilin interrupted politely but with a strange determination. “Lord Laurëfindil.”

‘A moment for pity’s sake’ Turgon thought to himself, not amused by the sudden interruption. He frowned because Glorfindel’s attention was no longer being focused on him. Aye he had asked him not to shower him with utmost attention during the festivities, but now he wished he hadn’t. He wished to touch him, to kiss those full and luscious lips that smiled so much, taste every nuance that lingered on them, inhale Glorfindel’s scent; the blonde smelled alluringly of summer itself. The King wanted him all for himself that very moment, and he could not have him.

“Duilin.” Glorfindel beamed in contrast to Turgon. “My old friend. What a pleasure to welcome you. How is your wife, your new-born daughter?”

Duilin returned his smile equally. “Everything is perfectly fine,” he replied. “But it represents a challenge to me.”

It had always remained a mystery to Turgon how Glorfindel managed to treat everyone he knew with equal friendliness, always having a kind word on his lips, being informed about everything. No wonder he was greatly loved and respected by everybody; it all came naturally to him.

A sigh of frustration left Turgon’s lips as he watched Glorfindel disappear among the crowd, together with Duilin, chatting nonchalantly with several nobles, sipping his wine every now and then. Never had the King heard anybody speaking ill of him; only words of admiration had reached his ears. The suitors, both men and ladies alike, were countless, and the Lord of the Golden Flower certainly enjoyed the flattering compliments and the attention he received. Towards others, Glorfindel had always been very vague when it came to his previous relationships, something that bothered Turgon deeply.

“He is like a butterfly, Turgon. Shimmering in the brightest colors. Beautiful, but restless, always searching.” Aredhel had once hinted. “Flying from one flower to another, never settling down longer than a few moments. Impossible to be permanently possessed. Lock him away and he won’t fly anymore…” Accusation and personal experience spoke from everything she said, and deep inside, Turgon knew she was right.

The hurtful words burned into his mind and they now echoed through his head as his gaze followed the Lord’s movements. Turgon stared at him, mentally replaying the times he had glanced at Glorfindel in secret and had seen something he couldn’t decipher in the golden-haired elf’s eyes. Over the years he had found out that it was longing – and oddly now it seemed to be back again.

Whether it was the thrill of taming the swarming butterfly or the desire to possess what he could never have completely, Turgon couldn’t explain, but he was drawn to the blonde ever since they had settled down in Vinyamar. It was truly odd – they had been acquaintances since childhood and never, not even once Turgon had looked upon Glorfindel with longing and desire. Not in the Blessed Realm, not during their journey over the grinding ice, not until his people had reached Nevrast – not until they had settled down and his grief had finally lessened.

‘A restless butterfly.’ The allegory Aredhel has used was never more fitting. Turgon saw Glorfindel swarm from Duilin to Egalmoth, congratulating him on his success in the latest archery contest. His sister was a wise woman – always had been – and brutally honest. Often he had wondered if she knew of Glorfindel’s paramours or why exactly she had chosen the words she had said.

What had started as a foolish thought during a restless night in Vinyamar soon developed into an obsession. Over many years Turgon had desired his lord from afar, had imagined how the blonde would visit him night after night – but of course nothing ever happened. The interest intensified from year to year and the obsession soon became unhealthy; every time Glorfindel would speak with another, feelings of hurt and jealously arose. When he hadn’t seen him in days, Turgon would summon his lords just to be able to lay his eyes upon him, drop by accidently somewhere when he knew Glorfindel was present.

Sudden anger coiled in his stomach when Glorfindel talked a moment too long with another lord of the assembled court, when they simultaneously broke into a sudden chorus of murmuring, when the blonde shot ambiguous and inviting glances across the massive table. That was at least what Turgon saw, what he even WANTED to see to some extent! Insanity reigned in his lonely mind from time to time.

Observing his warriors' sparring sessions could be easily excused by his regal duties, and from time to time the King himself sat down at the edge of the training grounds and watched them with keen eyes.

Even covered in his elaborate golden breast-plate armor, dusty and dirty from the soil beneath their feet, Glorfindel was alluringly beautiful. It was not about his handsome face or the shape of his muscular body (which was undeniably appealing still) – it was the way he moved, the predatory motion of his body, how he encircled his sparring partner. Glorfindel was not fighting, he was practicing the deadly dance of war, threatening his enemies with the deadly blow. His fighting skills were legendary, and Turgon would never tire of observing the sheer joy that radiated from the golden-haired elf when he stepped a foot on the training fields.

