Breathless by elfscribe

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Chapter 2 - History

Glorfindel discusses politics with his housekeeper and remembers how both he and Gondolin came to be in their current straits.

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Cursed be his luck of running into Pengolodh, Glorfindel thought, as he hurried through the service alleys toward his house. He should never have slept so late!

The air smelled cool and fresh. The glow on the horizon cast a rosy blush on the snow-covered peaks of the surrounding mountains, and on the city walls and spires. But down in the service lanes, the light was still dim enough to afford some cover. The ash and nightsoil workers were out with their wagons, knocking on doors and accepting the covered ceramic jars, which then would be carted out and dumped on the fields to ensure their fertility. As Glorfindel approached, he drew his hood up to cover his tell-tale banner of golden hair. Busy at their tasks, the workers paid him no heed.

Just as Glorfindel reached his home, Anor cleared the mountain tops flooding the Tumladen with light. The House of the Golden Flower with its main hall and adjoining structures was built in ascending tiers upon a hillock on the southwestern side of town and abutted the great wall that encircled the sheer rock promontory upon which Gondolin was built.  His house was topped with a slender spire, which afforded Glorfindel a view of the entire city. It was surpassed in height only by the Tower of the King.

Upon approaching the servants’ gate at the back of the compound, Glorfindel heard the goldfinches chattering in one of his gardens, and more distantly, the tramp of the morning patrol resounded along the road that ran atop the wall.  He entered through the postern gate where deliveries were made, and went past the servants’ quarters.

At the bottom of the stairs, he ran into Amarthiel, who had charge of his household. She was dressed in her blue wimple and darker blue tunic, belted by a chatelaine that jingled with useful tools. Amarthiel was short of stature but more than made up for it with her take-charge personality. She frowned her disapproval at his appearance. Glorfindel was quite certain she knew. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t approve of himself either.

“Good morn, Amarthiel,” he said, as brightly as he could manage.

“And good morn’ to you, my Lord.  You’re either up quite early, or more like, never slept. I see you’ve saved me the work of making up your bed.”

“The King and I stayed up late discussing Gondolin’s future. I slept a few hours on one of his couches.”

“Hunh,” she said. “And was his couch responsible for putting your shirt on inside out?”

Glorfindel looked down, and flushed as he noticed the exposed seams of his linen shirt. “Um,” he said, and then remembered Pengolodh’s sly smile. “Damn it all to wrath and ruin!”

“What happened? Hold still a moment.” Amarthiel selected a pair of small scissors hanging from her chatelaine and efficiently snipped a hanging thread on his sleeve.

“I ran into Loremaster Pengolodh as I was leaving the palace just now.”

“You don’t say.” She dropped the scissors, which swung for a moment from her belt. “Not wise, my Lord. The state of your garb is like to be known halfway around the city by now.”

“So I fear,” Glorfindel said. “I gave him a perfectly good explanation for staying the night at the palace.”

She tilted up her chin to look him in the eye. “And we know how well that will suffice. Let us hope nothing comes of it.  No one is immune from the King’s edict and there are plenty of sour creatures in this town who love nothing more than to catch others out. Now then, I have some news before I send you up to your chambers to dress properly for breakfast. While you were out last night, Lord Ecthelion came by.”

Glorfindel looked at her intently. “What did he want?”

“I had the impression he wanted to be sociable. I reminded him that the King had sent for you last night and then I regretted giving him the news, as apparently he was not invited.  He seemed a bit . . . downhearted.”  She pursed her lips.  Ecthelion was a favorite of hers and she disliked any hint that he was not equally loved by others.

Glorfindel nodded. He too regretted that Ecthelion had not been present last night.  Perhaps under his old friend’s discerning eye and good sense, he would have gone home earlier.  “It was a small party,” he said. “I’m sorry to have missed him.  It can’t be helped.  I’ll be gone all this afternoon as well.”

“Ah, you’ll be at the training field,” Amarthiel said.

