Breathless by elfscribe

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Chapter 4 - Outcasts

To take Glorfindel’s mind off his troubles, Ecthelion takes him on a long walk to the village of the lawbreakers.

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Turgon’s guards marched Glorfindel and Pengolodh along the main road from the Great Market to the Palace grounds and then around the tower, through the gardens, and past the King’s Fountain to the main entrance. From there they went up the stairs, headed towards the Throne Room.  He’s going to use every prop of power, Glorfindel thought. 

Morgil gave Glorfindel an encouraging nod. They had known each other for years, had fought together. Glorfindel was glad for his support.

The wardens threw open the doors to the throne room.  Built of black marble, the walls and floor reflected the red torchlight. At the far end of the room Turgon sat upon his throne dressed in full robes of state. He was leaning on his sceptre — a gilded staff with a large garnet set in the top — as if he needed it to support the weight upon his shoulders. His mouth was set in a bitter line.  

One look at Turgon’s face, and Pengolodh noticeably blanched. Glorfindel was not sure himself how this would play out, but didn’t hold any hope that it would go well for either of them. The guards came to a halt. Glorfindel and Pengolodh approached the dais and both went down on one knee. 

“You may rise,” Turgon said.  He held out a hand to Pengolodh. “My friend, what have I ever done to you that you should seek to besmirch my name and that of my Master of Arms?”

Glorfindel was surprised to hear the King take an aggrieved tone instead of an angry one, but he approved.

Pengolodh kept his head lowered respectfully. “My Lord, only the two of you know if what I have said is true or not. Please consider that I am doing this for your own good and the good of the realm. You must realize that your actions have occasioned unhealthy speculation. It is not wise for a sovereign to hold one set of standards for his subjects and another for himself— not if he wishes to command the favorable regard of his people.”

Turgon’s back stiffened. “The regard of my subjects is not yours to command. Nor to influence. You have made unfounded accusations.  You are lucky I’m willing to be forgiving and haven’t ordered you tossed off the cliffs of Caragdûr.”

Pengolodh stepped back and if possible became paler. “Are you threatening me, my Lord?”

“If you wish to think it,” Turgon replied. “Now, I am asking you, as a friend and your lord and sovereign, to recant your slander and consign this  . . . speculative doggerel to your poetic trash bin.”

Pengolodh hesitated and his eyes darted from King to the guards and then to Glorfindel, who stood to the side with his arms folded.  Pengolodh’s mouth set in resolve as his shoulders squared. “Nay, I cannot,” he said.  “I have already publicly cried a challenge on Lord Glorfindel, which he accepted. The law is clear.  Neither of us can back out.  If he doesn’t wish to fight, it’s a simple matter of taking a public oath in Manwë’s name that what I have said is false.”

Turgon’s scowl deepened, along with the angry red hue of his face.  “Is this true, Glorfindel? He made a challenge?”

“I’m afraid it is, my Lord,” Glorfindel said.

“When is it to take place?”

“Two days hence in the arena.  At three hours past noon.” 

“This serves no purpose but to lend credence to your baseless accusation,” Turgon snarled. “I forbid it!” He thumped the sceptre. “Pengolodh, I’m restricting you to your house for an indeterminate amount of time until this nonsense blows over, or you learn wisdom and recant your unfounded lies.”

Pengolodh’s jaw moved sideways.  “By so doing, you unwittingly make me a martyr, my Lord.  Restricting me will not make this blow over.  Rather it will set every tongue in the city awagging.”

“Clearly, I have allowed you too much license in this city,” Turgon replied. His flat voice barely disguised his fury.  “You are hereby confined to your house.  Do not attempt to leave or I will exact a severe penalty. Captain!”

“Aye, my Lord.”  Morgil bowed and then nodded at the other guards. “Take him home.”

“My Lord, there is an old saying, ‘the truth will out,’” Pengolodh said.  He inclined his head ever so slightly, then turned on his heel and left between two of the guards. 

