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The Lost and the Hidden City	By : pip & BronxWench Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2742 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: We do not own Middle Earth, any of Tolkien's world or characters. We make no money from this work of fanfiction.

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Chapter Sixteen
When they exited the baths and went back to Glorfindel’s room to pick out clothing, Gildor expected that they would get up to some other activities, so he was nonplussed when his lover merely walked to his wardrobe to pick out some riding gear and a little light leather armour.
Still clad in his robe, Gildor insinuated himself between Glorfindel and the wardrobe contents. “Are we in a rush?” he asked, reaching up to slide his arms around Glorfindel’s neck and kissing him on the lips. He felt a rush of pleasure when Glorfindel responded to his advance.
“Tease,” Glorfindel whispered into his ear as he pulled Gildor close.
“Oh, I don’t think I am teasing,” he replied, interspersing his words with little presses of his lips to Glorfindel’s ear. The heat between them was building. Glorfindel was hard against his hip, no less demanding than Gildor’s own. “I want you.”
To his surprise, Glorfindel managed to resist his clear invitation, gently pushing him away. When he saw the look on Gildor’s face, he smiled. “You, bain nín, will be all the sweeter when I take you on the field of victory. My own prisoner of war.”
The words were dark, despite Glorfindel’s smile, and Gildor suddenly felt light-headed. Glorfindel intended to roleplay this… he heard himself utter a little moan of sheer desire as the warrior came closer, crowding him.
“Be sure when you defend, just what you are defending. I will have you,” he promised, a kind of heady sensuality in his tone Gildor had never heard. It must be the promise of the fight, he realised, dazed.
“Oh, I will not even be able to lift a sword, wicked elf,” he complained.
Glorfindel’s laugh held the same lusty promise as his words. “We will have to find you a suitable weapon you can lift, then. Not every battle is won by the largest blade. Do you have any leather armour, or do we need to get some for you?”
Gildor huffed a breath. “I do have light armour, for when I travel to map an area. It is not always entirely safe, and it helps to be protected. But I’m not foolish enough to think it makes me a warrior, because I can put on a leather corslet.” He gave Glorfindel a peevish look. “I will fetch it from my room.”
“Don’t be upset, melethron.” Glorfindel caught his chin and made him look up. “I have no doubt you will fight, and fight hard. But I do intend to win, and claim you. I want to see your face as you are vanquished by me.”
And all at once, he could not be angry with the warrior. Beyond the sensual words, Glorfindel was all but glowing with a healthy animal energy. He was a force of nature, Gildor realised, and he could not hope to contain so vital an elf. Glorfindel needed the outlet of a good fight, as much as he needed air to breathe, and food to sustain him.
“Do not count me vanquished yet,” he said, and he did not know how he did it, but he wriggled free and ran for the door, laughing at Glorfindel’s look of surprise.
Glorfindel did not follow him, and Gildor was strangely glad. Instead, he awaited as Gildor went to prepare himself for the day ahead. When he was in his own room, he selected some of his worn travelling garments, and realised it had been too long since he left Imladris.
His excitement actually grew as he dressed, and while his own lightweight armour was probably not as good as Glorfindel’s, it had served him well on many journeys, and it felt good on him again. If he did not know better, he would swear he was readying himself for a trip.
In a long trunk beneath his bed, Gildor studied his meagre stash of weapons. These were the things he took with him; utilitarian but he knew how to use them. His journeying hadn’t been entirely without incident, after all. And before, even he had played his part in the war… he shook his head to rid himself of those memories. Since then, Elrond had founded Imladris, and Gildor had worked hard to ensure the success of the haven, along with many others.
He would not need the bow, which was a mercy since he had not been taking care of it, and it would probably need to be restrung, the wood worked with oil to make it supple again. But he lifted out his sword in its scabbard, testing the weight of it in both of his hands before he drew it out.
