From That Fair City by sallysavestheday

From That Fair City

The noise from the bedroom is becoming objectionably loud. Pengolodh stuffs another twist of wool in each ear, but he can still hear the rhythmic creaks of the bedstead and his traveling companions’ moans.

He doesn’t object to their relationship -- indeed, he is rather envious of their bond, and he admits to something of an admiring fascination with their stamina and their creative drive. Day in, day out, if they cannot be found alone, they will be together, and woe to the man who enters the room without sufficient warning. Nearly everyone in Gondolin has gotten an accidental eyeful, if the stories are to be believed. They have been spotted sporting together in the gardens. In the fountain. In the armory. In the baths. In the wine cellar. On the roof of the King’s Hall. In the library. In the council chamber. Behind the throne. They are masters of the cheerful apology, and their sunny delight in one another smooths over almost any breach of propriety. But here in their shared quarters in the inn, it is really too much, especially when one is trying to work.

Pengolodh sighs. He appreciates the glorious passion and the undying love, but their unrestrained enthusiasm is somewhat out of keeping with the serious atmosphere that Turgon is trying to cultivate. And it is very much not conducive to productive scholarship. A particularly vigorous bump on the bedroom wall startles him, and his pen skips across the paper, leaving an inelegant smear of ink across the notes he has been compiling on the laws and customs of the Eldar. He scowls and shakes his blotting sand over the draft.

Opportunities to travel outside Gondolin are so few and far between that he wants to make the most of this one. He had hoped for conversation along the route, for a chance to dig into his companions’ prior experiences. He suspects that they may be able to provide perspectives on events before his own lifetime that are somewhat more nuanced than Turgon’s very particular point of view.

But if the first few days of their trip are any indication, he will be hard pressed to claim any of their attention, as he is neither a comfortable mattress, a soft patch of grass, a romantic riverbank, nor a rugged and appealing tree. He briefly considers disrobing as an attention-getting ploy, but rejects that option quickly, as their mutual devotion is so famously unshakeable that his bony ankles and queries about the food served at the Mereth Aderthad are unlikely to divert them for long.

Now their two voices are warbling in ecstasy in the bedroom, uncharacteristically very slightly off key. Perhaps it can be attributed to the change of scene.

Pengolodh grimaces and pulls a new sheet of paper closer to hand. Journaling has always been a helpful way to manage his stress, and at the very least, he can distract himself by describing this rare journey for what he hopes will be readers in later days. But how can he do so without mentioning the circumstances under which he currently finds himself suffering? He will have to phrase things delicately, so as not to embarrass Turgon. He bites down on the shaft of his pen, considering.

This essay will endeavor to describe in detail my journey through the Sirion basin in the company of Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden Flower…

The acrobatic baritone behind the wall unleashes a cry of consummate delight.

…of all the Lords of Gondolin the most beloved…

In blissful harmony, the tenor hits a note well above the middle C. Pengolodh winces and shakes his head.

…unless it were Ecthelion.