The Sentiment of Steel by Kenaz

Engagement

Engagement : Blades are in contact.

A storm had begun to gather. The dark menace lingered at the northeastern ridge of the Echoriath, the sort whose violent path one could trace by degree across the level plains until the clouds burst over the city. A hint of ozone hummed pungently in the air, and the birds had all gone silent. In the aftermath, they would reconvene and sing of the rains while the city’s stones gave off a warm, wet scent presaging Summer.

Ecthelion deliberated over what to wear with the furious indecision of a maid before a ball. Not even Salgant, he grumbled aloud, would devote this much attention to his trousers. Nothing too fussy or formal, something that looked considered, but not too considered. And nothing that would show a stain. An exercise in absurdity when he considered Glorfindel had already seen him in every piece of clothing he possessed, to say nothing of seeing him fouled with dirt, stained with blood, and ripe with sweat.

Manners dictated that he abort his first attempt at departure; he had forgotten to bring wine. Not that they often made gifts to each other, formalities between them had years ago been eschewed, but this was not an ordinary invitation, and he did not wish to treat it as such. And while he well knew what treasures stocked Glorfindel’s cellars, his own were impressive in their own right, and if they lacked in scope, they compensated in the desirability of his vintages. He returned home, chose a red he had brought from Nevrast and had been saving for some unspecified celebration, and with a last adjudicating glimpse of himself in the looking glass in the front hall, set out once more. A neat card bearing an illuminated harp sat poised on a salver by his door. If paper could look either eager or pompous, Salgant’s invitation looked both. Well, a reply would wait; he rather liked making Salgant wait.

He stood for a moment inside the damascened gates of the grand house before raising his hand to knock on its immense and graven door. His knuckles had barely grazed the wood before it swung open.

Evidently, he had not been alone in taking great pains with his wardrobe: Glorfindel appeared in the doorway in an ivory shirt with a carmine tunic embroidered in gold, and cross-gartered trousers to set off the musculature of his legs to their best possible advantage. His unbound hair, washed and oiled, gave off a living glow like Glingal’s leaves.

“Welcome,” he said, gesturing Ecthelion inside and accepting his bottle. Ecthelion wished he had chosen a white; his throat was parched, his chest was tight, and he didn’t think either of them would had the patience to allow the current bottle to decant. They made desultory conversation while they waited, and once a glass was offered, Ecthelion was quick to drink it.

Dinner was a rather more impressive affair than Ecthelion had expected; Glorfindel had outdone himself with the bird, and selected a delicious array of fruits and cheeses. The wine, at long last, began to do its work in earnest, and conversation resumed a comfortable flow. Over dessert— a fruit tart from the very baker in front of whose stall they had lately caused such a ruckus—they removed to the sitting room and indulged in brandy and idle gossip.

“I hear Celír the saddler has affianced himself,” Ecthelion mentioned casually. “I think his lady drew a line in the sand, and he determined to seize the opportunity before he lost it.”

“Ah, marriage. Ecthelion’s favorite topic.” Glorfindel’s expression had an avidity about it that made Ecthelion feel like hare in the gaze of a hound. “And yet, you do not so often speak of it now.”

“I suppose I don’t, no.”

“Nor have I ever known you to actually court any ladies. Is there none who catches your eye, then?”

A dangerous question. Had Glorfindel phrased it differently, he would have answered readily, for he could have said in honesty no woman had caught his eye.

"When I think of marriage,” he began carefully, “I think of my father. Of his devastation-- and my own-- when my mother and brother perished crossing of Helcaraxë. Or else I recall the bitter parting of my grandsire and his wife when she announced she would sooner be estranged from him than rebel against the Valar. Such things do not make the institution appealing. And yet my father wished me married soonest, all the same."

Glorfindel, fingers steepled against his lips, nodded.

He traced the rim of his glass with his fingers, and the glass sang a clear, reverberating note. His father had taught him that trick when he was a child, when the flute had ruled his heart, and not the sword, and when he had favored the making of music over the making of dynasties. After their treacherous crossing, he had not played his flute again, nor sang, nor ever laughed with joy. Ecthelion lifted his finger; the note trailed away.

He knew it best not to ask, not to propel the conversation further down its current path, but the silence tormented him, needling him with its emptiness. “What of you, then?”

Ecthelion did not have to see Glorfindel step toward him to feel the vibrations of his presence, as if the storm fomenting in the mountains had penetrated the walls. Glorfindel’s glass rattled when he set it down, the slightest tremor in his hand, the hand that was then upon his cheek.

“Can you not guess?”

His breath was sweet; Ecthelion could smell the cloves beneath the wine. Of course Glorfindel would be mindful of even the smallest of details. He could hear the thundering of a heart but could not discern whether or not it was his own. All he had to do was let his eyes fall closed and let his breath catch—ah!— and the dance would irrevocably change.

“Ah…”

Glorfindel’s mouth was hot as fire, by turns demanding and yielding. It should not have surprised him that they were as well matched in this as they were in their swords. They matched each other strength for strength, each anticipating the other, each advancing and retreating, disarming with an unexpected touch, or a whimper of satisfaction. Only the most necessary words were spoken now.

“Have you—?” Glorfindel’s breath was a gentle wind in his ear, promising wonders.

“Once.”

“Come.”

They stumbled up the stairs, laughing when they fell together and clambered again to their feet long enough to propel themselves into Glorfindel’s suite, leaving a trail of discarded clothing in their path, the detritus of the oncoming storm.

A lamp flickered on the bedside table, illuminating the golden embroidery on the coverlet, warming the smooth, dark curves of the mahogany bedstead. The mattress gave under his weight when Glorfindel pressed him backward. That gleaming gaze, both predatory and adoring, held him motionless, like the swordsman who finds himself pinned at the throat by his opponent’s perfect strike. Ecthelion watched the last of Glorfindel’s clothing fall away, and took in the full measure of him, naked and glorious. And yet, he did not approach. Even now, he left Ecthelion an avenue of escape. The swordsman’s invitation, Ecthelion thought: deliberately exposing himself to his opponent to induce the attack.

Inexperience did not stay him, nor lack of desire. What restrained him now was the knowledge that he would find himself forsworn. But in the end, need overwhelmed him, and he extended his hand.

Their bodies fit as if they had been made for such a purpose, legs twining, dark hair tangling into gold. He could hear the rasp of changing breath when he took Glorfindel in hand, could feel the shift of muscle beneath the skin, and then he was caught in Glorfindel’s restless grip, and all thought and reason fell away.