When he stood and raised it in his right hand, he was pleased to find its weight suited him still, despite his lack of practice. Perhaps Glorfindel would get more of a fight than he envisaged - even if he did win in the end. Gildor did not delude himself on that score.
Since he would not wear his bow, Gildor strapped two fighting knives to his back, to aid him if he was deprived of his sword. Glorfindel had set no rules, after all. He took a little time to sharpen the blades of all three weapons. Why, he could not say; it was not as though he intended to injure Glorfindel! But he realised Glorfindel treasured these things, and he would be happy to see Gildor treated his own weapons with respect. Perhaps.
He was surprised Glorfindel had not come looking for him, eager to set off. He shivered a little as he tried to imagine what thoughts occupied his lover’s mind while he waited. That was a dangerous train of thought, and he banished it quickly. If he wandered there, he would not have the nerve to go on, so weak-kneed would he be.
He did not knock on Glorfindel’s door, but merely opened it and slipped inside. “Here I am, and hopefully not too long about it. Shall we see about horses? It’s been awhile since I rode out.” It was hard not to giggle at the look on Glorfindel’s face, but he managed.
“You certainly look ready for a fight,” the warrior said, after a lengthy pause. “Is that your weapon? May I see it?” He held out his hand, and Gildor placed the sword, in its scabbard, on his palm.
Glorfindel drew the sword, and he watched as the warrior marked the sharpness of the edge. Now he was glad he had taken the time to sharpen it.
“Show me.” His lover handed back the sword, and Gildor took it, with a quick intake of breath as he sought his centre. It had been quite a while since he had done this, but Glorfindel was waiting. He swung the sword, executing a few parries and attacks from long-ago exercises, the rhythm returning after only a few swings. The brief demonstration would tell Glorfindel nothing, but it felt good to know he remembered his training.
When he had done, he sheathed his sword and buckled it to his hip, and he did not miss the look Glorfindel gave him, of love and admiration. “Let us see about horses,” he said again, and this time Glorfindel nodded, following him as he left the room.
They were not long in the stables. Glorfindel, of course, had his favourite enormous white stallion, while Gildor chose a black, in deference to the game they were playing. The stallion he chose was not as large, but he was full of energy and vital.
They set off at a canter. Gildor had braided his hair into a thick plait draped to the front of his shoulder so that it did not catch on the twin blades he wore, and so the rushing wind as they rode served to refresh and revive him from the events of the morning. He urged his horse on to follow Glorfindel’s path, trusting his lover to lead them to a place they could fight, but would not be interrupted.
When he drew up alongside, Gildor looked to Glorfindel, and the sight took his breath. Glorfindel had left his hair loose and flowing, and while he was not quite dressed for battle, he looked as if he meant business. Gildor felt his jaw actually drop. Glorfindel! He was going to fight Glorfindel? As if sensing his scrutiny, the warrior turned his head, and his smile was devastating.
“Keep up!” he said, then urged his horse into a gallop, taking the lead again. Gildor grinned and leaned low, urging his horse to follow. Though they slowed again before they reached their destination, when they arrived, Glorfindel took the time to care for his horse, Gildor following suit.
The horses were left to graze in a nearby field, the elves knowing their mounts would not stray. Gildor half expected Glorfindel to bind back his hair somehow, but the warrior did not, and it made him all that much more imposing, and not a little intimidating. It truly was like seeing one of the Valar, come to do battle.
“You ride well,” Glorfindel commented, his manner casual. He paced around the area he had chosen for their match, checking for loose stones and branches. In a true fight, he would not have done so, but it was supposed to be practice, and Gildor knew his lover was being cautious for his sake. It was simultaneously flattering and aggravating.
“I’ve ridden frequently.” Gildor loosed his sword in the scabbard, so he would be able to draw it smoothly. He did not pace with Glorfindel, but contented himself with turning, never to leave his back to the warrior. “It’s been a while since my last trip, but I do ride for pleasure, sometimes with Lord Elrond himself, and sometimes with others.”