“Aye. We must keep these restless young men occupied or they do naught but cause mischief.”

Amarthiel made a face. “I know ‘tis impolitic of me to say this, but it’s certain the Edict makes for a bunch of lusty young fellows spoiling for a fight. I see them provoking each other in the taverns.”

Glorfindel sighed. “It does at that, and I told the King it would when the Council determined we had no more room in Gondolin.” 

Amarthiel nodded. “He thinks we can redirect those desires into work, and crafts, games, and weapons practice.  Alas, in my experience, those measures are only partially successful. Despite what some of our loremasters say, elves are sensual creatures.”

“Never fear,” Glorfindel chuckled. “I’ll work the foolishness out of them this afternoon, so they should be quite docile for a few hours at least. You know many of my charges were born here and have never seen the outside world. ‘Tis hard to get them to treat this seriously.”

“All this fear and waiting and preparing.”  Amarthiel shook her head. “There are days, my Lord, when I could almost hope that Morgoth would learn our whereabouts, so we’d be able to flee this place.”

Glorfindel frowned. “You can’t mean that.”

“Nay, I don’t.” She bit her lip. “It’s a good life we have here, but I’m wondering if this was the best strategy for us. Being confined such that the whole world has narrowed to the valley below and the peaks above. Where the look of every stone and furrow is burnt in the mind’s eye. For years before we came here, we had no permanent home and wanderlust in our souls. I think we have become bored.”  She squinted accusingly at him. “Bored does not make for sharp reflexes.  It can also cause one to do foolhardy things.” 

“You speak the truth.”  Glorfindel smiled at her, which was usually enough to win her over. “Well, then perhaps you need some more work to ward your ennuie. I require a bath—a hot one.”

She leaned forward and sniffed at his chest. “I approve of that notion. I’ll see to it immediately. Is your shoulder still sore? I could send up Ferindil to work on it for you.”

Glorfindel thought, I’m sore in places he cannot mend. “After my bath, aye, that would be good. And please send up your special tisane along with a shot of brandy. I have a . . . headache.”

She clicked her tongue, but there was affection in her eyes. “One dose of my special morning-after curative coming up. I believe our sovereign is a bad influence on you.”  She patted his arm.

“Hunh,” Glorfindel said. A sound that neither confirmed nor denounced her statement, but he held her wise old gaze and gave the barest nod.

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Glorfindel eased himself down into the steaming marble tub, welcoming the relaxing heat. He lifted the cup of Amarthiel’s hangover cure from edge of the tub, and took a sip.  Ugh! He made a face, then set it back.  He would wager Amarthiel made it bitter on purpose.

The bathing chamber was perfumed with the earthy smell of peat burning in the stove at the other end of the room – a homey smell. Overhead, the elaborately carved beams, built when timber was still abundant, writhed with painted vines that sported red and yellow flowers on a background of green. Between the vines, birds flew in swooping circles.  The ceiling was painted to resemble a sky with white clouds.  

Glorfindel leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, and sighed. How had it come to this? The proud Noldor scattered and hidden in secret realms, preparing for an inevitable doom, surrounded by walls of their own making.  Walls that included invisible ones wrought of custom, law, and necessity. And he himself existed in a tiny walled garden of his own making, protecting a secret while guarding his heart. Our actions take on a life of their own and lead one inevitably to the present moment. So he remembered Ñolofinwë saying the morning Fëanáro abandoned them and they made the decision to cross the frozen wasteland of the Helcaraxë by foot. 

His current plight with his King went back over four hundred years when he dwelt in Valinor, to a time when he was called Laurëfindil. Then, he was but newly come of age. His father sent him to be fostered in Túrukáno’s household. Glorfindel felt the honor and responsibility acutely. It wasn’t long until he came to worship his beautiful, fierce lord, and followed him about like an unwhelped puppy, eager to prove his worth. He’d wanted nothing other than to bask in Túrukáno’s presence, to earn his trust and his love. That fated day when Fëanáro defied the Valar and spoke The Oath, and Túrukáno followed him, Glorfindel went along without questioning.

