The Sentiment of Steel by Kenaz

Corps à Corps

Corps à Corps: "Body-to-body;" physical contact between the two fencers during a bout, illegal in foil and sabre.

Ecthelion had behaved badly; of that, he was all too well aware. But for all his skills and knowledge, he hadn’t the slightest idea how to mend the damage he had inflicted: years spent keeping free from entanglements, of evading and parrying, had left him without any useful skills in this arena. He’d gone once to Glorfindel’s house to make a formal apology, but had been so brusquely informed that the master of the house was not in that he wondered if Glorfindel’s staff had been tasked with delivering a kind and comfortable lie in order to spare both of them the awkwardness of a meeting. He avoided the training salles until Galdor took him to task for his absence, and then he arrived as late as possible, avoiding the fencing arena entirely, only to watch Glorfindel depart with Aphadon quick at his heels.

Aphadon, even in flight, had looked rather too satisfied.

Meanwhile, a simple word dropped in the right ear lead to a deluge of invitations, and to the lords and ladies of Turgon’s court assailing him with an endless parade of eligible daughters. Unmarried women of age, audacity, and means took matters into their own hands and called on him themselves, toting their married friends along to chaperone. Some were pert and charming, others were lovely yet facile, but no woman’s virtue was ever imperiled in his company: their pliance and softness simply served to remind him of their opposite.

Yet while he had seen little of Glorfindel himself, the man clearly hadn’t been licking his wounds behind closed doors. Not that Ecthelion would have imagined such a bold creature cloistering himself away.

"For a man who single-mindedly dedicates himself to the martial arts, he is now giving his suitors the same zealous attention!" Elemmakil remarked after one of Glorfindel’s swift withdrawals from the salle, "Particularly Aphadon, there. I hadn’t known his interest lay in that direction."

Ecthelion had excused himself from the conversation, not wishing to hear anything more on the matter.

But Salgant's party, and Glorfindel’s presence there, could not be avoided. He had long since lost interest in attending, but he had given his word— proving once again that a promise given tended always to end badly. Many hints had been dropped in the week prior by a number of his new feminine acquaintances mentioning ever-so-casually that they wished to attend, but lacked a proper escort. Ecthelion alternately feigned deafness and ignorance, then went to the party alone.

He arrived too late for fashion, but not so late as would give offense. The entertainment— a clever musical farce both written by and featuring the host, of course— was already well underway, sparing him any pointed remarks about his tardiness.

His stomach clenched and his heart constricted the moment he entered Salgant’s great hall. Glorfindel shone like the sun, his radiance making all else in the room appear colorless and dull. He wore his richest tunic, a jeweled dagger hung from a finely-tooled belt and rested at his hip. His height and broad shoulders gave him the presence of an ancient hero.

Aphadon was close at his side, the young blossom yearning toward the sun and greedy for its radiance. Ecthelion noted how often the young man touched him when he laughed, or at any other occasion he could. He had even garlanded his dark hair with celandine, which Ecthelion felt was a particularly egregious bit of foppery. He rolled back his shoulders and forced himself to loosen his fingers before they became fists.

He spotted Rôg and his shaved pate standing apart by a table of meats and cheeses and took root there.

“This corner is my territory,” Rôg said by way of greeting. He popped a piece of cheese in his mouth.

“I feel hard pressed to mingle this evening. I hope you don’t mind company. I promise not to talk much.”

Rôg chuckled and gestured at a platter of fruit. “Be my guest. Who are you avoiding? If it’s Salgant, don’t worry: he’s preoccupied with his fawning admirers.”

Ecthelion sighed. “Salgant is the least of my concerns.”

But Rôg, canny as he was strange, followed the line of his gaze and surmised all. “Ah. Glorfindel and his tart.”

Ecthelion frowned at him, but Rôg just shrugged and turned back to the cheese. But though he tried, Ecthelion could not keep himself from following the pair as they made their circuit of the room.

Once the entertainments ceased, Glorfindel and Aphadon scuttled out one of the side doors, and though he loathed himself for it, Ecthelion followed. Their path was not difficult to discern; Glorfindel had not bothered to hide it. He found them cloistered together in an alcove in the hallway leading toward Salgant’s garden. Glorfindel’s arm was looped around the young man’s waist, and the stars in the boy’s eyes could have lit up the night sky.

He had no right to his anger, and even less to his jealousy. And yet he was both. Miserably so.

Glorfindel must have known full well he had followed. He brushed Aphadon’s hair back from his shoulder, and Aphadon canted his head to reveal the arch of his neck. Ecthelion’s heart climbed into his throat. He forced himself to remain silent, though every nerve in his body wished to roar. Glorfindel’s gaze flicked up and locked with Ecthelion’s. His expression betrayed nothing— neither guilt nor guile, and certainly not surprise. Nor, however, did he make any further movement toward Aphadon.

Ecthelion cleared his throat and Aphadon startled, his cheeks reddening.

"Leave us."

Ecthelion's eyes were fixed on Glorfindel, but his tone left no question as to whom he addressed. Aphadon looked to Glorfindel for direction, but none was forthcoming. He attempted and failed a look of defiance; once the sun had turned away, Ecthelion mused unkindly, the little flower had fallen into shadow.

"Now," he snapped, and Aphadon retreated.

“You trespass, Ecthelion.” Despite his golden demeanor, his voice was all ice.

“And you certainly recovered your spirits swiftly enough.”

Glorfindel’s laugh was as sharp and brittle as a shard of broken glass. "It is none of your concern. You made your interest— or, rather, your lack thereof—ineluctably clear.”

The rumble and clack of a closing door made both of them turn. There stood Rôg, looking somehow both irritable and amused.

“Fight or fuck, lads,” he grunted. “I don’t care which, but whatever it is between you, sort it soonest. Glorfindel, that tart of yours is running his mouth about a duel between the two of you over his honor. I needn’t warn you what will happen if Salgant catches wind of it, except to say that it will probably rhyme. I daresay Turgon won’t be pleased to hear of it, either.”

Ecthelion blew out a breath of exasperation. “You would wield my promise as a cudgel!” He snapped through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Rôg’s sardonic expression. “I have tried to apologize, but you have avoided me at every turn, and you parade your little paramour in my face to punish me for remaining faithful to my word." His anger and frustration rose with his voice. "Do you feel better now? For I know I don’t!”

“Say what you will of him, at least he didn’t squander his youth in honorable chastity." Glorfindel gave him a hard-edged smile that stopped short of his eyes. "There’s a great deal to be said for experience and an inventive spirit. Your poor bride, whoever she may be, will very well find herself wishing for as much.”

The surge of blood to Ecthelion’s head was swift and unabating, and the echo of it pounded in his ears. Before courtesy or common sense or anything else could stop him, Ecthelion drew back and let loose with a punch that connected squarely with Glorfindel’s jaw and sent him reeling and sliding down the polished marble of the hall.

Glorfindel, ever the warrior, recovered in an instant, leaping up from the floor and lunging toward him, a fierce perversion of their usual playful tussles, but Rôg jumped between them and held them apart. He alone, perhaps, possessed strength enough to keep them from ripping each other limb from limb, but it was less his might that kept their fists at bay than his presence alone, an inescapable reminder to both of them that their unseemly behavior had been witnessed.

Rôg eyed at each of them with disdain. “Had enough?”

Ecthelion shook him off and put up his hands, storming down the hall without looking back.