“Mm,” Glorfindel responded, his eyes flicking up to watch Gildor before he continued his search of the ground. Finally satisfied, he drew himself up to his full height, and Gildor could not help but gasp. If he had been the balrog, he would have died of fright at the prospect of fighting such an elflord as Glorfindel, he decided.
“Draw your sword,” Glorfindel commanded, and he obeyed, unable to resist the note of command in his lover’s voice. “Prepare yourself for battle.”
Gildor tried to centre himself, but then Glorfindel drew his sword, and he gulped in nervous fear, wondering how many minutes it would last. Or perhaps it would be seconds?
“One piece of advice I will give you,” Glorfindel said, as he brought his sword up before his face as if to study it. “Do not fight the opponent in your mind. Fight the one in front of you.”
Gildor nodded quickly; it was good advice, and he found himself slightly reassured at Glorfindel’s tone. He was speaking as he might on the training fields, like a teacher. He tried to push aside all of the legends of the elf before him, and instead concentrate on what he was doing. Only… his palms were sweating slightly, and as he watched, Glorfindel made some kind of practised turn with his sword, making it travel fast around his hands, the sun glinting on the steel.
Quite suddenly, Gildor was aware Glorfindel was showing off, and he rolled his eyes, meaning that he almost missed the warrior’s first forward lunge, and had to fade back quickly, but thankfully his muscle memory held, and he raised his sword, Glorfindel’s weapon clashing harmlessly against his own.
“Do not allow yourself to become distracted,” Glorfindel told him. “However flashy your opponent may be.”
After that, Glorfindel fell silent as they circled each other. In these moments, Glorfindel did not look like the lover he knew. It was as if he were someone entirely different, and then he understood. Glorfindel took his own advice, and he did not see his lover before him, but Gildor himself, armed with a sword, ready to fight.
He nodded, once, and set himself to the task ahead. It was what he had done since the fateful day when his steps led away from Valinor, and he was practised at it. And he had one advantage he would not have had against another opponent.
He watched Glorfindel closely, but not only the warrior’s blade, He watched the fingers, and how they held the blade, and the eyes, for the slightest narrowing which would herald action. He knew Glorfindel’s small tells, the tiny hints no one could help but have. He had seen Glorfindel practice before, with his guards, and while he had not stayed and watched intently, he could remember the way the warrior moved.
Glorfindel had no such knowledge of him, however. Aside from the joking pretence in front of the others one night, he had never lifted a weapon in Glorfindel’s presence. All the warrior knew was that he had fought when he had to, when they had fled Gondolin’s fall, and when he had been travelling to make his maps.
He could not make the first move. That much he knew, and so he continued to circle. And then he saw Glorfindel’s eyes narrow just the barest bit, and he flung his sword up to parry a swift strike. With the memory of the flurries of blows he had seen Glorfindel use in training his guards, he managed to deflect Glorfindel’s blade two more times, before he felt the flat of the warrior’s blade slap his thigh. It stung, and he staggered from the force of it, but kept his footing.
The next flurry of blows spun his sword away altogether, and Gildor ducked as he threw himself to the side. He rolled and came up reaching for his fighting knives, freeing them with a desperate twist of his wrists. Glorfindel’s dark chuckle coaxed a growl from him as he steeled himself to go in close.
Gildor attacked in what he hoped was a confusing flurry of movement, and Glorfindel was forced into a defensive position. If Glorfindel was given the chance to use his sword, the fight would be over. Sensing the advantage, Gildor kept up the pressure, and though he never scored a hit, he came close enough several times that it encouraged him to continue. It wasn’t until he began to tire that he realised Glorfindel had goaded him into it, and he lunged with one knife, forcing Glorfindel to deflect, planning a swipe with the other.
