Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Flawed and Fair	By : tehta Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 946 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
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A Little Gathering

-----

Ecthelion was busy. Happily busy. There was just so much to do. Lady Aredhel's
impeding departure called for a reorganization of Palace security -- possibly
the whole guard, reallinceince she was taking one of its valued leaders with
her, but Ecthelion would not think about that now. The current patrol schedule
was a far more urgent matter. Yes, Ecthelion was certainly very busy. And
fortunate: soon, he would finally be able to focus on his work without dreading
the inevitable distractions.

For one, he would not have to worry about anyone showing up at the training
grounds with some fascinating new weapon, and insisting that they try it out
together. And then, he would not have any cause to rue the Guard's
wardrobe-protecting policy of fighting shirtless when trying out new
techniques. He would not have to force his eyes to stay focused on his
opponent's feet, eyes, or blade, instead of letting them drift to all points of
interest in between. Certainly, he would not feel tempted to throw down his
weapon and try his luck at wrestling. Or to give a completely inappropriate
response when a sparring partner, bare torso flushed with exertion, walked
right up to him and asked for help with his grip.

Ecthelion realized that he had spent the last few minutes fiddling with the
hilt of his favourite sword. Given how incredibly fortunate he was, his
inability to concentrate on urgent business irritated him greatly. He blamed
the hastily-scrawled rota sheet he was trying to decipher.

No, he did not. Ecthelion would not lie to himself. His eyes drifted to the
wall where the officers of the Guard were listed. He had updated it personally
only a few hours ago, and already he was wondering when he would be able to
return that one name to its rightful place. It would not do. Ecthelion decided
to get help. With the cryptic sheet, at least -- and there was always a chance
that talking to a friend would help him clear his mind of unproductive
thoughts.

After a quick word with the men on duty, he walked out of the guardhouse and
into the streets of the city. It was midday,
and sunny. The fountains were glittering with light, their music a subtle
counterpoint to the daily hum of voices. As Ecthelion approached the eastern
market, the hum turned into a chorus of shouts, drowning out the falling water.
He crossed the market and took a staircase up onto the city wall, heading for
the turret from which Egalmoth, friend and colleague, commanded his archers.

When Ecthelion entered, Egalmoth was fletching arrows, but he rose from behind
his table to welcome his visitor warmly. He seemed unusually excited, or
perhaps it was just his outfit: his leggings were canary yellow, his shirt a
grassy green, and his robe red velvet patterned with orange. His boots were
indigo.

No doubt about it, Egalmoth was proud to be Lord of the Heavenly Arch.

Once they had exchanged greetings, Egalmoth held out an arrow. "Well, what
do you think?"

Ecthelion considered it. "I see you have finally managed to get all seven
colours of the rainbow into the flight. It... makes for an interesting,
multi-chromatic effect."

"You know, that is exactly what Glorfindel said, as well."

Ecthelion winced at this reminder of Glorfindel's good taste and tact, and,
indeed, his name and existence. But then he recalled his errand, and handed the
rota sheet to Egalmoth. "And what do you think?"

Egalmoth's sharp archer's eyes swept over it. "Salgant's handwriting. Hmm.
I am guessing the unhappy harpist has yet to forgive you for the Incident Of The
Censured Concerto."

"I was just trying to offer constructive criticism! I do not understand
why people will insist on asking me for my honest opinion on things when the
last thing they want is to hear it." Ecthelion's eyes wandered guiltily
towards the colourful arrows. "At any rate... you cannot really believe
that this is some form of personal revenge? It hurts the whole Guard."

"He probably thinks it is just a harmless joke. You know what he is
like." Egalmoth's eyes sparkled. He loved tales and gossip as Ecthelion
loved fancy weapons. "Did you know he put green dye in Glorfindel's
shampoo last month?"

"No." Glorfindel's hair: one more thing Ecthelion did not need to
remember. Still, Salgant's prank sounded positively blasphemous. "What
happened?"

"Nothing, really. Glorfindel almost lost his temper."

"How very restrained."