Not knowing if his audience was over, Glorfindel shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  An intense desire to run home and disappear inside a jug of wine washed over him.

“Morgil, you are relieved,” Turgon said.  “I need a moment to discuss this challenge with my Master of Arms.”

“Aye, my Lord,” Morgil said.  He bowed low and then he and the remaining guard left. The doors clicked shut behind him.

At this, Turgon let the sceptre clatter to the floor, slumped back in his chair and covered his face with one hand. “We’re undone, and will pay the penalty for our sins.  How did he find out?”

“He was waiting for me when I left the palace this morning.  Apparently my appearance was in sufficient disarray that it confirmed what he already suspected.”

“By Ulmo, why couldn’t you have been more careful?” Turgon said.

“I was as careful as always,” Glorfindel growled, stricken at the unfairness of it.  “But he’d stationed himself on the path where he’d catch me.  Pengolodh is right, the truth will out.”

“I’m shocked he made the challenge himself. Pengolodh is no swordsman.”

“He appointed a champion—Lord Rog.”

“Rog!” Turgon cried.  “Can you beat him?”

“It remains to be seen,” Glorfindel said grimly. 

“I can’t go against a challenge,” Turgon said, miserably. “The law is clear.”

“My Lord,” Glorfindel said.  “There is a more important concern. I am . . . not sure I can defend a falsehood.  It goes against my sense of honor.  I do not think that Manwë . . . .”

“To Angband’s pits with your honor, Laurëfindil!  You should have thought of this before you began this affair!”

“I . . . , my Lord,” Glorfindel said.  He swallowed hard. “As I recall . . .”

“You!  That day on the ice, when you rubbed up against me after you allowed Elenwë to die!” Turgon roared. “This is your fault alone and now I shall reap the scorn of my countrymen.  This might even jeopardize our peace and security—everything we have fought so hard for.  If ever you loved me and value your oath of fealty to my House, you will fight Lord Rog; you will defeat him and you will put an end to all these rumors.  Once done, as your right of victory, you will require our Loremaster to recant his slander. Do you hear me?” Turgon was breathing hard.

“There is another option,” Glorfindel said between clenched teeth. 

“And what might that be?”

“We could admit the truth of it. Come clean and ask the Gondolindrim for forgiveness.”

“Nay, never!  I cannot appear so weak. I will not and, as you love me, neither will you!”

“I fear your stubbornness will be the death of us all!” Glorfindel said.

“Not another word, treasonous wretch!” Turgon shouted. His eyes blazed in his pale face. “Another King might well have put you to death for losing my sister. I have been far too forgiving of your errors. Go! Be gone from my sight!”  

Glorfindel bowed and then fled the hall, leaving Turgon bent over with his elbows propped upon his thighs, hands pressed to his forehead.

***************

Both angry and stricken to the heart by his sovereign’s words, Glorfindel headed home as quickly as he could.  He was accosted several times by elves he knew who expressed outrage at the Loremaster’s innuendo.  Another knot of elves giggled and whispered among themselves as he passed. One member of Salgant’s household actually hissed at him.

When he reached his house, he was in a fine fettle.  He slammed the front door and ordered his door warden to send a cask of wine to his rooms.  Glorfindel was deep into his second mug when Ferindil entered with Ecthelion, who was dressed more warmly than the weather required.

“Are you sure you want to be seen in my company?” Glorfindel growled. “I appear to be anathema in Gondolin.”

“Then we are both outcast. May I share some of that?” Ecthelion gestured at the cask.

“As you please,” Glorfindel said. 

Ferindil poured out a cup for Ecthelion and then bowed and retreated from the room.

Ecthelion settled himself in a nearby chair, took a swallow of the wine, then pursed his lips. “You look as if a rat is chewing on your heart. What happened with the King?”

“Pengolodh is imprisoned in his house until further notice. For all I care, the bastard could stay there until the Dagor Dagorath. He's lucky though. Turgon threatened to toss him off a cliff."