That decision had brought all the days that followed up to the present moment soaking in a tub, sore from his Lord’s appetites. He had to admit now, what he had not then. He’d been infatuated with a man who he saw as beautiful and wise, but was inaccessibly married. The role Glorfindel could play was champion and protector, and to that role he swore to adhere, unswervingly.  

Then came terrible days after — days of savagery and bloodshed that made him wonder why he was still sane, culminating in the evil journey over the frozen wasteland. If he closed his eyes, he could still see that landscape—so white that it burned the eyes—perilous snow-covered fields that stretched endlessly to the horizon. And over that evil land, the frost-ridden Noldor had struggled doggedly, their ragged cloaks blowing in the icy wind.  He remembered the keen air, and the smell of the wool blanket wrapped about him, ice hanging from his nose and hair, and the weight of the knotted rope he kept coiled over his shoulder. He remembered biting wind, as he stumbled along on feet that he could no longer feel, forcing his limbs to move through sheer will— and the love of his sovereign.

Then came that evil day. Túrukáno was ahead of him, floundering through snow and Elenwë led them both by a few yards. Glorfindel struggled to keep up, then heard the sound that would forever haunt his nightmares—a loud crack right under Elenwë’s feet.  She stopped dead, turned a terror-stricken face back towards them just before the ice opened up under her weight.  With an anguished cry, she slid into the water. She tried to grasp the edge of the ice to haul herself back out, but it broke apart under her hands, and with a splash, she fell back into the icy sea. At first, shocked into stillness, Glorfindel could not move his sluggish limbs.

‘Elenwë!’ Túrukáno roared, as he ran towards her.  He threw himself down, arms and legs splayed so as to spread out his weight and reached for his wife’s outstretched hand. Elenwë’s lips were blue and cracked, her eyes surrounded by dark circles, her hair frozen in place. Strange noises came from her throat as if it had frozen shut. Túrukáno inched forward; their fingertips touched. With a supreme effort he stretched and grasped her hand, and tried to pull her out.

Glorfindel became aware that others had run up beside him, then halted as the deadly cracking sound multiplied, reverberated. He was the closest; it was up to him.  He found himself moving, swinging the rope over his head and then letting it fly towards her. ‘Here, my Lady!’ he called. The knotted end of the rope plopped into the water near Elenwë’s head. Túrukáno grabbed it up and tried to wind it under her arms. But the treacherous ice split again, dropping him into the water nearly on top of her. 

‘My Lord!’ Glorfindel cried. Thrashing, Túrukáno tried to push his wife up onto the bank, but could not.

Gasping with the exertion, Glorfindel tied the rope around his chest, under his arms. ‘Take this!’ he yelled to Duilin who had come up behind him, and he thrust the end of the rope into Duilin’s hands. Then, Glorfindel fell to his stomach, pulling himself along on his forearms. Underneath him, the ice crackled and moaned. As he approached the black pool of seawater, he could see both of them struggling, splashing about.  Air bubbled up around them, and their garments wreathed on the surface. Both were sinking fast. Glorfindel had to make a choice. He knelt by the black hole in the ice, and with both hands, he grabbed his Lord by his collar. He didn’t know where the strength came from, others had claimed it was Valar-given, but with one mighty jerk, he hauled the King out of the death trap, and onto the ice beside him. Then, he turned back, reached down, flailed his hands about in the water, grabbed at a scarf and pulled and it came up in his hands. Nothing.

Trusting Duilin’s hold on the rope, Glorfindel leaned far out, knowing the ice could shatter at any moment.  He plunged his head into the water. Elenwë was about six feet below him. Her eyes looked up at him, terrified. She reached out a hand, before the blackness of the water closed over her head and there was no more anyone could do.