"Oh, he noticed it just in time, something about the smell, and you know
he prides himself on being nice to difficult people. He says Salgant's jokes
are just a cry for help."

Ecthelion was torn. On the one hand, he disliked Salgant for reasons personal,
musical, and, now, hair-related. On the other hand, that smug "help"
comment was rather asking for it. It was almost as condescending as saying
someone has had a difficult childhood.

"But that is stale news," said Egalmoth. "The fresh news is
this: you, my friend, will not have to worry about Salgant, his jokes, or his
music much longer."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, have you not heard about the White Lady's planned trip?"

"Actually, I have. I was present when..." Oh, he should never have
come. This conversation was clearly jinxed; everything came back to topic A.
"...when Glorfindel received his summons. But what does this have to do
with Salgant?"

"Surely you do not think that just one Lord of the Guard is an escort
impressive enough for Lord Turgon's own sister? No, she is to have three."

"Glorfindel, Salgant, and..." Ecthelion had been right: Egalmoth was
looking unusually excited. And there had to be a reason for all those freshly
fletched arrows. "You!"

Egalmoth nodded. "Interesting choices, do you not find?" he said.
"Though I believe I can follow her thinking well enough. I was chosen to
give her someone to hunt with, Salgant the harpist to give her someone to
listen to, and Glorfindel -- to give her someone to flirt with."

The theory seemed plausible enough, but that last part still bothered
Ecthelion, and not just because it marked yet another return to topic A.
Possibly because it was somewhat unjust. "At least Glorfindel can
fight," he said.

"Must you always be so fair? You do not even like him," said
Egalmoth. "Certainly, he can fight. But that is not why the Lady asked for
him."

"You think there is something between them, truly?" Well, Glorfindel
had confessed to lustful thoughts. Perhaps they did concern the White Lady, who
was highborn, beautiful, and, really, almost worthy of him. And it was easy
enough to believe that she might return his interest. "They would make a
fine couple, one dark and one fair." To Ecthelion's displeasure, his voice
sounded tense, not as light and amused as he had hoped to make it.

Egalmoth seemed to read some subtlety into his strange tones. "You are
right, my wise friend. The Lady has always been fond of blond men." After
a quick glance around the empty room, he leaned forward slightly. "Lord
Turgon gave us one rather strange instruction. Can you guess what it was, I
wonder?"

"I doubt it."

"He asked us to use all our influence to keep her on the northern
road."

The northern road led to Lord Fingon; the southern road -- the only real
alternative -- led to the wood elf realm of Doriath, and to the lands beyond.
The sons of Feanor lived there, among them Celegorm the Fair, Aredhel's
half-cousin and longtime friend.

"Ah," said Ecthelion. "Your task is difficult indeed."

"Yes, for how can our influence succeed where her brother's has
failed?" Egalmoth gave a mock sigh before breaking into a grin. "But
imagine: a chance to observe a Feanorion in his natural habitat. And to visit
Doriath. They say their Queen is a Maia, and her daughter is the most
enchanting maiden in the world."

Flawed as he was, Ecthelion could not be moved by tales of enchanting maidens.
But he could be happy for his friend. "Congratulations, Egalmoth."

"Thank you. It is a great opportunity, is it not? A cause for celebration.
Which is why," said Egalmoth, "I am organizing a little gathering. At
my house, during the night shift. You must come! We are planning to sing."

Having attended several of Egalmoth's "little gatherings", Ecthelion
knew very well that they were anything but little. He also knew what the
singing would be like, and what popular guardsman was almost certain to attend.
Possibly even to co-host. Still, friendship has its duties. He promised to make
an appearance.

---

Ecthelion thought the celebration started off well enough, even if he himself
preferred less rowdy occasions. Of the officers not on night duty, almost all
were present, and there was plenty of wine. Not that it was truly needed: some
of the men, especially the younger ones, who had been born in the city, seemed
to be drunk on the mere idea of the mission even before Egalmoth and Glorfindel
stood up to make the first toast.

"Welcome, friends," said Glorfindel. "We are--"

"Very lucky!" shouted one youngster.

