The Sentiment of Steel by Kenaz

Cartel

Cartel: A hand delivered written notice of challenge describing the cause of the offence that provoked a duel of honor.

Turgon’s summons came early the next morning. Ecthelion’s head and belly reeled with the effect of too much wine, and his fist throbbed with the effect of Glorfindel’s hard head. He rushed through perfunctory ablutions and put on his surcoat blazoned with the sigil of the Great Fountain. If he was to receive a dressing down for his unbecoming behavior, he preferred to do it looking as respectable as possible.

To his surprise, he found all of Turgon’s captains and advisors had been summoned, but relief was short-lived and displaced by a growing sense of unease.

Glorfindel stood at a distance, his face turned away. A dark bruise shadowed the squared line of his jaw. The heat of embarrassment suffused Ecthelion's cheeks, and he looked to the floor.

Turgon, rigid in his great-chair, was staring at something he alone could see and tapping a small scroll absently its arm. Only when the last of his footmen backed out of the room and shut the door did he look up, and then his gaze fell on none of them in particular.

“I have had word from my brother.”

He held out the scroll to his nephew, who passed it to Egalmoth without looking at it. The tensing of his jaw in an otherwise shuttered expression suggested he knew already the story it held. Egalmoth’s sharp intake of breath, however, gave away as much as Maeglin's inscrutabilty withheld. Glorfindel scanned it quickly, then looked up at him, his expression gentle, considering. That alone was enough to send a tendril of dread creeping through Ecthelion's veins. As the scroll passed from hand to hand, he set his mind to imagining what it might contain. In the end, the few short sentences proved even worse than he had feared: the Union of Maedhros was marching to war, and with them went Fingon’s army.

And with Fingon’s army went his father.

"Ten thousand men I will bring to my brother’s aid. Our armies, and those of our allies, have been greatly weakened. Yet I fear this will be our final chance to fight Morgoth far from our own lands.” His eyes unfocused once more. “My heart tells me that if we do not take the battle to him, he will soon bring it to us.”

Glorfindel cleared his throat. “Sire. Ten thousand men. We cannot possibly move an army without exposing our position.”

Turgon nodded. “Yes. I fear Gondolin cannot long remain hidden. And yet, still we shall go. Maeglin, you have agreed to marshall a portion of my troops.”

Maeglin dipped his dark head. “Yes, Uncle.”

Propelled on a tide of helpless desperation, Ecthelion stepped forward. “Sire, I ask leave to come with you. My father guards your brother’s life; I will fight for him as well as for my king.”

Turgon looked at him sharply but did not answer. The silence bore down on the room like a blanket of lead.

“My liege, I, too, would serve you in this.” Glorfindel stepped forward, and though he kept his gaze averted, he added, “Ecthelion and I have trained for years together, and have fought side by side. We know each others’ ways in battle.”

Turgon shifted his weight to lean back in his chair, looking first to one of them, then the other. “It is well you have offered, for this service is what I would have of you.

"Galdor, Duilin, Egalmoth, I leave the city in your hands. Take counsel with my daughter, for she knows my mind and my will in all things. Maeglin, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion shall captain my troops."

Once dismissed, the men filtered quickly from the room. Glorfindel fell in behind him as they moved toward the door.

“Glorfindel, a moment.”

Ecthelion grimaced and paused, one hand on the door.

Glorfindel stopped short, and cautiously turned. “My Lord?”

“Your face.”

With Turgon, one could never tell what reached his ears and what did not. Ecthelion was prepared to own himself guilty for his part in the affair. He opened his mouth to speak, but Glorfindel cut him off with an explanation of his own.

“A grappling match gone awry, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Turgon sighed and pinched his brow. Glorfindel stood silent and unflinching in his lie. Ecthelion felt as foolish as a child.

“Ecthelion, please take care that Glorfindel’s future...grappling matches... are held to the rules of the salle. And take place within the salle, for that matter.”

And to that Ecthelion could utter nothing more than,“Yes, Sire.”