Beside him, the King was sobbing in great heaving gasps and Glorfindel realized that his own hot tears were crawling down his frozen cheeks.  He couldn’t feel his hands at all. Another deafening crack, followed by pops, and the ice broke around them, tilting them both into the freezing brine. Glorfindel seized Túrukáno about the chest and held him tightly, as he felt the jerk-jerk of the others hauling on the rope that brought them both to safety.   

It had begun that night, truth be known. The bond of flesh, augmented by grief. The others had stripped them of their clothes and put them under furs in a make-shift tent so that they might warm each other, else it might mean death for them both.  And there they had stayed for a day and a night. In the dark with the sound of the wind howling like a thousand lost souls, Glorfindel revived and found himself pressed naked against his idol, who still felt cold to the touch. Was he dead?  He put his fingers to his neck, detected a pulse and realized that he must warm him somehow. It was a desperate measure, but not so hard for one who had hungered for this very thing.  He took Túrukáno in his arms, wrapped his legs about him, and kissed him hard until Túrukáno’s lips moved against his own. Their mouths opened to each other as their flesh engorged and their bodies were claimed by need.  They began to rock together.  As their efforts increased and their bodies warmed, it grew hot under the furs. It was a fight for life, celebrated in unthinking carnality. The pitch of it increased, a mad frenzy as Túrukáno thrust between his thighs, then groaned loudly. Glorfindel felt the pulse, hot and sticky. Shortly thereafter Glorfindel followed. As they lay holding each other in the dark, Glorfindel was overcome with a complexity of emotions. Gratitude, grief. Shamefully, some of what he felt was joy.

But Túrukáno began to weep. ‘Why, Laurëfindil? Why did you fail me so? You should have rescued her. Not me. Not me.’ 

The pain of that memory, his terrible choice and the guilty aftermath, were as sharp as when it had first happened, so many years ago. Troubled, he sat up in the tub, reached for the soap, and began to wash under his arms. His head still ached with last night’s folly. 

That was a turning point in his life and through all the trials and battles that followed, they had not spoken of what had happened in that dark night on the ice. In Nevrast, as Turgon’s guard, he watched as the King sank into gloom, although to the rest of his followers, Turgon maintained a stalwart face. Between them was always the tension of an intimacy shared that could not be acknowledged. Then came the sign from Ulmo and the decision to escape from the larger world to the hidden vale. For a time, it lifted Turgon’s hopes and filled him with purpose.

Thus for many years, Glorfindel’s days were full of plans and building.  He stood at the right hand of the King, aiding in the construction of their city—an imitation on a smaller scale of fair Tírion.  And during that time, he became aware that Turgon’s eyes followed him everywhere.

When Gondolin was finally complete, Turgon held a great feast and invited all to attend. There was drink and food and merriment.  In the wee hours of the morning when Glorfindel came to take his leave, Turgon bade him stay. And Glorfindel did.

Afterward Glorfindel would remember that night as filled with the scent of roses, as passionate an interlude as he had ever longed for.  But the next morning when they awoke in each other’s arms, Turgon turned away his face and would not speak. Ashamed, Glorfindel left by way of the secret stair he had ordered built.  Later, when he attempted to talk about what they had become, Turgon said that there was nothing to it but mutual release. There could never be anything more, since by custom, his marriage bond outlived his wife’s death. Glorfindel argued that this was an insane thing to ask of their people. He simply could not believe that the Valar truly meant for an elf who had lost a spouse to live alone for all eternity. After all, the Valar had not objected when Finwë had remarried. In fact, Glorfindel pointed out, Turgon would not exist if Finwë had adhered to those strictures. ‘True enough,’ Turgon said ‘But perhaps it would have been better so. Much sorrow has come of Grandfather’s decision.’ 

And so their trysts continued in darkest secrecy, always on Turgon’s terms.  He was King of their hidden realm after all — who was Glorfindel to protest?  Truth be known, he yearned for their couplings like a drunkard craves wine.  But every time their love-making was over and he was sober again, logic said to end it, while his heart longed for the joy he could find in the King’s embrace. Often months would pass, sometimes a year, and Glorfindel would think Turgon was finished with him. But then there would be a late night discussing the business of the city, along with too much wine.  The King would reach for him, and the pattern would begin anew.