"Yes, lucky to be getting away from you, Voronwe," said Egalmoth.

"I'll drink to that!" yelled Voronwe's neighbour. And so he did. Many
followed his example. Soon, all pretense of order was lost as the crowd deluged
the hosts with requests.

"Bring us back some news!"

"Yes, Lord Egalmoth! Bring us back some gossip!"

"Gossip about the orcs!"

"Just bring us back some orcs!"

That particular request was rewarded with a loud cheer and much drinking.

"We will bring you back a Balrog!" Glorfindel shouted over the crowd,
and the cheer turned into a roar.

As he listened to all the suggestions, Ecthelion wondered at Salgant's absence,
but not very hard, for it was just possible that the harpist had repented of
the ridiculous rota joke and put himself on duty. Eventually, he walked away
from the heckling crowd and spent some time chatting with Duilin and Penlod,
only to lose them to the loud game of winecups that was in progress in the
middle of the room. Alone again, he sipped his drink and watched the chaos. It
was not just the youngsters, he realized: almost everyone in the room was
jealous of Aredhel's escort. Of course, this was completely natural,
considering the strangeness of living in this closed-off city, in a valley that
could be crossed in a day. If he himself had not yet succumbed to envy, it was
only because he was so unnatural that his mind had been otherwise occupied.

Unable to help himself, he glanced in Glorfindel's direction. To his surprise,
their eyes met over their cups. Glorfindel blinked and drained his in one
swallow.

Yes, the wine was certainly flowing freely tonight. Even the drunken singing
had started much earlier than usual. Ecthelion, who knew that most of the men,
especially those of his own House, were competent musicians of solid taste, had
never understood why drunken singing had to be so very bad. The harmony line ld wld wander all over the place, and most of the favoured songs either had a
hideously nonsensical refrain, or mentioned dead orcs. Or, in some truly
unredeemable cases, both. He tried to block out the sounds, concentrating
instead on the gentle slosh of the wine at the very bottom of his cup.

"Here, let me refill that for you, so we can share a toast of
farewell."

Glorfindel had taken the seat on his right, a large bottle in his hand.
Ecthelion passed him the cup, and watched him pour dark liquid into it with the
deliberate, controlled motions that suggested much of the contents of the
bottle had already been poured into Glorfindel. While a formal toast sounded
like a great idea -- just the sort of thing that might force Ecthelion's
subconscious to realize that it should go temporarily off duty -- he could not
help feeling mildly concerned.

"Thank you, Glorfindel," he said. "I will drink to you gladly.
However, I will not be offended if you yourself hold back. That bottle must be
half-empty by now."

"Half-full, I would call it." Glorfindel held the bottle up towards a
lamp, so that his face was bathed in blood-coloured light. Ecthelion felt the
foreboding before he could remember that he had never put much faith in omens.

"To your safe return, then," he said, much to his own surprise.
Embarrassed, he gulped down the wine so fast he almost choked.

"You meant that." Glorfindel smiled a little. "You do want me to
return, in spite of our recent difficulties." His growing grin brightened
the dimly lit room, and Ecthelion felt the full force of the detested
Glorfindel charm. The charm that was, allegedly, why he had been chosen for the
escort in the first place.

"Certainly I do," said Ecthelion. "Unless, of course, you wish
to stay with the Lady."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Lord Turgon says we must return as soon as our
task is done. Anyway, my place is here, in the city."

Suddenly, the wall between them was splattered with wine, the casualty of an
ever-rowdier drinking game. Ecthelion did not care: being practical, he had
chosen to wear his least favourite, ill-fitting, formal robes. Glorfindel,
meanwhile, checked his hair over for signs of damage. Ecthelion could not see
any, but he supposed one would have to touch each strand to make sure. It
occured to him that none of his disturbing dreams had ever been set in a cosy
pocket of quiet at the center of a noisy party. The idea was terrifying, for
the two of them were in plain sight of the whole guard. It was also oddly
intriguing. Ecthelion resigned himself to having such a dream in the near
future.

