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tolkien_slashy_swaps2007-12-23 09:44 pm
gloromeien.livejournal.com) wrote in tolkien_slashy_swaps2007-12-23 09:44 pm
Entry tags:
The Scepter and the Serpent, Part 3 - Bite
Title: The Scepter and the Serpent, A Gondolin Mystery in Three Parts.
Author: Gloromeien
BETA: Eresse
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Glorfindel/Ecthelion
Warning: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Request/plot: Established relationship but no character death (either first age or after their returns).
Do not include: No rape, no parody, no noncom, NO MPREG, a little humor is ok but not extreme.
Summary: The King enlists Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s help in unmasking a palace thief. Tracy/Hepburn-like antics ensue (or so a humble author hopes).
Written for Aussie Lass
A/N: This plot bunny was begging to be written, though I hope it doesn’t fall too short of your parameters. There is, however, romance aplenty to be had, as well as an indecent amount of flirtation, so I hope you and everyone enjoys!
A/N 2: Some liberties are taken in this with the story of Aredhel and Eol. I am pretending that Eol did not immediately reject the notion of remaining in Gondolin, but, at Turgon’s invitation, resided there awhile to test out his liking of the place, with the same tragedy occurring after the conclusion of this tale.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Untold Annals of the First Age present…
The Scepter and the Serpent
A Gondolin Mystery
Part Three: Bite
The Lord of the Fountain surveyed his antechamber with pride at the efforts of his talented and discreet staff. As per his request, they had subtly transformed the room into a cozy parlor by adding a throw over the fireside divan, a tapestry to the western wall, and, most revealingly, a plush pelt before the hearth. Twin candelabra flanked the humble but hardy buffet of cured meats, sharp cheeses, toasted nut bread triangles, a basket overflowing with fruit, and a tray of honey cakes to sweeten the palate. The wine carafe had been replaced by a jug of cider, as Ecthelion would have clear heads rule that night; or, if not pristinely attuned, then reasonably lucid, especially given what had transpired between him and Glorfindel afore.
In the wake of that earthquake kiss the previous night, the darkling elf could not pry his thoughts away from a relentless and exacting analysis of the viability of Glorfindel’s suit, nor could he help but become acutely alert to all of his friend’s impeccable attributes. Sleep had eluded him, his appetite had diminished, and he had seriously contemplated truancy from their shared mission, all due to being utterly, indecently consumed with curiosity, as well as with shock at his soul’s emphatic reaction to the golden elf’s brash overture, to the rare eloquence that shone from those sapphire eyes.
If he had solved one mystery in the ensuing hours, it had been a most galling one indeed: Glorfindel loved him. No matter how skittish he had been in acknowledging it, no matter how he had diverted him with talk of courtship, patience, and propriety, those eyes had never once deceived him, regardless of the mercurial nature of the spirit that beamed through them. More astonishing still had been Ecthelion’s instinctive response to this insight into his friend’s heart: joy. Pure, unadulterated joy, of an intensity that he had never experienced before. It had confused him, this blitheness, for he had known unbearable tragedy in his life, the rush of ambition and the elation of triumph, but never happiness in its crudest form. Indeed, the Lord of the Fountain considered the emotion on par with communing with the gods, perhaps even a gift from their divine majesties, since it was as unprecedented as it was inconvenient.
Yet how could he fail to religiously pursue it? How could he deny something so ineffably true? Why was this revealed to him now, and in such a blindsiding manner? The questions only compounded as he further reflected on the situation, until his absorption bordered on obsession. How long had Glorfindel regarded him thusly, or was it a recent development, a product of the complacency of their current commission? If he had been pining, then why keep this from him, when a word could have relieved him? Ecthelion was self-examined enough to offer his own answer, readily admitting that his friend’s advances would have been unwelcome in their earlier years. Furthermore, what exactly had led to their first night of intimacy? Had he perhaps been the aggressor, with Glorfindel unable to refuse him due to his care, yet too honorable to later paint an accurate portrait of the affair? Something about that scenario deserved further reflection, but there was hardly time at the moment to resurrect such bleary memories.
In the wee hours of morn, his thoughts had turned tawdry, more explorative than honestly inquisitive. He had been overwhelmed by a vision of their coupling, of Glorfindel submitting to his scarlet caresses, as he must surely have done, otherwise Ecthelion would have been wickedly sore, for he had not played mare since his late adolescence and it was doubtful he would have done so when in his cups, however daunted his inhibitions. He had imagined stroking Glorfindel’s honeyed skin, fisting his fingers into that silken mane, lashing his tongue along that sinuous slope of neck, and pushing between those tautly muscled thighs. By that time, he had been mercilessly engorged, glaring proof of his rampant, long-repressed desire, on which he could not fail to act.