He did not count on the strength of Glorfindel’s arm, and instead of merely deflecting this time, Glorfindel pushed his arm back so that Gildor was forced to use his other blade to make a defensive ‘v’ to stop Glorfindel’s sword from coming down upon him.
His arms were exhausted, and Glorfindel’s strength was too much. Gildor fell to his knees, his arms beginning to shake with the strain. “Concede,” Glorfindel said, giving him a way out.
“I concede,” Gildor said immediately, since there was no way out of his predicament else. Suddenly the weight was gone, and Gildor lowered his arms in relief where he knelt on the ground. Before he could gather his wits, the hilt of his own sword was held out in front of his eyes.
“Good. Again.”
Gildor sighed, still shaky, and replaced his knives, taking his sword and getting to his feet.
“Do you know why you lost?” asked Glorfindel, and Gildor felt anger coiling in him again. Just in time, he recognised the trick for what it was, and calmed himself, taking in a deep breath as he put some distance between himself and the fearsome warrior.
“Yes, thank you,” he said politely, and Glorfindel grinned.
He took another breath and readied himself, knowing he was going to be defeated much more quickly this time. His sword still did not feel heavy, and for that he was grateful. He watched Glorfindel warily, circling slowly, until the warrior lunged forward, and his own sword rose to parry before he could even think. This time, he felt the vibration of the blow down his arm and up to his shoulder.
How did anyone hope to prevail against Glorfindel? He could not imagine even the mightiest orc standing up to such punishing blows. Really, it seemed like Glorfindel was everywhere all at once, no matter which way he spun around. He knew it was not simply a matter of his being inept.
He tried dropping low, and swinging his sword in the vicinity of Glorfindel’s knees. It was not a pretty move, nor particularly honourable, but he had come to terms with his own limitations a long time ago, and he was more than happy to use underhanded tricks to stay alive. That was when it struck him he was indeed fighting like his life was at stake. Perhaps that was why he had lasted this long, in this round.
Unfortunately for Gildor, the realisation led to his suddenly thinking about each move, and because he was thinking, he did not let his muscles simply move in the proper sequence. His sword went flying again, and as he reached over his shoulders for his knives, a slap of Glorfindel’s sword across his knuckles had him hissing. His legs were swept out from under him in the next breath, and the tip of Glorfindel’s sword was nestled in the hollow of his collarbone.
“Concede.” Glorfindel sounded far too amused, and Gildor could not help the growl which rose in his throat.
“Concede,” Glorfindel insisted, and he sighed, rubbing his stinging knuckles.
“I concede,” he said, and sat up when Glorfindel’s sword was withdrawn. “How many more times will we do this?”
As if in answer to his question, Glorfindel fell into a crouch by his side and Gildor turned his head. All at once there was a large hand curled around the back of his neck, pulling him close. Gildor tilted his head for the kiss, his lips parted. He reached up, his fingers sliding into his lover’s hair, and even that felt like too much against his bruised knuckles.
His exhaustion was not so severe that he could not respond to the kiss though, and he made a sound of approval as Glorfindel deepened it, vaguely disappointed when Glorfindel pulled away after a minute or two. The warrior licked his lips.
“Mmm,” he hummed, as if considering. “You need at least one more,” he declared, and stood up again, kicking Gildor’s sword close to him in the dirt.
Gildor did not move. He had a sudden moment of precognition, because he realised what Glorfindel intended. Himself, so fatigued that his muscles trembled, useless as Glorfindel took him out in the open, right here in their arena. There was such a conflict in him between denial, and a longing to see it come to pass. He wondered if he would even be able to stand.
“Pick up your sword,” Glorfindel instructed, and Gildor reached for it automatically. He did manage to pull himself to his feet and grip the hilt properly, though the hit he had taken on his thigh earlier had developed into an aching bruise, and his knuckles protested at being forced to bend.
He refused to admit, even to himself, how much it cost to stand and wrap his hand around his sword. He could feel the muscles of his thigh trembling with fatigue. But he did his best to keep that from his expression, and he narrowed his eyes as he moved back into the starting position.