"Do you think it very wrong of me," said Glorfindel abruptly,
"to look forward to adventure in the outside world, when it is my sworn
duty to protect the city?"

"No. I had not even considered the matter." Ecthelion's dislike of
Glorfindel flared and burned with a wine-fueled flame. He wanted to hate
Glorfindel as someone self-righteous, as certain of his goodness as he surely
was of his beauty and his prowess, but these recent signs of an active
conscience -- the morning's confession, and now this question -- were ruining
everything. And then, he despised his newfound role as Glorfindel's confessor
and bright beacon of morality. He knew it did not fit his flawed self any
better than the uncomfortable robes he was wearing.

Yes, the role really was much like the robes; right now, he could not have
discarded either without revealing to Glorfindel something rather disturbing.

"It is hard, when duty and desire conflict."

Glorfindel's quiet complaint made Ecthelion panic at first, until he realized
that the hard thing mentioned was a situation and not anything disturbing that
might be present under anyone's robes. Then he felt angry, for what did
Glorfindel really know about conflicts of duty and desire? When he spoke, his
voice was sharp.

"Glorfindel, you are getting maudlin in your cups. There is no conflict.
You want to go; your lord tells you to do so. You can leave the city quite
happily."

"Wait, you are right," said Glorfindel. "I knew that. So why do
I feel strangely unhappy?" He looked at Ecthelion as if Ecthelion held, or
was, the answer to this question.

Extremely flustered, Ecthelion glanced around the room, seeking an avenue of
escape. He was in luck. Egalmoth caught his eye, and waved him over to the
corner where he was currently conducting a disorderly cluster of guardsmen: an
impromptu choir.

"Ecthelion, come along! Sing!"

This, surely, was his duty as a guest. Ecthelion got up, abandoning Glorfindel,
and attempted to salvage the drunken singing. At first, he merely sang along
with the crowd, hoping that his voice alone might make a difference. When this
failed, he got a bit more ambitious: he launched into an inspiring, lyrical
song about the Glorious Battle. It was not a technically difficult piece, so he
found it rather annoying that no-one else would follow his lead, and that, too
quickly, he found himself singing alone. Still, when he was finished, a few of
the listeners -- the more drunk ones, he supposed -- had tears in their eyes.
He was feeling rather pleased with himself for raising the tone of the
gathering, when, without warning, the sentimental crowd launched into a different
tune.

Our arrows are flying,

Our swords brightly glowing.

The Orcs are all dying!

Their black blood is flowing!

O! tril-lil-lil-lolly,

To slay orcs is jolly!

Ha! Ha!

Ecthelion had not drunk enough to cope with the thought of having inspired
this. He made his goodbyes to a few half-sober friends and walked out of the
building.

---

The evening breeze was cool and brisk. He felt heavy by comparison, dazed; he
supposed he was slightly drunk, after all. When he paused by the doorway,
getting his bearings, he encountered an unexpected sight.

Glorfindel was standing out front, leaning on a statue as if on a friend. His
hair glowed faintly even against the pale marble. Ecthelion felt sorry for the
sculptor. The artist had obviously attempted to capture some ideal of beauty,
and here some insensitive twit was making it look rather plain.

Glorfindel turned his head towards the door. "Oh, it is you," he
said. "You sing well."

How would he know? He had walked out long before the real singing had begun.
Ecthelion had been irritated by that sudden departure, and doubly irritated at
being affected by it.

"Too well," Glorfindel continued. "You make even the Orc Ditty
sound like a song of valour, you... I have never seen you wear red
before."

Ecthelion looked down at his despised robes. Just as he had expected, the
already too shiny satin was even shinier in several places, damp with spilled
liquid. Unfortunately, the outfit did not look entirely ruined. Still, his
dubious fashion choices were surely none of Glorfindel's business.

"Yes, I am blathering,"orfiorfindel explained. "I must go
home." He disengaged himself from the statue and patted it on one smooth
arm in farewell. However, after one uncertain step, he was soon leaning on it
again.