Often Turgon was soaked in sweat by the time the sparring between his lords was over, his heart fluttering in his chest, and he found it hard to catch his breath.

After his sister, the only constant in his life apart from his beloved daughter, had left, his obsession grew day after day. More often than before, Turgon’s dreams were about the golden-haired elf and not the warrior under his command, which Glorfindel actually was. And in those dreams the images of a bed full of silken blankets, tousled golden hair and mumbled half-asleep words mingled – fantasies of how he would sink into the strong arms of his lord. Turgon dreamt and he never forgot that none of it was ever real (and would never become reality) but day after day the cobwebs of his imaginings were harder to chase through. He wondered why he must be pinning for someone beyond reach, for something he would never have – why his heart couldn’t lie content with what he had. A beautiful daughter, a secure kingdom and loyal subjects.

No matter how much he longed to touch his dream, how often they talked with each other in friendship and appreciation, Turgon didn’t dare to act upon his feelings, afraid of the consequences, afraid of the rejection he certainly expected. Nothing happened; he even doubted that the Lord of the Golden Flower would ever notice his interest.

Until that fateful night.

Involuntarily Turgon closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to travel back to a few years ago. His surroundings blurred, the steady murmur of conversation died out, and a smile appeared on his face.

 

~~

They did not know where the sweet summer wine that Ecthelion served during his festivities came from, but the taste was divine and that was most likely an understatement. Sweet and sour at the same time, tasting of fresh berries and ripe apples, sparkling just a little. And the best thing was – Ecthelion seemed to have an abundant amount of it, because their goblets were constantly refilled. Goblet by goblet the draught disappeared down their throats until childish giggles filled the night air. They were sitting next to each other on one of the benches that were spread throughout the candle-lit garden, far away from the center of the festivities. Glorfindel had been stunningly beautiful that night, wearing a robe embroidered in threads of gold, diapered with celandine as a field in spring.

“What is this all about?” Glorfindel had asked in an earnestness that was somehow unexpected for him, and at first Turgon hadn’t understood his lord’s words. Not until the blonde’s hand had brushed against his thighs. Tentative, yet equally demanding. His mind began to race, and a strange sensation flared through his body.

Turgon had to check that he was not hallucinating, falling into the trap of the intoxicating summer wine. His breathing became uneven, his pupils dilated – and briefly he allowed his eye-lids to fall shut. Was the image that seemed branded onto the back of his eyelids not a figment of his own wishful imagination? One of the scenarios he had imagined countless times? His ruminations were interrupted as Glorfindel’s melodic voice whispered his name, the word accompanied by a gentle touch against his prominent cheekbones. Turgon felt as if a searing flame were caressing his face, and soon shades of red emphasized his features.

The words that left Glorfindel’s lips were spoken softly and with an affectionate smile tugging at his lips. “Our King lost for words – what a rarity.”

Turgon swallowed hard – once, twice – but the wine was affecting him and he became bold. Bolder than he probably had ever been in his long life.

With a trembling voice he said: “Words are not always necessary, you know.” Glorfindel could not overlook the passion and desire in Turgon’s eyes while he spoke the words.

“They are not?” he inquired, leaning in towards Turgon until his lips were only inches away from the ivory skin.

There was no way he could prevent the gooseflesh from breaking over his skin as Glorfindel’s breath washed over his ears. His mouth was dry.

“No,” he finally mumbled, astonished that he had actually said anything at all.

A moment of taut silence passed between them before Turgon tilted his head and bridged the remaining distance between their lips. He shivered with emotion, for this was the first time he was being touched romantically by a man, the dreams he'd been harboring for many years becoming reality. The kiss was innocent and chaste, their lips barely touching, but it was enough to make the sparks sizzle.

“Did you truly think I never noticed?” Glorfindel asked calmly. Instead of responding with words, Turgon pulled him into another kiss. It was light, gentle, barely there – as if the dark-haired King didn’t quite believe that this was truly happening. “I do not know,” Turgon finally whispered against Glorfindel’s mouth. His heart raced and his breathing was grew more and more erratic as he instinctively pressed against the searching fingers on his cheek.

