Shattered Disguise by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

Thank you, E, for the beta, and themirkyking for sharing your thoughts with me .

Read Chapter 1

 

Shattered Disguise

*

Despite the impressiveness of the room and the importance of the matter at hand, Ecthelion all but lounges in his chair with such a casualness that Glorfindel wouldn’t be surprised if sooner or later a leg or two landed on the table. It’s a sight to behold, truly. Something only he’s able to witness and that only on rare occasions. Why today is such an occasion, Glorfindel has, in fact, no idea at all.

Ecthelion, who, when Turgon is present, is the noblest of noble lords with such fine and charming manners, with silvery words matching the silver of his circlet.

Ecthelion, his friend of old, who, once Turgon is gone tells the filthiest jokes of all. (Of course, Turgon doesn’t even suspect him being the cause of Idril’s bursts of laughter late at night.)

Ecthelion, his fellow lord – the reason for many of Glorfindel’s sleepless nights.

Instead of paying too much attention to what Ecthelion has to say about matters of state, Glorfindel studies his friend of old: those sharp cheekbones which seem to get sharper with every year, the little dimple next to the corner of his mouth that forms when he speaks a little bit too fast. Random words – taxes, alcohol, taverns, the king would approve – boring words occasionally pierce through Glorfindel’s hazy thoughts, and when next he looks, his friend still lounges in his chair, decadently so. Ecthelion is an enigma, even to Glorfindel, who has known him for so many years. From the blissful days under the golden light of Laurelin to biting frost on the passage of everlasting ice he had known him; from their settlement in Vinyamar to Gondolin, their prospering refuge. With an inward smile, Glorfindel recalls their first meeting, something he often does of late. Childish boys they’d been, though they already pretended to be the noble lords they now are. Boys – carefree and innocent; an innocence which shattered on ice into a thousand pieces. With all the memories sweeping through his mind, Glorfindel doesn’t even realize, at least at first, that Ecthelion stops to speak.

Over the rim of his cup, half-watching Glorfindel, but then not, Ecthelion is silent for a moment before he continues his endless monologue about taxes and responsibilities, lulling Glorfindel into his well-deserved slumber. He’s simply not made for councils, for robes and courtly games. He’s happiest with his men around him, fulfilling the duties assigned to his house. He’s bored by numbers and mathematics, avoiding the fretful tasks whenever possible. He’s bored by paperwork, too, though he sees the necessity of it, at least partly. So alike Ecthelion and Glorfindel are in many things, here they differ.

Ecthelion takes great delight in money, taxes and various other economical things, and never truly understands Glorfindel’s distress. How should he? He’s blessed with a rare gift in regard to mathematics, so it is no wonder that Turgon has appointed him as Master of Coin, gladly ridding himself of the tedious task. Too well Glorfindel can understand.

“Recently,” begins Ecthelion, running his fingertips along the ornaments of his goblet. Instead of paying attention, Glorfindel watches the sparkling diamond on his friend’s finger, “it has come to my attention that various ale houses have opened throughout the city, most of them hidden to avoid adhering to our king’s decree. Such behavior is unacceptable.” Here, Ecthelion halts for a second, catching Glorfindel staring. “Are you even listening Laure?”

“I am,” he says when both know well he isn’t.

Ecthelion groans. “Certainly,” he says with a sneer, heavy with the arrogance Glorfindel both loves and hates. “The darker parts of the city shall be controlled more often, and for everyone violating the royal decree, a sensitive penalty has to be paid. Soon, the city will drown in its wealth, and the hidden kingdom shall prosper henceforth.”

As if they aren’t rich enough already, Glorfindel thinks. “Yes,” he says, with the futile hope that it’s over soon. By now, the parchment in front of him is covered in flowers and stars, idle patterns drawn to keep his eyes away from his friend. When bored, Glorfindel always scribbles and draws and the evidence that today he’s extraordinarily bored sits right in front of him.

“Money that can be well used for our armory or the reconstruction and improvement of the lower gates. Support families which do not benefit from the rising wealth of our city. There are a hundred possibilities.” Again, Ecthelion catches Glorfindel not paying attention at all. Instead, he’s occupied coloring a misshapen flower.

“What’s your opinion on that matter?”

“Yes.”

Ecthelion lets his head fall back. “That’s not what I asked you, Laure,” he sighs, overly dramatically, “economics is to mathematics like sex is to masturbation. I can’t believe you’re so indifferent to both.” (*)

Glorfindel nearly chokes on his wine. “Pardon me?”