"Well, if the King had actually heard the song, I think he'd have done it. Not for the innuendo, but for the terrible poetry. At least confined, Pengolodh won't continue to entertain the masses with that dross. Did Turgon speak to you?”

“Hunh,” Glorfindel glowered.  He took a large gulp.

“It went ill, then,” Ecthelion said. 

“I don’t wish to speak of it,” Glorfindel replied.

“So, the challenge is still on?”

Glorfindel nodded.  “I have been instructed by my King and secret lover to battle a mountain of an elf with hands like hammers to prove to one and all that he and I are not and never have been doing what in fact we’ve been doing—my sense of honor and justice be condemned to Mandos.”

“A difficult situation,” Ecthelion agreed.

“This offends me to my core, my friend.  I see you’re prepared for the weather to turn cold.  A vain hope.”

“Nay, rather I want to stretch my legs a bit— this time outside the confines of the city.  I think you should come along.”

Glorfindel paused with his cup halfway to his mouth.  “Why. What is to be gained?”

“A change of perspective and a bit of fresh air,” Ecthelion said.  “Come on.  I insist.  It’ll do us both good.”

“Where exactly?” Glorfindel said.

“I have an itch to take the pass to the summit of Thôraegas.”

“I cannot go rambling about.  I have obligations.”

“And I promise you, we’ll be back in two days, just in time for you to get smashed about in the arena by our Lord Blacksmith, and if you can still walk, you’ll be able to answer Salgant’s challenge in the Games two days after that.”

“You are not helping.”  Glorfindel gave him a wry smile.  “Besides my team needs more practice before we’re ready to face Salgant’s men.”

Ecthelion grinned at him. “I’ve asked Duilin to train them until we get back.  He was happy to do it.  Said getting out of the city was just what you needed.”

“Hunh,” Glorfindel said again.

Ecthelion drained his mug, then set it down on the table. “Humor me, old friend. Call Ferindil and Amarthiel to help make up your traveling kit—another layer of clothes and a warm cloak, dried meat and fruit, and a very large horn of brandy ought to do the trick.”

Glorfindel hesitated, prepared to say him nay, so he could stew in solitude and feel sorry for himself, but when he looked into Ecthelion’s face, with his inviting smile, and those eyes, those amazingly gorgeous eyes that shone like a field of stars on a clear summer’s night, he found that, in fact, he’d like to leave the stultifying city behind for a time and go exploring with his dearest friend.  “Very well,” he said. “I submit to your will. Lead on.”

******************

It was late when Glorfindel and Ecthelion with their packs trussed, set off at a brisk pace on the lane that ran along the base of the wall that encircled Gondolin. They reached the main gate, waved at the gatekeeper, then followed the road out of the main entrance that switched back and forth down the face of the Amon Gwareth.*  The moon was waxing towards full and provided sufficient light  to illuminate their way.  It wasn’t long until the city was receding behind them as they tramped the road that ran between the cultivated fields of wheat and barley on one side and vineyards on the other.  It was quiet out here, the night marked only by the nightspeech of birds and insects, a pleasant contrast to the ever-present buzz of Gondolin. The air felt cooler and the smell of growing things was refreshing. Glorfindel breathed it in and released a sigh.

“You were right,” he said to Ecthelion.  “This is just what I needed.”

“Trust me to know you better than you know yourself,” Ecthelion said.

*************

They took the path that angled towards the base of the Echoriath, the face of the mountains surrounding the Tumladen valley.  Eventually, several leagues from the feet of the mountains, they stopped by a dry basin full of low bushes. Glorfindel sat down on a boulder and drank from his water flask.  “I’m weary, Ecthelion,” he said. “And hurt in several unhappy places from the fray at the Silver Flute.  Could we pass the rest of the night here?” 

“Just a little further, we’ll find a softer bed than this.”

“Where are you taking me, to the outcasts’ hamlet?”