Then fifty years ago Gondolin’s population reached a critical thirty thousand souls, which precipitated a problem Glorfindel had long foreseen.* As a consequence, his frustrations became those of all the city’s residents. Gondolin was teaming, as more and more space was filled by the extended compounds of the growing families.  Fewer resources necessary for living, particularly timber, had forced changes such as the use of sheep dung and peat for firewood. Fights among the various houses over grazing and farmland finally forced the King and the heads of the other nine** houses in Gondolin to confront the problems.

The King convened a Council during which they parried the issue back and forth.  But the cold fact was that the valley, as rich in soil and minerals and timber as it was, could never hope to sustain an ever-increasing population without outside trade. So, it was either allow trade, which would render their secret location no longer secret; quit the Valley and slink back to Nevrast, there to await annihilation by Morgoth’s forces; or limit the population.***King Turgon took the third option. There were to be no more marriages and no more children. Illicit assignations were punishable by house arrest and second offenses could get one thrown out of the city or assigned to the nightsoil workers. Already there was a hamlet at the foot of the mountains composed of a dozen individuals who had disobeyed Turgon’s edict.  

Glorfindel had been against the ban, citing the difficulty of suppressing the body’s natural impulses. He well knew how strong such desires could be.  He’d been outvoted.

The results of this were manifold. Tensions ratcheted up around the city, which the King and his counselors had to find ways to release. They did this through the games that pitted one house against one another in sport. If an individual had an unresolvable grievance against another, he or she could cry a challenge, which combatants would fight according to strict rules. The winner set the terms for the resolution of the dispute.

Those were the official responses. Unofficially, there came to be a tacit acceptance of sexual relations that did not result in forbidden children, especially between elves of the same gender. If caught, the offenders were subject to public ridicule, and often provided a source of bawdy humor in the taverns. Nevertheless, nature being what it was, such relationships flourished.

The water in the bath was growing tepid; soon he’d be forced out.  Glorfindel drank the rest of Amarthiel’s brew.  Wincing, he chased the concoction with the glass of brandy, which he slammed down in three large gulps.  Warmth oozed slowly up from his stomach to envelope his limbs. The hair of the dog, so it was said. Much better. His head was beginning to clear.

He reflected that the enforced isolation had made the Gondolindrim insular, bored, and as prone to gossip as sparrows. Some of them seemed to live for scandal. Glorfindel knew there had been speculation about his relationship with the King already. It would not take much to set tongues a wagging.  The stakes were high. For, as Turgon himself had said even that morning, ‘What kind of a King cannot obey his own edicts?’ What indeed? And what could be said of a lord of a great house who abetted that deception? To this, Glorfindel had not the answers. He only knew he’d been party to duplicity and hypocrisy and it did not sit well with his conscience.

Two years earlier, Glorfindel had made a concerted attempt to break it off and told Turgon they could never lie with one another again.  Stone-faced, Turgon had agreed.  Afterward, the tension between them had built and Glorfindel believed that their estrangement had played a role in the King making him one of Aredhel’s escorts.  It culminated in Turgon’s vicious tongue-lashing eight days ago, when he returned, having failed his King yet again.  ‘You have betrayed me!’ Turgon roared at him before all the Council.  Those words had cut Glorfindel to the quick. Then, last night, they’d reconciled—again.

He’d gone over all of this history until his head was sore, and still no answers seemed possible, aside from the one where he broke finally and permanently with the King, either through death or desertion. Neither were palatable.

Having finished washing, Glorfindel slid back down into the water and contemplated his ceiling. The work was beautiful, painted by a master craftsman.  His eyes followed the endlessly repeating designs. Circular patterns that went nowhere.  Just like his life.

A knock came at the door, and Glorfindel answered. Ferindil stuck his dark head in.  “Are you ready for me, my Lord?”