Not when the potential consequences were so dire; discord, estrangement, and loneliness were the few he was willing to contemplate. Regardless, he was no coward to flee from such a challenge. Glorfindel had risked much in revealing himself, and he should be rewarded, but not so much as Ecthelion suspected he would be if he opened himself to the golden elf’s heart. It had long been theorized among their fellows that whomever won the title of Consort of the Golden Flower would find themselves ravished and lavished in equal measure. However bleak his early years had been, that was a fate he could readily succumb to.
A curt knock at the door heralded his guest, who at his word sauntered in with something akin to trepidation, a reserve that ill-suited one accustomed to the charge. The very look of him at leisure appeared to brighten Glorfindel, though the creases still lining his brow betrayed his deductive mood, the riddle of Aredhel’s complicity in the crime evidently not resolved to his satisfaction. A wave of potent euphoria crashed over Ecthelion when their eyes met, such that he strode over to him as if compelled by an aphrodisiac scent, his face soft and his smile generous. A mixture of earthy musk and mild perspiration, as well as the faint trace of lightening fumes, since he was fresh from the thunderstorm outside, did indeed emanate from the Lord of the Golden Flower, though more enticingly than ere the darkling warrior remembered it.
Before a syllable was uttered between them, he snatched hold of the clasp of Glorfindel’s cloak and rid him of this encumbrance, his hands brushing over those impossibly broad shoulders as he gathered up the cape. His friend assayed a look of bald wonderment at the tenderness of the gesture, at the shiver of sensation that prickled down his back, searching his face for some indication of how to comport himself from then on. Ecthelion could only gaze at him, directly and earnestly, enthralled by the harmony of his features as never before, as if some veil had been lifted to reveal the masterpiece behind.
With a scapegrace grin that portended much for their evening, Glorfindel darted in to steal another quick kiss, the glint in his eyes in the seconds after roguishly unrepentant, especially given Ecthelion’s rough intake of breath just before.
“Brute,” the Lord of the Fountain chided, but could not mask his pleasure. “That is twice you’ve usurped upon my person.”
“You are free to wreak whatever retribution you see fit,” Glorfindel quipped, then swatted him on the rump as he swaggered by, awaiting no invitation as he headed straight for the buffet.
“You may come to rue being so cavalier,” Ecthelion gamesomely warned him.
“How I do hope so,” Glorfindel smirked, visibly reinvigorated by their flirtation. “May I?”
“If you care to sate that particular appetite forthwith,” Ecthelion volleyed back, his own senses roused by their banter. If this was a glimpse of how it could be between them, caring *and* casual, an effortless exchange of affinity, fraternity, and passion that did not compromise them as leaders of the community, then how could he refuse to court such an ideal relation? “We here at the House of the Fountain do aim to provide for your every need.”
“But surely not at the expense of your own energies,” Glorfindel asserted, nodding towards the rest area. “Be seated. I will fill you a plate.”
A resplendent one it was, heaping with Ecthelion’s every preference, from the chutney that he felt best accompanied his meat to the observant selection of cheeses. Far from being unnerved at his friend’s prescience, he acknowledged for himself how doting the golden elf had ever been; the beauty of the gesture was that it could have been accomplished for any one of their friends, as Glorfindel was ruled by such graces. Yet Ecthelion was the one benefiting from this excess of thoughtfulness, just as he would continue to do so for years to come, regardless of whether they remained comrades or dared to be more. Though he required no further encouragement, he relished this quality all the same, enchanted as he had never been before by one who until then had been his constant companion, but never meant so much as now, never so much more.
Alas, there was royal business to attend to, and by the sobriety of Glorfindel’s mien as he ate, the weight of his burden had not yet been lifted, not even by their flirty exchange.
“Let us dispense with courtly matters,” Ecthelion urged him. “What has come of your afternoon investigations?”
Glorfindel chuckled wryly, but without mirth.
“I believe I may have a sound theory,” he informed him. “Though I have yet to devise a means of testing it without alerting the guilty party to my suspicions. If I am correct, then more than one life may very well have been spared, at least for the present. One thing I did not fail to uncover is how base a creature Eol truly is. Whatever the outcome of our current mission, I suggest we confront the King, once he has recovered himself, about the threat this blackguard is posing to the realm.”