“You have guessed it,” Ecthelion said with a laugh.  “Have you been there before?”

“I have not,” Glorfindel said.

“Then it’s high time. Here, let’s have some music to ease our sore feet or whatever else is hurting.”  He pulled a small wooden flute from his vest pocket and proceeded to pipe a cheerful tune.

Glorfindel sighed and rose. They continued down into a fold in the valley where the road came to a small bridge over a rushing stream.  There, nestled against the side of a hill was a collection of thatched roofs, with chimneys emitting the homey smell of woodsmoke. 

“Welcome to the village of Thoronsîr,” Ecthelion said.  

As they approached, a dog barked, then others joined in.  A silvery light appeared in the window of the closest cottage.  They paused on the outskirts of the village and Ecthelion continued to play his flute.  A voice called out and the barking ceased. 

In time, a man and a woman plainly dressed in farmer’s garb exited the cottage and approached them.  The woman’s dark hair was unbraided and she wore a long shift with a woolen cloak about her shoulders. The man carried a silver lamp in his hand. Glorfindel recognized Voronwë, one of the King’s wardens and his wife Limíriel, both of whom had been banished by the King for conceiving a child after the Edict was in effect. Doubly rebellious, they had produced twins.

“Lord Ecthelion,” said Limíriel.  “It’s been a fair spell since ye visited.”  She paused and then said, astonished “Lord Glorfindel! What brings you both out here so far from the city?”

“Gondolin is hot,” Ecthelion said. “We’ve a mind to climb yonder peaks, and breathe some fresh air.”

“A good notion,” said Voronwë. “There are times when yon city, as beautiful as it is, can be stifling.” He came forward and took Ecthelion’s hand in his. “Glad am I to see you again.” He turned to Glorfindel. “Both of you. But now ‘tis late and everyone’s asleep. Are you seeking a bed for the night?  The cottage is available.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Ecthelion said. “That would be most welcome. We plan to leave at daybreak. We won’t disturb you.”

“Nonsense,” said Limíriel. “We won’t let you leave until we’ve shared breakfast. I know the twins will be glad to see you.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Glorfindel said.

“Anything for our Lord Ecthelion,” Voronwë said. “He’s been kind enough to visit occasionally.” His eyes wandered over Glorfindel. “And bring us much-needed supplies. Limíriel will get you settled.”

They passed a thatched cottage. The air smelled sweetly of new-mown hay. Voronwe turned and bade them good night and then Ecthelion and Glorfindel followed Limíriel up a hill to a smaller cottage. She opened the door. “I hope this will suit, Lord Glorfindel,” she said. “It’s not used much, but it’s clean and should serve.”

The room was small, largely taken up with the double bed covered with a beautiful quilt in a starburst design, a wardrobe, two chairs, and a small bookshelf with a variety of curiosities on it — crystals and stone shells.  It smelled dusty with disuse.

“It will be fine, milady,” Glorfindel said.

“I’ll bring you some water to wash with,” Limíriel said, and left.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion shifted their packs off their backs and set them on the floor.

“This is an unexpected luxury,” Glorfindel said. “It sounds as if you’ve been out here before.”

“I have,” Ecthelion said. “Voronwë is a friend.  You might recall that the King exiled them here.”

“Aye, I do.  How long ago was it?”

“Eight years, I believe.”

Limíriel returned carrying a large ewer. She poured the water into a basin and then set some drying cloths next to it.  “Be at ease,” she said.  “You know where things are Ecthelion.  We have breakfast with the sunrise.  You are welcome to join us.”

“You are ever so kind,” Ecthelion said. 

Limíriel ran her eyes over the two of them and the corners of her mouth twitched upwards.  “Have a good night, then.”

Ecthelion began at once to undress, draping his cloak and tunic over the back of one of the chairs and then sitting on the other one to pull off his boots.

“There’s only one bed,” Glorfindel remarked.