“Aye. Come in.”  Glorfindel got up with a swoosh of water, stepped out of the tub, and allowed Ferindil to wrap a towel about him, pat him dry, and then walk him over to the padded table, where he lay down. There was a pop of a seal being opened and he smelled orange-scented linseed oil just before Ferindil’s warm hands glided over his arm and shoulder and then pressed in. 

“Uh,” Glorfindel grunted. The pain felt torturously exquisite.

“Too much?” Ferindil asked, pulling back.

“Nay, more pressure,” Glorfindel replied. “I can withstand it.”           

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Chapter End Notes

Amarthiel (S) Amarth means fate or Amarthiel fated daughter.  Glorfindel’s housekeeper

Fëanáro (Q) Fëanor (S)

Ferindil (S) lover of beech trees.  Glorfindel’s body servant

Ñolofinwë (Q) Fingolfin (S)

*Re: Gondolin’s population. Thirty thousand is a low estimate. Tolkien says Turgon sent 10,000 warriors to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (Battle of Unnumbered Tears) so allowing for half the population to be women or children, and a percentage of individuals not trained for battle and/or staying behind to keep Gondolin functioning, at minimum the population had to be 30,000.  I’d say 40,000 is more likely.  But that seems an inordinate number for the vale of Tumladen to support. 

**Note on Houses in Gondolin at the time of this story. 

Tolkien says Gondolin had twelve Houses that included the House of the King (Turgon).  I have described the King as having a Council composed of the heads of nine other houses.  Here’s my reasoning.  Two of the twelve Houses described in the “Fall of Gondolin” in The Book of Lost Tales 2 were headed by men who have not yet appeared in this narrative: Maeglin and Tuor. So, either the heads of the House of the Mole (Maeglin) and the House of the Wing (Tuor) died and the households were put under the care of these other men when they appeared, or they established their own Houses.  I’ve decided it was the latter. 

Houses of Gondolin:

The King - Turgon

Golden Flower  - Glorfindel

Fountain - Ecthelion

Heavenly Arch - Eglamoth

Tree - Galdor

House of the Pillar & House of the Tower of Snow - Penlod

Harp - Salgant

Hammer of Wrath - Rog

House of Archers - Duilin

Mole - Maeglin

Wing - Tuor 

***Regarding elven fertility. I know that in “The Laws and Customs among the Eldar,” Tolkien says that elven children are usually born shortly after marriage and that although it’s still physically possible to produce children after that, elves lose interest in doing so. It seems to be Tolkien’s answer to why the virtually immortal elves don’t overrun Middle-earth. There is also a line that some fans have interpreted as the ability of elves to control their fertility, “For with regard to generation the power and the will are not among the Eldar distinguishable.” My reading of this is Tolkien is not saying elves could magically prevent a child from being conceived but that the desire for sex is not separate from the desire for procreation. And in any case, to my way of thinking, these concepts are mutually incompatible. If the elves can control their fertility, then there would be no need for them to lose sexual desire, which Tolkien clearly says they do. It seems sad that once having offspring, elves are doomed to live an eternity with a beloved spouse with no interest in sharing the joy and affirming intimacy of sex. For the purposes of this story, I am assuming that elves do not have perfect control over their fertility and still experience sexual desire even when told by their King that it’s detrimental to their existence. Besides, what else is there to do for fun in Gondolin?*g*

 

“For these reasons it came to pass that the Eldar brought forth few children; and also that their time of generation was in their youth or earlier life, unless strange and hard fates befell them. But at whatever age they married, their children were born within a short space of years after their wedding. For with regard to generation the power and the will are not among the Eldar distinguishable. Doubtless they would retain for many ages the power of generation, if the will and desire were not satisfied; but with the exercise of the power the desire soon ceases, and the mind turns to other things”.

- Laws and Customs among the Eldar. Morgoth’s Ring.  The History of Middle-earth, vol. X. Ed. By Christopher Tolkien.Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1993. p. 212-213.