The darkling warrior received this stoically, having been a longtime opponent of the King’s decision to try and make peace with his law-brother.
“He is complicit, then, in this affair?” Ecthelion hotly inquired.
“I pray not,” Glorfindel warily replied. “It would simplify things enormously.”
“But whom do you suspect, gwador?” the Lord of the Fountain all but demanded, though the familiar appellation slipped awkwardly from his tongue, of pithy significance given his lately emotion.
To his surprise, Glorfindel cheered considerably, a mercurial glint repossessing his eyes.
“Would you not wait on revelation and be edified by my theater of conjecture on the morrow?” the golden elf queried, twinkling with anticipation.
“Not if you blunder and spoil all our efforts thus far,” Ecthelion stated plainly, then snickered at the mock wounded look foisted upon him. “Besides, I aim to earn equal credit and acclaim.”
“None need be the wiser,” Glorfindel explained. “Methinks it will serve the drama better if you are unaware of what is being sought, if your objectivity is preserved and you observe the playing out with a fresh mind, to better identify the flaws in the timeline I will propose.”
“Indeed,” Ecthelion acquiesced, though he burned with intrigue. “But at least give me some indication of what will transpire. Will we interrogate someone? Or startle them by interrupting their daily routine? Do we seek one or many? Do you mean to confront the one responsible or to provoke him or her through another?”
“I will say only this,” Glorfindel coyly responded, pausing to nibble on some nut bread to heighten the suspense. “The drama involves one who watched the entire evening unfold, but whom we have overlooked until now.”
Stunned, Ecthelion could only gape dumbly at his friend, his thoughts racing towards an as yet untenable conclusion. Though he soon gave up, having learnt long ago that one mystery which would never be solved were the mischievous ways of the Lord of the Golden Flower. If he relinquished himself to the adventure, then all would be well.
Revivified by his meal and by the success of his machinations, Glorfindel relaxed into his seat, indulging in an extended, felicitous perusal of Ecthelion’s angular features. The darkling elf did not evade the purity of his stare, but met this intensity head on, deeply touched to be the subject of such kindly meant scrutiny. In the scintillating fathoms of those sapphire eyes, he beheld the kaleidoscope of Glorfindel’s spirit, all the colors that shaded his character, all the intersecting motivations that conducted him through life. The reigning hue, however, was irrefutably love; it was the purpose that fuelled his light, the emotion that nourished his soul.
Ecthelion desired nothing more than to be sustained by that strength of heart; thus he dismissed the last of his reservations and grazed the back of his palm down Glorfindel’s cheek. He closed the distance between them, cupping his friend’s face as he lured him into a slow, smoldering kiss. The golden warrior’s taste thoroughly tantalized him, such that he delved in past those succulent lips, exploring the savory cavity of his mouth and the delectable texture of his tongue. Soon, his body was so ravenous that he felt he could have devoured him whole, but settled for entwining his arms around that colossal torso, for reveling in the taut press of their muscled chests, even buffered as they were by layers of garments. His callused hands snuck down to fondle his meaty buttocks, a slow broiling need simmering in his groin as a result of the indelible heat between them.
Everything about his gilded one enthralled him; the satin feel of his skin as he tucked his hands under his tunic and stroked up his sleek length of back, the raw growling sounds that purred up his throat as he was undone, the sheer might of those brawny arms cinched around him, the relentlessness of his caresses now that he had given irrevocable sway to his passion. Clashing thusly with Glorfindel was akin to being mauled by a lion, but he would have it no other way, since for the first time he felt equally matched with a lover – for that was what they would soon become if their fervor continued to progress. Little wonder that with their lucidity dulled and their inhibitions diminished they had all but pounced on one another. Once they had begun to kindle such a sultry fire, it could do naught but blaze, such did their spirits ignite when finally unleashed.
Having gorged himself on those kiss-savaged lips, on that incendiary mouth, Ecthelion dealt them a tempering smooch, then gently extricated himself from their embrace. His gaze redolent with warmth and welcome, he glanced meaningfully towards the pelts before the hearth, then attempted to tug Glorfindel to his feet. To his dismay, the Lord of the Golden Flower resisted, his patrician features mired in ambivalence, though his irrepressible desire burned through. He bowed forward, pressing his baking brow against their clasped hands, in a manner so penitent, so beseeching that Ecthelion’s reason roared back into the forefront of his mind.
“Melethen,” Glorfindel pleaded, his voice still husky with need. “We cannot.”