“I can sleep on the floor if you like,” Ecthelion replied.  Then he grinned.  “But I’d prefer not to.  I’ve had my fill of sleeping on the hard ground.” 

“There’s truth in that,” Glorfindel said.  He paused.  “I don’t mind sharing.” As he said it, his heart thumped.

They both finished undressing down to their braes, then washed their hands and faces. Ecthelion blew out the lantern, and crawled into bed, taking the side next to the window. Glorfindel followed, feeling welcoming sheets slide over him as he lay down on the soft mattress. Some adjustments of position followed as they settled into place on their sides, back to back, bare skin to skin. 

Glorfindel lay stiffly, still sore from his fight in the tavern, as memories of the day tumbled through his head—of awaking in the morning next to Turgon with a terrible hang-over; his guilty exit down the stairs and the fated meeting with the city Loremaster; the challenge at the training grounds; the horrible embarrassment at the tavern of having his darkest secret exposed to the whole city and then his King’s order to fight in order to prove that their relationship did not exist. And now, he lay in bed with his closest friend, the bright and glorious Ecthelion, the person who’d always been on his side no matter what, and Valar help him, he was . . . affected by it. Nay, he could not complicate his life any further and he especially did not wish to jeopardize his friendship by doing something foolhardy.  Another foolhardy thing, he corrected himself. He sighed and turned over again, face up. The bed creaked under his weight.

“Trouble sleeping?” Ecthelion said.  He also turned onto his back.

“Can you blame me, after all that’s happened?” Glorfindel said.

“Not at all,” Ecthelion said. “However, in my experience, worrying over a situation beyond one’s control is rarely helpful.”

“True enough.  But that’s the difference between you and I.  You take things as they come.  I fret about the future.”

“So, for the time being, follow my lead and let it all go,” Ecthelion said. He moved closer, pressing up against Glorfindel’s side.  There was a long pause in their speech, while Glorfindel enjoyed his friend’s warmth, the sounds of  his steady breathing, and realized that he always felt comforted when his friend was nigh. Somewhere in the room a cricket chirped, happily summoning a mate in the darkness. Then Glorfindel recalled the expression on Limíriel’s face just before she left and a suspicion blossomed. “Why are we here, Ecthelion?”

“Um, because Eru created us and awakened our grandfathers by the waters of Cuiviénen.”

“Huh,” Glorfindel snorted. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then are you asking why the lot of us are holding up in a secluded valley, hiding like mice from a cat? The answer is because Ulmo urged Turgon to seek this place and we, fearful of Morgoth’s malice and believing in Turgon’s wisdom, followed him here.”

“Those are all true, but do not answer my specific question,” Glorfindel said.  “I mean, my dissembling friend, why have you brought me to this place?”

“I thought you needed to get away and have an opportunity to think,” Ecthelion replied. “Sometimes a change of scenery is welcome.”

“Undoubtedly, although our little jaunt into Nan Dungortheb helped matters not at all.”

“I’m hardly taking you to Nan Dungortheb,” Ecthelion said with a laugh.  “We’re going to see one of the timeless beauties of the world. Always good for the fëa.”

“Not sure my fëa can find peace, even in nature’s beauty,” Glorfindel said.  “Not especially if I take on a challenge in defense of a lie.”

“That’s really eating at you, isn’t it?” Ecthelion said.

“Aye,” Glorfindel said.  “And it would bother you too if you were in my shoes.”

“It would at that.” 

There was another long pause.  The cricket in the room seemed even more insistent.

“Tell me,” Ecthelion said. “Do you love him?”

There was a long pause while Glorfindel thought about the question, so seemingly simple, but now not so.  “I did,” he said finally. “When my parents sent me to foster in his household, I came to worship him.  At that time, he was unattainable and so it was for many years. Then, the night he lost his wife on the ice, we lay together.  I didn’t intend for it to happen, as it was more a matter of warming him from the cold. For a long time, we did nothing further, then after we finished building Gondolin, we lay together again.  After so many years of longing, it seemed the culmination of my desires.”