Ecthelion merely smiles, calculating and visibly satisfied. “Never mind, it is no business of mine,” he says casually and despite better knowledge for a second Glorfindel wishes it would be Ecthelion’s business. “The punitive duty shall be increased. I will speak to Turukáno about it as soon as the opportunity presents itself.” At last, Glorfindel thinks, he’s released and can go about his own business. A grave mistake, as Ecthelion apparently has just begun. By the second sentence, his thoughts already have gone astray again: towards the Grinding Ice when their bodies warmed each other, shunning the cold at least for a few hours; towards Vinyamar where everyone fought their own demons; towards now, where Ecthelion lies in his chair, black hair sweeping down his shoulders.

– perhaps,” for a moment, Ecthelion ponders to add a new idea to the fruitless discussion which indeed is a monologue, as Glorfindel’s mind is terribly absent. Although Ecthelion pretends not to notice, the lingering gaze is hard to be ignored. “Anyways, enough about coin and wealth: you look impressive.” The words nearly go unnoticed as Glorfindel’s still too occupied to give his friend’s features a second thought; the slim fingers adorned with glittering diamonds, his gaze, keen and demanding.

Glorfindel’s mind snaps into attention. “What?” he blurts out.

“You. You fool,” says Ecthelion, and simultaneously, Glorfindel opens his mouth to reply, at least something. As always, Ecthelion is faster. “Anyway, where have I paused? Ah yes, the taxes and our city’s defenses. Probably the latter is more to your liking to be discussed?”

Glorfindel merely shakes his head, hoping the blush isn’t too obvious, because even if he does pretend he’s not flattered he certainly is, although he wishes he wasn’t. Since the rumors of Ecthelion’s dalliance with another fellow citizen, when jealousy has nearly burnt him alive, Glorfindel has buried the last vestige of hope. “Stop it.”

Ecthelion crosses his arms in front of his chest. “But Turukáno has bidden me to raise awareness among my fellow noble lords.”

“No, not that!” snaps Glorfindel, harsher than he had probably intended to. “The other.”

Childishly, Ecthelion looks around. “There’s no other.”

Glorfindel is close to throwing the goblet at his friend’s head, biting back the words upon his tongue. Ecthelion isn’t that reluctant. As if he hadn’t said the flattering words, he continues, unimpressed, to bring up idea after idea about how to improve Gondolin’s defenses, training new soldiers, and recruits. All too soon Glorfindel finds his thoughts drift away once more towards a time when their lives had been peaceful; before cheerfulness had died amidst the swirling snowflakes, buried under the everlasting cold of the Grinding Ice. They all have changed during their great journey, some more than others. Turgon, who had lost his beloved wife to the dreadful waters, and Ecthelion worst of all. Often Glorfindel thinks their supine arrogance is nothing more than a shield they wield to defend themselves for novel grief, and sometimes, at least with Ecthelion, he manages to see beneath the mask of indifference – like now. In the low light of the candles his features are softer than usual, his lips not solely a thin line, every now and then even adorned by a smile. Glorfindel finds his eyes glued on Ecthelion’s skin; the skin which he knows is marred with scars and frostbite beneath the formal robes his friend wears, matching the colors of his house; the skin which at night he tends to dream about. Those dreams which aren’t restricted to darkness, as right now, Glorfindel finds himself dreaming during the middle of the day.

His dreams shatter when the door springs open.

“My lords,” Turgon announces himself, stoic and regal, perfectly wearing his mask as Glorfindel notices. Seldom is he any different these days. “Have you made any progress upon enriching our city’s wealth?” he asks, gaze switching back and forth between the two friends.

“My king, certainly,” announces Ecthelion, cheerfully. Glorfindel can all but wonder how his friend managed to sit upright in his chair within the blink of an eye. “Surely, our Lord Glorfindel will take great delight in reporting our newest achievements to you.” With that said, he stands, straightening his robes. “If you will excuse me for a moment?”

Unseen by Turgon, Ecthelion flashes Glorfindel the fakest apologetic smile he has ever seen.

Inwardly, Glorfindel groans – his thoughts of watching the sunset outside the city walls dissolve to naught whilst he curses his foolishness – and his ‘friend’s’ attitude. How he wishes to throw the cup he’s still holding after him.

 

*

Once released by Turgon after having fed him lie after lie (because certainly he had not remembered a single thing Ecthelion had suggested for Gondolin’s taxes; he wasn’t even certain if his friend had spoken in detail about it), Glorfindel wished to throw his friend off the ramparts. Oh, how he had sworn to never speak a word to him (with never meaning a couple of days), to shun him from his attention, something Glorfindel knows well which gnaws at Ecthelion’s pride.

Alas!

Instead of throwing Ecthelion from the ramparts down the cliffs as he well deserves, he now sits side by side with him on the bricks, legs dangling, and watches the stars mocking him. Again. As always. Ecthelion, in all his manipulative glory, never fails to persuade him not to be cross with him, and always, afterwards, Glorfindel wonders why that is. He doesn’t have an answer – not today, not tomorrow, probably never.

