Fountain, Flower, Sword by Kenaz

Chapter 5 - Glorfindel

Glorfindel departed as swiftly as he might without making a scene. The cool air hit his face and he pulled it into his lungs as if it could temper the fire within, but it did not help. I am a soldier, he reminded himself, forcing one breath after another through his constricted throat, I have born worse hurts than this. The mercy-stroke had been cleanly and efficiently delivered; that was Ecthelion’s way.

And he could hardly claim he was unaware that Ecthelion did not return his affection in a like degree: Ecthelion had made that clear in one way or another for many years. He had only himself to blame if he had chosen to ignore the subtle hints and quiet refusals Ecthelion had been laying out before him all this time. The grief he felt now he had purchased with his own coin.

But that Ecthelion rejected him because his eye had fallen on some runtish lad of unexceptional birth whom he himself had taught to hold a sword— well, there was little tonic for that. The Golden Flower had been bested on the only field he truly cared to win, and it was his own man who had done him in.

He considered taking himself to the pells to pass the night wailing away at a post with his heaviest sword, but dared not risk injury when there when a more important trial was so close at hand.  He walked briskly, his hands clenching into fists as he strode across the court. His footfalls reverberated off the the stone walls, and for the briefest of moments he had the horrible thought that if he gave voice to the misery percolating in his breast, Morgoth himself in Angband would likely hear his shout. He imagined, with a strange sort of humor, what terrible poems Salgant would write if the Hidden City fell because one man could not have what his heart most desired. The absurdity of it very nearly made him bare his teeth in a rictus of a smile.

Of course, fate had a way of being exceptionally unkind. As he passed through the Great Market, whose stalls were all shuttered tight for the night, his path crossed with the very person he least wished to see. Elemmakil took notice of him at the same time. His infuriatingly cheerful steps faltered and his expression instantly became reserved.   

“My captain.”

He made a neat salute, though he failed to look entirely dignified, what with one hand still holding up a shirttail full of strawberries.  Had circumstances been otherwise, Glorfindel would have laughed. One of the berries tumbled free and landed at his feet. They both stared at it. Glorfindel because he desperately wished to crush it under his heel in a moment of spite, and Elemmakil, Glorfindel presumed, because he didn’t know if he should pick it up or let it lie.

Perhaps it was that which softened Glorfindel’s heart a fraction.  Elemmakil, for all his efforts and his growing strength and skill, was still young. Young, and full of spirit. There had been no deceit on his part, no machinations.  He was nothing more than a besotted boy with a shirtfull of berries. Yet Glorfindel’s pride was not so eagerly appeased. Were I not his captain and liege-lord, I would call him out.

But in the end, there was nothing for it but to bear it. To call Elemmakil out would do nothing to endear him to Ecthelion, nor, in the last, would it do anything to mollify his own pride. It would only shame him, and give momentary satisfaction to his basest instincts, and those instincts would receive satisfaction enough when they faced down the Glamhoth on the Gasping Dust.  

“You are returning from Lord Ecthelion’s.” The cadence of Elemmakil’s gave the statement the slightest hint of a question.

“I am.” He offered no further elucidation. Let him think what he will; it is none of mine if he comes to inaccurate conclusions.

Elemmakil nodded, and said nothing, looking more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment of silent engagement.

Let it go, Glorfindel counseled himself. Save your venom for those who truly deserve it.

“Go home,” he told Elemmakil. “The hour is late, and the king has given me grim tidings which I will make known on the morrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Glorfindel gave a sharp half-bow, then stepped back to allow Glorfindel to pass before him.

Glorfindel walked on, his back arrow-straight and his head erect. He could feel Elemmakil’s gaze following him, and walked all the taller for it.