“Do not dare speak the word ‘duty’ whilst we are under such straits,” the darkling warrior censured him, struggling to slow his heaving breaths.
“Though that is a concern,” Glorfindel conceded, lifting his head that their eyes might lock. “Tis rather a fault of mine that may prevent us from… Ecthelion, I have failed you.”
“How now?” the Lord of the Fountain inquired, irritated that such trifles delayed them. “But we have yet to…” Thunderstruck by an insight that had heretofore eluded him, he instinctively released the golden elf’s hand, turning inward to puzzle out the revelation. Interpreting this gesture for a rejection, Glorfindel shut his eyes that he might figure out a means of repairing the damage wrought of his capriciousness, though there was hardly need. Within minutes, Ecthelion had resolved himself, lowering back onto the divan that he might address his lover directly, as was ever his wont. “I should have known. Loyal, honorable, incomparable Glorfindel… Tis my own dunderheadedness that has invariably complicated such a simple affair.”
“Gwador,” Glorfindel rallied, formalizing his posture that he might deliver an elegant apology. “You are by no means to blame-“
“Hush yourself, *melethen*,” Ecthelion gently silenced him, ensuring his complicity with a commanding kiss. “My fear of true intimacy prevented me from realizing what should have been obvious all along. You, my steadfast one, would never have succumbed to the folly of drink nor the ravings of the flesh if an ounce of lucidity was left you. You would never bed me without my true consent, proven by your reticence now, when only a meager, well-meant deception lies between us, a complot we will both laugh about in our dotage, but you would not have me under any pretence but honest and utter desire.”
“I would not,” Glorfindel concurred, radiant with contrition. “I could never.”
“Indeed,” Ecthelion concluded. “Thus, you did not. We have never been intimate, have we?”
“Nay,” Glorfindel admitted, tensing for the blow to come. “Though I earnestly have never felt more so with another than whilst you were slumbering in my arms.”
“So it appears,” Ecthelion beamed, weaving their sculpted forms together anew, though resisting the heat that reared up. “One can only imagine how compelling it will be when the subject of your tenderness is conscious.”
“Then I am forgiven?” the golden elf queried, in the tone that most approximated trepidation.
“You have done no wrong in awakening me to…” Ecthelion sighed contentedly, then gave him a poignant squeeze. “To what you had so long deserved, but were selfishly deprived of. To the riches to be mined in my own heart. An expedition we will together embark upon once this royal madness is ended. You are right to temper us. I would not further neglect any part of you, whether partaking of your erotic person or perusing your genial intellect.”
“But what of my lonesome spirit?” Glorfindel whispered against his temple. “That, too, seeks the luxury of your keeping.”
“Then it best prepare to be indecently spoilt,” Ecthelion assured him, once again claiming those florid lips for his own.
* * *
Twas upon the first fair day in a fortnight that Glorfindel found himself once again enclosed in the austere banquet hall that had launched the investigation, no less oppressive for the stark shafts of light streaking down from the high windows. The dungeon atmosphere did little to put his fellow guests at ease, though this would abet the bit of theatre he had impulsively planned. While he was inwardly praying to the skies that the script he had imagined would play out, for his King would be present and he did not wish him to think his trust misplaced, he enacted the part of calm, confident host, directing each person to their proper seat that the drama might unfold.
His beacon amidst the brume that afternoon was the one whom he might soon come to name *his* Ecthelion, his noble, comely visage the personification of support and encouragement however concerned the Lord of the Fountain himself was that this gambit would fail to unmask their culprit. Enacting the role of Salgant, a conceit to merriment that Glorfindel could not quite restrain himself from making, his beloved had not quite embraced the spirit of his character as yet, for he sat in quiet observation with his usual poise, neglecting to jabber on incessantly about insipid trivialities in the overloud whisper of a career gossip. No matter what transpired that day, the promise of Ecthelion’s arms to retire to was beyond alluring, the memory of that scarlet kiss and searing touch the sweetest of motivators. Yet he nonetheless shouldered the burden of his darkling one’s approval, of defending both their reputations against what could still prove to be a travesty of epic proportions.