Now here was an interesting moral dilemma. It was quite clear to Ecthelion
where his duty lay: he should get his fellow officer home before any of the men
saw him in this disgraceful state. His own desires, base as they were, seemed
equally clear, and they began, innocently enough, with getting Glorfindel home.
However, there seemed to be a third factor at work, for Ecthelion's conscience
told him that this course of action, the one indicated by both duty and desire,
was horribly wrong.

But it was too late at night to hold lengthy te wte with one's own conscience.
Ecthelion relieved the statue of its burden by pulling one of Glorfindel's arms
over his shoulders.

"I will help you," he said.

"No!" Glorfindel swayed against him. "You see, I am in this very
strange mood--"

"Precisely why I should help you."

Glorfindel peered at Ecthelion. "Right. Always so responsible. I
forgot."

Soon, they were stumbling along through little-frequented streets. In every
court, the fountains played their music, for once unaccompanied by the choir of
voices. It was a soothing sound, and yet Ecthelion could not relax, for, over
the falling water, he could hear Glorfindel's breathing, even the beating of
his heart. The resulting composition was disturbing. He sought to drown it out
with idle chatter.

"So," he said. "I noticed that Salgant was not at the
celebration."

"He does not want to go," Glorfindel mumbled. "Poor Salgant. Had
a difficult childhood."

Ecthelion groaned to himself.

"I wish," said Glorfindel, his voice clear, "that you were
coming instead of him."

"Yes," said Ecthelion, surprising himself again. "I mean, we all
wish we were going."

They moved on in silence, Ecthelion not trusting himself to speak for fear of
more surprises. The arm thrown over his shoulders was warm but light;
Glorfindel walked home mostly under his own power, his free hand swaying out to
help his balance.

But the staircase up to Glorfindel's private apartment was narrow, and there he
finally faltered, stumbling, so that Ecthelion had to pull him close to save
him from falling. He was surprisingly heavy for one who normally moved with
such grace. It had to be all those muscles, long watched in the training hall,
in the bathhouses, and now shifting beneath Ecthelion's fingers. A few strands
of golden hair brushed against Ecthelion's face, getting into his mouth and
eyes. It could have been a scene from a dream, only Ecthelion had never dreamt
of an unconscious partner. There was a wrongness here beyond the one Ecthelion
despised in himself, a wrongness that killed desire. He let go of his burden.

Glorfindel slid down onto one of the steps. "Sorry," he said.
"See? Not perfect." His head rolled back against the wall, his eyes
closing.

Fortunately, the door was right up ahead.

"Glorfindel, if I could just have your key..."

There was no response. Ecthelion knelt down on a step. He could see no keyring.
He checked Glorfindel's sleeves and belt. The tailored robes showed no obvious
pockets; finding any concealed ones would not be easy. Very, very carefully, he
started to move his hands over Glorfindel's body, searching for anything out of
place. He felt obscurely horrible: although this situation was one he had
longed for, the wrongness was still there. He was just begining to search the
general hip area when Glorfindel's eyes opened.

"What are you doing?"

Ecthelion tried to summon all his dignity. "Looking for a key."

"But the door is open," said Glorfindel.

It was not, of course, but it was certainly unlocked. Still irritated by the
whole episode, Ecthelion half-dragged Glorfindel inside and over to the bed,
which, he could not help but note, was large and comfortable-looking. His task
was done -- or was it? He was not really sure how to attend to someone so
drunk, at least not beyond the vague thought that boot removal might be a good
idea. Shrugging to himself, he sat down to take off Glorfindel's boots. After a
moment's hesitation, he removed Glorfindel's belt, as well. Although he had
tried to be gentle, that final action did not go unnoticed.

"Here, let me--" Glorfindel sat up and grabbed for his shirt. Soon
shirt, robe, and all other similar garments were half off his body and tangled
up around his head. Ecthelion stared at his bare stomach and flailing arms for
a few moments, thinking dully that this was one sight he had never encountered
in his dreams, before his better nature finally took over. He helped Glorfindel
free his hands, then his head. The hair tumbled free, sliding through
Ecthelion's fingers. He sat back and looked.