Not long after, they were rolling through the grass, forgetting that they were in an openly accessible place. Turgon couldn’t get close enough to the blonde whom he had desired for so many years. His lips were soft, warm and urgent against his own, shifting and moving. He had never kissed a male before – well, he hadn’t kissed anybody in that manner ever since his wife had perished, but it felt like the most natural thing to do. His own lips parted and he felt Glorfindel slip inside his mouth as both their hands were busy sneaking beneath the other’s tunic. Turgon felt his legs shift on their own accord, giving Glorfindel more room for his explorations.

Aye, the little garden was secluded from the main festivities but still openly accessible for all the other guests – they never found out if anybody had seen their engagement. They hadn’t gone any further than careful explorations with their hands and lips in the feverish summer night, besotted by Ecthelion’s wine and the desire for the other. Clandestine meetings under the starlit sky were followed by heated nights in the King’s private quarters, which were towering high above the sleeping city. Morning after morning when Turgon woke up between the scarlet sheets, he was still besotted by desire, caught in a blissful haze of frantic passion even if his lover had long slipped back to his duties. Glorfindel’s taste still lingered on his lips when he greeted the new day. Life was wonderful.

‘But was it still?’ Turgon asked himself in silence the moment when Glorfindel’s melodic voice tore him out of his musings.

 

~~

Darkness had long descended over Gondolin, and countless stars and the crescent moon shimmered brightly on a cloudless sky, reflected by the white marble of the surrounding mansions.

“Welcome my Lords,” Turgon heard the blonde say to Rôg of the House of the Hammer of Wrath and Ecthelion of the Fountain. They were among the last who arrived at the celebrations – as usual. Only the Valar knew what they were doing. Both were impressively dressed with the respective colors of their houses, Ecthelion in different shades of blue with a diamond circlet decorating his head, whereas Rôg was clad in the color of fire, which was also reflected in his golden jewelry. “I assume you have been otherwise occupied?” Glorfindel asked rhetorically with a hearty laugh before he embraced his friends.

Turgon had a natural distaste for the Lord of the Fountain, who so much resembled his own appearance: dark hair and pale skin, high and prominent cheekbones and piercing grey eyes like his own.

Rôg and Ecthelion were not officially together, yet the entire city knew about their relationship, the King included, so his spark of jealousy when Glorfindel offered him an embrace was entirely out of place. And additionally to that Ecthelion had been Glorfindel’s best friend ever since – born in the same year of the trees, grown up only a few streets apart. He knew it was insane, but still jealously arose in Turgon’s heart. Where they looked at each other in friendship, all Turgon saw was a silent invitation; when they touched each other in a friendly gesture, Turgon saw longing and desire. The King felt as if his obsession would eat him alive, consume him with its silent accusations. The way Glorfindel’s mouth was opened slightly, his lips soft and flushed – something was going on behind closed curtains. That much was certain. Even if he had no right, as their relationship was loose since the beginning, unknown by most, he was mad with anger. The mischievous wink and knowing smirk that Ecthelion had directed at Glorfindel just now made his stomach cringe.

“How delicate everything is,” Idril stated matter-of-factly as she came to stand beside her father. “Why do you not indulge fully into the festivities, atya?” (dad)

What was he supposed to respond to his only daughter when is mind was flooded and reeling with sensory information, absorbing the display right before his eyes?

“Well, I might later on, but for now I am content simply to watch,” Turgon began with a forced smile, unable to avert his eyes from the cheerful nobles. “But feel free to enjoy the night yourself.”

“I certainly will,” said Idril with a laugh. “But for now I need a little break – both from the wine and the conversations. My mouth is already dry, and you seem in need of some cheering company,” she explained, certainly affected by the summer wine. She was beautiful as ever, no, even more beautiful, Turgon noticed. The pale moonlight caught in her long and golden hair, decorated with intricate braids, her blue eyes shining with mirth and contentment. There would be a time when he would lose her, too, the King thought with some bitterness. It was the fate of time that his only child would fall in love and marry, even if nobody seemed to be suitable for his princess.

Soon, other residents of the hidden city joined the three Lords, Galdor of the House of the Trees among them. “Galdor,.” Glorfindel declared and raised his goblet towards him in a welcoming gesture, “what a pleasure to welcome you.” Then he wrapped him in a friendly embrace. It was exactly the sort of gesture that made Turgon so beyond jealous even if he KNEW that Galdor was nothing more than a dear friend to the blonde. A friend as so many others of his people - Glorfindel was extraordinarily popular.