“It’s a trap,” says Ecthelion all of a sudden, disrupting the silence.

Ecthelion speaking in riddles isn’t exactly new to Glorfindel, either. He turns his head towards his friends who still stares into the distance. “What’s a trap?”

“The city,” he begins to explain as if Glorfindel is too blind to see. “It’s like a mouse hole – once the cat finds its way inside, there’s no escape, no way outside. And once the mouse is fat and sated, it gets lazy in its hide, and we both know what that means.”

Glorfindel ignores the outrageous remark about Turgon. “The city is well protected, we both know,” he responds, wondering about the quiver of darkness in Ecthelion’s voice, “and more importantly: it is unknown by the Black Foe.” No, he would surely not name Morgoth a cat, just as he would never even dare to think of Turgon as a fat and lazy mouse. Still, the gloomy notion keeps him thinking. He turns his head back, gazing into the far distance where the horizon ends just like Ecthelion does.

“Have you never wondered how we all will end, speculated how you will say good-bye to the world?” Glorfindel gives him a hard stare, upon which Ecthelion merely waves his hand. “We’re immortal, yes, yes I know, yet this has never hindered us from dying. Elenwë, Ñolofinwë, Fëanáro, all those poor souls abide their judgment in the darkness those halls are said to be already, and the same doom awaits us, too. I for one, do not care how my end will be, as long as it’s swift, and not too bloody. I do not wish for somebody to clean up my mess after me.”

“Ecthelion!” snaps Glorfindel, unsure of what else to say. By now, he’s fairly used to his friend’s morbid thoughts already, still never before has Ecthelion spoken like this to him. It frightens him and keeps him wondering if not indeed he’s blessed (or cursed) with foresight though he always states he isn’t.

“How can you even?” he asks.

Ecthelion interrupts him without exactly replying to his question. “Rather easily. Anyway, I was lying earlier.”

It isn’t unusual for his friend to let a lie slip every now and then, today, however, Glorfindel hadn’t caught Ecthelion lying – at least not about something he cared about or all too obviously. “About what were you lying?” Glorfindel’s eyebrows quirk.

“About you, perhaps?” The broadest of smirks graces Ecthelion’s face.

Glorfindel nudges him into his side. “Wonderful – from death your thoughts drift towards your old friend. What a charming being you are,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. Nevertheless the corner of his mouth twitches and gives him away. “You don’t expect me to be flattered now, do you?”

Ecthelion shakes his head. “Not yet, no.”

With Ecthelion it’s always like this – a plethora of flattery, charming smiles erupting amidst his haughty arrogance – but then, today, it’s not. Something appears to be different, something unable to be veiled by his disguise. Something Glorfindel has no explanation for.

Still, it’s too good to last. “What is it you want?” he asks, calm but with determination.

Gracefully, Ecthelion swings his legs over the wall and stands in the yard, dragging a startled Glorfindel with him. “A bit of training.”

Glorfindel groans. He’s tired, he’s exhausted, and the discussion with Turgon has worn him out. Well, actually he is quite done with the day. He’s simply not in the mood for sparring. “Do you know what unruly hour it is?” he mutters, crossing his arms before his chest.

“What of it?” replies Ecthelion, beginning to strip himself off his tunic. “It’s as good an hour as any, especially if not so many hours are left.” It isn’t exactly warm at night, it never is with the cold winds falling down from the mountain peaks surrounding them, and in contrast to so many who came across the Ice, Glorfindel still feels the cold. He doesn’t follow his friend’s example, even tries not to watch too carefully, though he obviously fails.

Ecthelion takes a step towards him, for once not smirking. “What if tonight’s the last night we have left on this world? Do you see the dark clouds over there?” As he speaks, he points his arm towards the horizon, and automatically, Glorfindel’s gaze follows towards the sky where not a single dark cloud can be seen. Instead, he feels strong fingers pressing into his upper arm and a leg against his calf. In the next moment he falls, cursing and muttering in protest as his back crashes into the dust. “Bastard!”

Ecthelion ignores the insult. “Laure!” He makes the word a sneer. “My newest recruits have more wits about them.”

It’s true.

Right now, Glorfindel doesn’t even know if he hates Ecthelion for fooling him or if he hates himself even more for having fallen into one of his friend’s traps again. Yes, he will never learn – not him, trusting, light-headed Glorfindel who, despite the hardship on the Helcaraxë, still believes that something good is left in the world. Good, something that quite certainly isn’t Ecthelion who sits astride of him, giving him his smuggest smirk. With all his strength Glorfindel struggles underneath him, pushing his fist against his stomach – with no avail. Ecthelion pins him down to the ground, a cloud of dust swirling around them.

