The Sentiment of Steel by Kenaz

---

Coup de Grace

Coup de Grace: The dagger stroke given to mercifully end the suffering of a wounded duelist.

---

Ecthelion moved like a wraith among his men, seeing to his wounded and burying his dead, stopping only when Turgon’s herald forced him to have the gash on his forehead sutured. He took the physician’s offered dram before the needle pierced his flesh and wished he hadn’t; the scald of it down his throat reminded him of fire, of which he had seen too much, and did little to stem the pain in any case. Day yielded to night, and there was nothing left to be done. He grimly made his own retreat.

He sat at the edge of his cot, staring down blankly at his bloody boots. His squire had taken his armor and sat, a silent and unobtrusive shape in the corner of the tent, scrubbing at the blood with handfuls of sand. Neither man looked up when Glorfindel entered without warning or leave.

“May I come in?” he asked, too late.

Always brash, Ecthelion thought, looking up. Always brash, and always Glorfindel. He took in the blood-soaked bandages around arm and thigh. The bruise on his jaw had been joined by a black ring around his eye. “You are—” He did not sound like himself. He cleared his parched throat. “You are hurt.”

Glorfindel shook his head. “Nothing that won’t heal.” His voice, too, was hoarse, strange from smoke and shouting.

Ecthelion nodded vaguely. He stood, but did not speak. He had used all his words for his men and now had nothing left. His mind overlayed his father’s face on his Glorfindel's form in the darkness. He imagined the widening eyes, the blood, the end.

Glorfindel read something in his face and asked the squire to leave them. That the young man did so without seeking Ecthelion’s leave suggested that he, too, took heed of the desperation and misery straining behind the taut restraints of canvas and mail, and did not wish to witness his captain’s undoing.

“Ecthelion, look at me.”

Glorfindel stepped further into the tent, into the wavering torchlight, and then Ecthelion thought he saw the flame of the Balrog’s lash wrapping around his neck.

“No,” he whispered, and his knees buckled beneath him.

Glorfindel caught him, held him, and they sank to the ground together. The grip of his arms was unyielding. His hands caught up in Ecthelion’s hair. Ecthelion felt himself breaking apart into a thousand little pieces.

“Oh, my heart, my dearest heart.” Glorfindel’s breath was warm in his ear, sweet when it should have been fetid. “I am so sorry.”

He let himself be held together. If Glorfindel would hold him just so, he thought, he could pull himself together. This was but a momentary bit of weakness.

Glorfindel drew back, took Ecthelion’s face in his hands. “I am so sorry. Ecthelion, I am so sorry.” He brushed Ecthelion’s hair away from his face, and Ecthelion winced as the callused hand caught against his stitches.

“Oh!” Glorfindel whispered. “Forgive me; I am ungentle.” He leaned in and kissed the wound. The brief sound Ecthelion made was not one of pain.

“Damn me for a stubborn ass; I should have found you earlier, before we left Gondolin. Had you fallen and I not told you—”

“I love you.” As the words left his lips, he knew he had never been more sure of anything in his life, and nothing in the world would have stayed him from this admission.

Glorfindel looked at him, bewildered. “I—What?”

“Just that, nothing more. I love you. I need you to know this.”

Glorfindel stared for a moment, and then enfolded him in his arms once more. “And I you. Take a wife if you must. Sire a child, a passel of children, I care not; it cannot touch this.”

Ecthelion allowed himself to be comforted. “There will be no wife, Glorfindel. No children. Not for me. My promise perished with my father, and if I am called to account for it some day, then so be it.” He inhaled deeply, and let pass a deep breath. “But I do not think I shall be.”

He pulled out of Glorfindel’s embrace so he could take Glorfindel’s face between his palms. “My heart,” he whispered, and kissed him, for his mouth had no more words. Fiercer desires would have to wait; the enemy was still too near, the cot too narrow, and the men were exhausted in body and mind. But it was enough on this bleak, black night: to hold and to be held, to kiss, and to be kissed. To whisper promises of the future when any future at all was far from certain.

“I’m sorry I hit you again,” Ecthelion said, later.

“It was unearned this time. Though still well-aimed.”

“I did not know what I was doing.”

“I know. I'll take it out of your hide later, if you'll let me.”

“Let you?" a weary chuckle. "I'll demand it of you."

Glorfindel's smile was still bright, if a bit subdued. "I should return to my own camp. People will talk.”

"No. Stay here. Just you and I."

"Just you and I? We're in the middle of the camp."

Ecthelion felt his heart lighten. He imagined them japing and sparring together in the market square once more. “I care not. Let them talk. Let Salgant make sarcastic odes. Poorly rhymed ones, even. I care not, I tell you.” but he turned solemn then. “Now we have come forth from Gondolin, I fear Turgon spoke rightly: our land will not remain secret. We have not seen the end of battle, nor the final defeat. In my heart, I feel our time draws near.”

Again, a flash of flame seemed to wrap around Glorfindel’s throat, and Ecthelion shut his eyes to blot it out, but Glorfindel shook him gently, and he opened them once more. He told himself the lantern light had tricked him, that the torch’s flame had played strangely on Glorfindel’s gorget. Glorfindel, though, was studying him ardently, as if to burn an image into his memory.

“Whatever time is left to us, let it be you and I together.”

“Ecthelion, my beloved, my treasure.”

“If it is within my power, I will have vengeance for my father.” Perhaps then he could be forgiven him for not giving him heirs. Perhaps then he could pronounce the wounds between them healed, even if they were never to meet again. “I will slay Gothmog as Gothmog slew him. This I swear, dear heart, with you as my witness.”

Glorfindel shook his head. “No, not this night. Please. There will be time enough for blood-oaths. I wish tonight to think on brighter days. Lay down your sword, Ecthelion. Tonight, the battle is over”

And so Ecthelion kissed him again, slowly and deeply, and felt, for a moment, peace. The swordsmen of Gondolin had taken their own small victory in the midst of defeat. Ecthelion, sealing his new promise deep in his heart, knew both satisfaction and resolve. For with Glorfindel at his side, he thought, perhaps not every promise must end badly.