Soon Gondolin’s noble lords had gathered around one of the bar tables, drinking and laughing heartily over ancient tales and new achievements, politics, love-interests and newly founded families. Rôg’s hand found his way towards Ecthelion’s, brushing over the back of it until the other returned the chaste caress; they had everything what he could never have, that was at least what the King thought. Turgon let that vicious part of his mind take finally over. Every gesture, every meaningful glance only fueled the King’s insane jealousy and he wished that Idril would leave his side to indulge in the celebrations. It was a dark part of him which he had carefully hidden from prying eyes – a part she must never find out about.

Ecthelion and Rôg did not even try to hide their relationship, standing inches too close together, smiling and laughing, shooting meaningful glances towards the other. “Oh I wonder when we will celebrate our next wedding,” Glorfindel said with a genuine laugh, sipping from his goblet.

“And who might THAT be?” responded Rôg with an equal laugh, squeezing his partner’s hand beneath the table. An ambiguous glance and a genuine, dreaming smile was the instant reward from Ecthelion. Even a blind person could see how much they cherished the other, how much love was between them.

“Certainly not our King,” responded Galdor, who was the one most affected by the wine.

Glorfindel prayed to the Valar that the words were overheard by Turgon, who now stood alone, as the arriving dessert had peaked Idril’s interest.

“Shut up, will you?” Ecthelion interfered, catching Glorfindel’s weary expression.

“I have always wondered…” Galdor continued but was interrupted immediately.

“Galdor.” Duilin tried to distract him before Ecthelion lost his patience. “What about you? Rumors that you have taken quite the interest in the King’s sister have reached my ear.” Galdor nearly dropped his goblet upon that.

Roaring laughter from all was instantly heard – Galdor of the House of the Tree and Aredhel had had more than one disagreement in the past and harbored an equal distaste for each other.

Turgon glared at Glorfindel and the other nobles from the distance, his eyes sliding back and forth in silent accusation until he could stand it no more.

 

~~

Even if he knew what he was doing wasn’t wise, as his behavior would certainly raise suspicions, Turgon took a few swift steps forward until he stood next to Glorfindel, who still laughed heartily upon the Duilin’s recent mocking assumption. “Lord Laurëfindil, a word in private?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice under control. The words were not spoken as a request, but as a demand that did not allow for any disobedience.

The subtle wavering of the King’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by Glorfindel; something troubled his lover greatly, and he already had a fair idea what it was. Unfortunately it was not the first time that Glorfindel had witnessed exactly this. “Of course, Turukáno,” Glorfindel said with a faked smile, adding towards his friends, “you will excuse me for a moment.” Turgon could easily trick the others but not him; underneath the expressionless face it rumbled and Glorfindel was certain he already knew the reason. His lover’s jealousy and possessive behavior bothered him since the begging of the secret relationship; he felt robbed of his so much cherished freedom. Over the years they'd had countless disagreements and arguments over exactly this, and Glorfindel felt like as time passed it only got worse.

Hastily, they disappeared through several marble arches from the main garden until they reached a hidden part of the impressive mansion. Not a second later, Glorfindel found himself pressed against the heavy stone, Turgon’s mouth hot and demanding against his throat, his arms possessively against his shoulders. In another situation he might have even enjoyed the King’s fierce display of longing, the possessive display of passion. Turgon used one foot to tap the blonde’s legs apart quickly and pressed his torso solidly against Glorfindel’s frame. There was not a breath of space between them.

“Laurë,” Turgon began in a voice that was full of accusation. “Why?”

“Why what, Turukáno?” the blond snapped much more harshly than he had intended to, using the King’s full name instead of an endearment. Maybe it was inappropriate to address the King in such a way, but Glorfindel’s patience was already running thin. He knew all too well where exactly this conversation would lead.

“Was this truly necessary?” the dark-haired elf inquired. “You flirt and compliment others right before my eyes – you ignore me, you hurt me.” For emphasis he pressed his frame even tighter against Glorfindel.

The blonde rolled his eyes. They had had this very conversation countless times before – it wouldn’t lead to anything, that much was certain. “If you allow me to remind you: You ASKED me to ignore you so as not to raise suspicions! So?” Glorfindel had suggested a few times that they give up the charade of their relationship, but Turgon wished to hear none of it, even if both would greatly benefit. So they still danced around the other, neither daring to cross the line that separated what nobody must ever know, what both desired.

Much to Glorfindel’s surprise, the other remained quiet but tightened the grip around his wrists. It was getting ridiculous, and Turgon knew all too well that the blonde was right. “You could have simply joined us?” He tried to make amends even if he knew it was futile.