It could be erotic, under different circumstances, just as he had fantasized quite regularly. Glorfindel almost shouts: “By Turgon’s wits, get off me and instead tell me what has been in your wine tonight!”

Much to his surprise, Ecthelion lets go of him, withdrawing his hands almost apologetically when he climbs off him and sits down. Immediately, Glorfindel follows his example and sits up, too, wiping the dust off his clothes.

“Wine, nothing else,” says Ecthelion. All of a sudden the teasing and cheerful notes dissipates from his voice, sounding flat and hollow now. Once half despised, now Glorfindel misses the mocking tone to it already. “What I have said before keeps me thinking, Laure. Well, no, it isn’t true, as it actually lingers in my mind for a while already, and what I said I should have said so many years ago already. Perhaps. It is no lie that I was lying earlier when I mentioned that you look impressive.” A dramatic pause follows and with every second that passed, Glorfindel’s heart sinks. Another trick, another lie – Ecthelion will never tire of emotionally manipulating him, never fail to drain his energy from him. Glorfindel wishes it would be different, he wishes he can, at least for a night completely trust him – again. So caught up in his thoughts, Glorfindel nearly misses what else his friend has to say. “Because earlier I hadn’t known how you would look tonight: not impressive but incredible.”

His hand almost slips in the direction of his friend’s face. “Liar,” he mutters.

Much to his surprise, Ecthelion sounds incredibly sincere. “Believe it or not, for once I am not lying – not even a little.”

Glorfindel sighs. For tonight, he already had his fair share of Ecthelion’s little games, being in no mood for more. “And why should I trust you?” The last time he trusted him was a second ago, and the reward was ruined garments and a sore back. He will be aching for days.

“Because in a few years you’ll sit in Mandos’ halls and regret not having listened to me. The end is nigh, believe me.”

Roughly, Glorfindel shoves him, then. “Mind stop talking about our deaths now?”

“If I may kiss you, I wouldn’t mind shutting up at all, for once?”

The suggestion does little to assuage the excitement that already engulfs him.  “Since when do you care about my permission if you’re up to anything?”

“Since you are concerned, always.” Something akin to genuineness lingers in Ecthelion’s voice, something Glorfindel can’t remember having heard all too often recently, especially not in combination with the vulnerability that clings to his friend’s features.

Despite better knowledge, Glorfindel accepts the challenge. “Prove it then.”

Ecthelion doesn’t have to be told twice. With unexpected gentleness he brings his hand towards Glorfindel’s face, brushing a strand of golden hair away. Briefly, Glorfindel feels him hesitate, and he doesn’t dare to breathe before he feels a little pressure against his skin.

By now, he has lost count how often Ecthelion has done exactly this; he’s not unused to Ecthelion touching him occasionally, yet never has it felt so affectionate, so loving and deliberate.

Why now?

So many years he had told himself that Ecthelion wasn’t interested in him, that he simply wasn’t his type, that their friendship was enough: and now, Ecthelion is about to kiss him. Before he closes his lips over his own, Ecthelion smiles at him, and takes one of Glorfindel’s hands into his own.

“How many years have we fooled ourselves?” he asks, rhetorically.

Nevertheless, Glorfindel answers with a sigh. “Too many.”

Against his leg he feels that apparently he somewhat is Ecthelion’s type, against his cheek he feels those questing fingers, whilst his lips move against Ecthelion’s with the longing he had suppressed all the years. All the fantasies he had over the years resemble bleakness now, dissipate in the frenzy his friend’s lips are able to coax from him. Without hesitation his own fingers begin to wander: over the small of Ecthelion’s back, his neck, his hair where they linger until they part with glazed eyes.

Amidst Glorfindel’s excitement resentment still lingers. “If I had known it was such an easy task to make you finally shut your mouth –“

“What then?” laughs Ecthelion, leaning towards Glorfindel almost trapping him. “I doubt our king would be amused by such unusual measurements in his sacred halls – oh well, but what if he likes –“

Glorfindel hardly takes the initiative whenever Ecthelion is involved, right now, he does, kissing him fiercely with the sole reason to indeed make him shut up. “You are a horrible being,” afterwards he says, not quite meaning it.

Affectionately, Ecthelion brushes away a strand of golden hair. Affection, muses Glorfindel, is such a strange notion to his friend, searching for the lie which isn’t there. Still, already he feels as if he could get well used to it.

Ecthelion snickers. “I know – and you are horribly attracted to me.” Although, at least partly, Glorfindel wishes to deny it, name him a liar again, he knows it’s hopeless doing so; to Ecthelion he always is like an open book to read.

*

 

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Chapter End Notes

(*) based on: “Physics is to math what sex is to masturbation.” Richard Feynman