“I did not know it had gone on for so long,” Ecthelion replied. “But you said, “I did,” past tense. Do you still love him?”

“Ah,” Glorfindel paused, thinking.  “Well, now, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Ecthelion turned to face him, with his head propped on his hand.

“By necessity, by having to hide our relationship; by his . . . treatment of me in ways that I don’t deserve; by the fact that he’s my sovereign and still commands my fealty. Aye, complicated.  I wish now that I’d never begun this affair.  But it’s too late now.”

“Just as the seasons change, so may our hearts.  It’s never too late to begin anew,” Ecthelion said. 

The unspoken implication hung quietly in the still air.  The cricket ceased calling. Ecthelion reached out and gently cupped Glorfindel’s cheek in his warm hand. 

Glorfindel realized he’d been holding his breath and released it with a sigh. “I have much to think about, before . . . beginning anew,” he said. 

The silence stretched. Ecthelion seemed ready to say something. Glorfindel heard him swallow.   Instead, Ecthelion withdrew his hand. “Then, think on it, my friend. But not so hard that you get no rest. We’ve a long uphill trek tomorrow.” 

“Seems to be the tale of my life,” Glorfindel said.

****************

Glorfindel awoke in the grey dawn and found himself pressed up against Ecthelion’s rear end, sporting an unwitting erection. Embarrassed, he shifted away.

Ecthelion chuckled. “You can stay there if you have a mind to.”

“Forgive me—a morning staff—merely a reaction of the body.”

Ecthelion turned and slipped his arm about Glorfindel’s waist.  “It’s an unfortunate affliction, is it not?  And appears to be catching.” He nudged his loins against Glorfindel’s, demonstrating a similar condition.

“Oh,” Glorfindel said.

Ecthelion rocked his hips, forward and back causing heat to pulse through Glorfindel’s cock and spread throughout his body.

“This . . . is dangerous,” Glorfindel murmured.  “More complications.”

“Were you so circumspect when you first entered the King’s chamber?” Ecthelion asked, and for the first time Glorfindel heard bitterness in his voice.  He stared at Ecthelion’s face, so familiar that it had been some time since he noticed how beautiful he was. His eyes were a lighter blue in the morning light, still half-closed with sleep, the eyelashes dense and black.

At that moment a soft rap sounded on the door.  “Breakfast is nearly ready. You’ve just enough time to wash,” called Limíriel.

Ecthelion made a sound of disgust and rolled flat on his back, revealing the tent in his braes.  Glorfindel looked at it longer than was decent and stifled the desire to close his hand about it, see how big it was.  But he would be foolish to trade one set of troubles for another.  His friend had a faultless reputation and didn’t deserve to be tarred with the same brush as he.  And he knew quite well that Turgon would be outraged if he were unfaithful. Besides, something was niggling at him — the thought that Ecthelion had clearly been here before and most likely not alone. So, that left the requirement that he take care of his own needs.  “Where is the latrine?” he asked.

“Just down the hill,” Ecthelion said.  “Go on without me.  I must . . .um . . . . take some time.” 

“Take all the time you need,” Glorfindel said.  “Although if I remember aright, a few moments behind a tree should do it.”

“Huh,” Ecthelion said. “You know, for that remark, we are going to run up that bloody mountain today.”

---

Chapter End Notes

*The Silm says the road coming out of Gondolin is a stairway, but I plead the practicality of moving goods from the fields up into the city.  They had to have wagons, therefore a ramp, not stairs.  Perhaps the stairs run alongside the road.

Fëa (S) spirit

Limíriel (S) sparkling jewel (lim + míriel)

Thôraegas (S) eagle peak.  The name is an elfscribe invention.

Thoronsîr - eagle river (thoron + sir)  I named the village after the river which Tolkien calls Thorn Sir in “The Fall of Gondolin.” The Book of Lost Tales 2.  p. 193-4.