Ecthelion had, of course, seen Glorfindel in far less than this before, both in
reality and in the dreamworld, but here, in the dark room, Glorfindel's skin
shone almost as brightly as his hair. And he was clearly no longer the dead
weight he had been on the stairs. His eyes looked alert. Only a few small
gestures still betrayed his befuddled state. For one, he had placed his right
hand on Ecthelion's shoulder, and was now moving it in a way that could almost
have been a caress. Perhaps he was mistaking Ecthelion for Aredhel -- although
the resemblance was far from striking. But, of course, he was naturally
affectionate, and this must have stayed with him even now.

Desire returned. The darkest, most flawed part of Ecthelion's mind was asking
tempting questions. Questions like, "How much of this will he
remember?" Their faces were a handspan apart. All Ecthelion had to do was
move forward, and then... If explanations were asked for, well, had he himself
not been drinking? He did not long for much, only heat and pressure -- or was
it just that he knew he could expect nothing more from one barely conscious?
But of course he could, he could try for a response. How wrong would it be to
give pleasure? Let Glorfindel read it as he would, mistake him for Aredhel, for
anybody. And then Ecthelion would know more. His memory would drink in sight
and sound, and his dreams would be better, more accurate.
>
G>
Glorfindel, swaying, shook his head and blinked. "Is this a dream?"
he whispered. His fingers slid across Ecthelion's shoulder, touched his neck.
Naturally affectionate, naturally trusting.

He leaves his door unlocked.

He thinks I am a natural ascetic.

He asks me stupid questions about duty and desire.

Two things that no longer coincided. Ecthelion, recalled to his senses, saw
just how wide the gap between them had grown. And he had almost failed to spot
it. He felt sickened, dizzy, but he would not fall.

"Not yet," he said, and left Glorfindel to his dreams.

---

In need of a sanctuary, Ecthelion headed for his office at the guardhouse. His
weapons would be there; handling them would ground him further. If that did not
work, he could try the flute he kept in his desk. And then, there would be a
hundred tedious tasks to attend to. He would have no further trouble from the
incomplete list on the wall, for what was a mere name when he had just escaped
from the real thing?

The night shift, very surprised to see him, scrambled to stand at attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw dice swept under a mug, and there was
something roasting over the fire, quite contrary to the regulations. Ecthelion
scanned each guardsman's face in turn as he searched for just the right words
of sarcasm to put in his reprimand, and watched pair after pair of eyes turn to
the floor. It was strange, to know his gaze still seemed righteous. But then,
Ecthelion had to believe that the difference between thought and deed truly
mattered, else he would have given up on himself long ago.

Only one of the guards held his eyes. A brave man, then, especially considering
that he was wearing a beer-jug instead of a helmet.

"Um, Lord Ecthelion," he said, "a message was left for you. From
Lord Turgon. We were just going to send it on to your house; you will find it
on your desk." He cast a helpful, hopeful look towards Ecthelion's office
door. When Ecthelion failed to move, he attempted a smile instead.
"Congratulations, my lord. The messenger said that you are to replace Lord
Salgant in the White Lady's honour guard."

-----

---

-

---

-----

Author's notes:

1. Yes, Elves really do get drunk like that, at least in the Hobbit. And they
do sing atrocious songs: the Orc-Slaying Ditty is a rewrite of the Rivendell
Welcome Song from the same book.

2. Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, Salgant of the Harp, Duilin and Penlod are
characters from The Fall Of Gondolin. And, yes, Salgant was rather unpleasant.
He lived out his days as Morgoth's jester.

3. As for who really did escort Aredhel out of Gondolin -- it's not certain.
Tolkien did, at one point, say it was Ecthelion, Egalmoth, and Glorfindel, but
his son states that he later recanted -- perhaps because it is hard to imagine
all those Balrog-slaying types getting into so much trouble. Me, I figure that,
as long as I am destroying all their reputations anyway, I can conform to the
original vision.
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