He did not circle this time. Instead, he lunged first, hoping for the advantage of surprise, and for a brief moment, it worked. Apparently, Glorfindel had not considered he might take the first opportunity to attack, and he was almost able to score a strike on the powerful warrior. But Glorfindel was far too seasoned a warrior to let surprise throw him off, and Gildor found himself retreating, moving backward as Glorfindel pressed the attack now.
It was with a wry acknowledgement of its inevitability that Gildor watched his sword sail away, across the grass. This time, however, he managed to get his knives out, and he blocked Glorfindel’s sword. He twisted his blades to the side as quickly as he could, pushing away the strike, and stumbling backward, out of range, as quickly as he could. His lungs burned with the effort of breathing, and he could feel the sweat trickle along his spine, under the thin linen singlet he wore under his leather armour.
He got in a second block, his knives crossed to form a ‘v’ again, and once again, he was driven to his knees by the sheer strength of Glorfindel’s arm. He growled as he did his best to resist, but his arms trembled, and his thigh threatened to give way.
“Concede.”
He was quite sure he had never heard such a hateful word in all his life, and he looked up at Glorfindel, his brows knit in a frown. “No.”
At last, it occurred to him that Glorfindel’s advice at the beginning of this session had been all but useless. The enemy before him was more formidable than he could ever imagine. Better he had been fighting the Glorfindel in his mind. It would not have hurt so much to lose to him.
Above him, the warrior was no longer smiling, and he almost cringed as Glorfindel reached out with his free hand. But to his surprise, that hand only caressed the side of his face, a thumb brushing softly over his bottom lip.
“Let it go, meleth nín,” he said tenderly, and Gildor relaxed all at once, lowering his knives in defeat. The bitterness in him had fled at the proof of Glorfindel’s warmth, and he could not resent. Hadn’t they come out here to ease Glorfindel’s need for a spar? Hadn’t that been his motivation all along?
“I suppose this was not very much of a workout for you,” he said, letting his knives fall to the ground. Now that he had released them, he could feel his knuckles stinging anew, although his thigh ached less without his weight on it. “But I hope it was better than nothing.”
Glorfindel continued to run his thumb over his lower lip, the caress so gentle it could only soothe. “Do not underestimate yourself. You are quite fierce, you know. You need some work on your technique, but I can see how you were able to travel about, making your maps, without coming to harm.”
He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. “I know I’m not a fighter, not truly. But I know the pointy end from the pommel.”
And now Glorfindel chuckled, that rich, warm laugh he loved to hear. “That you do, meleth nín.” He lifted Gildor’s face a bit, his hand under Gildor’s chin. “Do you think you can ride?”
“I thought I was going to be your prize.” He could not believe he had blurted that out, like some eager ellon with a taste for tawdry melodrama. “I mean, well, you said…” It was no use. His voice trailed off into silence, and he looked down at his lap, rubbing his knuckles without thinking.
“I see.” Still Glorfindel’s voice was kind, and tender. “I had been thinking we could ride home, and have a nice, soothing bath first, but if you insist, my fierce little mapmaker, I would be very happy to tumble you right here.”
Gildor looked up, and again he knew he was blushing. “Well, if it’s all the same to you,” he said. “I’d really love to go back and bathe first.” He took Glorfindel’s proffered hand and was pulled to his feet, then into his lover’s arms.
“This time you may,” Glorfindel told him. “But when you are practised enough to get my blood up, there will be no waiting.”
Gildor rather thought that if he ever got that good, he would no longer feel so insignificant beside Glorfindel when they fought, and he’d want it just as much. He smiled to himself privately as he collected his weapons, while Glorfindel called back their horses.

To be continued...

Authors' Note: Thank you for reading – we hope you enjoyed their little sparring session. Please do leave a comment on your way out, and see you next week! :)
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The Lost and the Hidden City