Turgon tapped his chin with one finger, secretly relishing the enraptured look on the blonde’s face. “No,” he simply stated.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “Of course you could have! There is no need to exclude yourself from our company – or company at all! Turukáno, you are loved and admired by all of us – in fact, the entire city loves you. You are a good king, loved by your people.”

He glared furiously at him, and Glorfindel reached out to put a placating hand on the dark-haired elf’s shoulder. “But this isn’t the same, Glorfindel. I do not care if I am loved by any – I only care if I am loved by you, and today I doubted it.”

“Yes, possibly! Still, you ask me to avoid showering you with my attention! I've done nothing else! And not only today – no matter what I do and how I do it, it is not to your liking!” Glorfindel frowned, looking sour and finally losing his patience. “I am not exclusively yours, and I have told you exactly so often before. I never was nor will I ever be, and believe me that THIS behavior elicits quite the contrary.”

Despite Glorfindel’s arrogance there could be no denial of his aesthetic qualities. The blonde had never been more beautiful than in the soft light of the flickering torches, Turgon had to admit. “Valid point, Laurë, you are not – but hopefully I am the one who you exclusively bed. So, was the flirting truly necessary?”

‘Flirting? What flirting?’ Turgon truly seemed to have lost his wits this night. “No,” he snapped in response. The words hurt more than he was willing to admit, but he was also thoroughly annoyed.

Turgon raised an eyebrow upon that; no in the sense of not having been necessary, or simply no? Glorfindel watched as Turgon's eyes widened. “No?” he inquired.

Glorfindel’s tone was dismissive. “You have understood me very well. No, because nothing of what you have said is ever true.” He was struggling free of the hold, reversing their positions. But he didn’t pin him against the wall – words were entirely sufficient to prove his point, but to his surprise Turgon’s arms slipped around his waist. “You accuse me of flirting with my best friends and companions even if you know they are in a permanent relationship. You accuse me of taking advantage of my position, the position you once gave me. No, Turukáno, you can’t lock me up in your marble tower like a bird in a golden cage.”

Aredhel’s words echoed through his head again: ‘Lock him up and he will die.’ He knew he should stop, but he simply couldn’t. “But couldn’t you stop …?” Right now, he loved and hated Glorfindel in equal measure.

There was nothing he could stop because he was not actually doing anything. Glorfindel felt as if his lover’s arms around his form were suffocating him.

Turgon’s anger – so unfairly directed at him – sparked his own, and thanks to the wine he had consumed during the celebrations, made his blood run wild, his fury burn hotter than it had ever before. Every so often he had complained about the insane jealously – and usually then it had stopped for a few days, sometimes weeks, before it started all over again. As much as he enjoyed the King’s private company, this behavior was ever tiresome.

“Stop what? Do you know what will stop?” he hissed, not caring anymore to keep his voice low. Should others hear him if they passed by – he wasn’t the one who kept their relationship the most treasured secret of the city. “My visits to your private quarters!”

Turgon’s mouth dropped open in sheer surprise. No, he hadn’t expected this, nor had he seen his lord so furious before. His mind spun and nothing more than an insecure and weak “But…?” left his lips.

“You have understood me very well, Turukáno. It is actually rather simple: either my visits or your insane jealousy stops – the choice is yours. Think about everything you have said, and then you may speak with me again.” Glorfindel’s voice was steadier than he had imagined it would be, carefully practiced over the years. Simultaneously the blonde freed himself from the embrace he was still caught in and added: “And now you will have to excuse me, my other guests are demanding my presence.”

The Lord of the Golden Flower took a few steps in the direction they had come from, anger and disappointment coiling in his guts. Much to his surprise, Glorfindel stopped and turned around into his direction once more, and Turgon’s heart leapt, hope returning to him.

Suppressing his anger and the arising sadness, he said calmly: “Jealousy is cruel as the grave, King of Ondolindë. The coals thereof are coals of fire that have a most vehement flame.”

And with that said, Glorfindel disappeared into the night, and all Turgon could do was watch him go with a heavy sigh.

Usually, a heated night dominated by anger and fueled by bottled-up frustration had followed every single argument they ever had. Today, however, was different, and an unimaginable frustration began to occupy the King’s spinning mind when he realized that there was no chance of this happening.

Maybe this time he had finally gone too far.

**