The rest of the assembly evidenced their willingness to indulge this whim of his to varying degrees. The King’s regal features, while cautiously avid with interest, were also shrouded by resignation over the sentence he may have to pass that very day and the potential ramifications thereof. As requested, he had worn a similarly ornate brooch, though one of far lesser value. Idril was typically bemused, as she was by all of Glorfindel’s schemes, though also wary of betraying her mirth to her sober companions. Aredhel, though jittery with nerves, was raptly focused by her suspicion that the blame may yet come to lie squarely on her. Such a beleaguered lady had little opportunity for vengeance against her abuser and might wreak some of her own if she felt the least bit under scrutiny; a volatility that Glorfindel carefully monitored lest one of her eruptions of rancor scared the true culprit away. Penlodh, Duilin, and Enerdhil were not represented, as they were too distant from the King during that portion of the meal to thieve anything. After much coaxing, Maeglin had been lured away from his pile of rocks, grappling onto the only place of security, upon his royal uncle’s lap.
The Lord of the Golden Flower took his seat at the head of the table, in place of Eol, that their noontime meal might commence. As Aredhel served them all a bowl of somewhat anemic-looking soup, product of the haste of its commission, no doubt, the guests exchanged uncomfortable glances, unsure of what they were meant to do. Glorfindel gestured for them to eat, but they remained tense, wondering what tricks their mercurial host had plotted and what would come of them. Idril was the first to tire of this nonsense, and thus to protest, in her own inimitable fashion.
“Now then, my dear Chief Detective,” she pointedly remarked to him. “What are we about? Is there a particular topic you would introduce, or are we verily supposed to invent conversation like to those we aim to mimic? If so, I will play Idril, and ask if everyone will be attending the harvest ball? Salgant?”
“For certes, Your Highness,” Ecthelion answered, with none of the vocal tics he had affected earlier, in private, much to Glorfindel’s disappointment. “Though have you heard that Lord Egalmoth will be escorting Glinfiriel of the House of the Swallow, with the approval of her Adar, his fellow?”
“I had not!” Idril exclaimed, genuinely enthralled by this piece of news. “Is that truly so, Ecthelion?”
“Perhaps,” his beloved demurred, to further entice her curiosity.
“And here I have relied on serving maids and house masters for such insights,” Idril delightedly proclaimed. “When all I might have done is flirt with a few high-ranked warriors for the choicest snippets of information.”
“I daresay our guardians are better preoccupied by their duties,” Turgon suggested, a mild irritation to his tone. “Verily, Glorfindel, are we to banter about trifles the afternoon long? Or is there some method to this madness of yours?”
Though his King had somewhat preemptively tired of the theatrics, their attention had been diverted long enough for the snake to slither out of its nest. He had only to distract them a few moments longer, and he might shut the trap.
“I meant no dishonor, sire,” he reassured his testy sovereign, then waited until Aredhel took to her chair. “I shall explain my reasoning forthwith, leading to the revelation we have all been anticipating.”
All four foisted hawkish eyes upon him, which, though a touch discomfiting, was a tribute to their commitment to justice. With any luck, they would all soon be chuckling at the severity with which they had confronted a problem that was, in the end, no more complex than an elfling’s playground game.
“As eager as I am to attend you, Lord Glorfindel,” the King interrupted him. “I would ask why our suspects are not present at this gathering, since this most concerns them. I also do not like to think that such a villain might escape us, if word of our activities reaches him.”
“Believe me, Majesty, the culprit could not be closer at hand, nor more securely held,” Glorfindel replied, to the astonishment of all.
“Then they are being held under guard somewhere near?” Aredhel breathlessly asked, desperate to be cleared of any lingering charges against her or her family.
“They are pillars of the city all,” Glorfindel declared. “The elders among the House lords, of unimpeachable virtue, so far as Ecthelion and I can ascertain. They are to-a-one innocent of this crime, thus spared the harshest of their city’s judgment.”
A rumble of disquiet thundered through the assembly at this controversial statement, such that Maeglin scrambled off his uncle’s legs and skittered over to the far side of the mantle to conceal himself in its shadow. Glorfindel smirked at the telltale sound of stone scraping against stone.
“Impossible!” Aredhel all but wailed, stricken by the straits this placed her in. “Brother, it was in the name of peace that we invited you into our home-“
“Hush now,” Glorfindel tempered her, then glanced meaningfully at his King. “Sire, it seems you have misplaced yet another of your jewels.”
All then gaped at Turgon’s tunic, from which yet another brooch had been surreptitiously snatched.
“Fiend!” the King bellowed, incensed at this latest desecration, until Glorfindel placed a finger over his lips, then pointed silently at the mantle.
There for all to see was Maeglin sneaking another treasure away, as oblivious to the treachery of his act as he was to the scrutiny of his elders.
“Ioneth!” Aredhel yelped anew, then rushed over to retrieve both him and the considerable trove he had amassed, Valar-gifted brooch included.
Once the King had recovered himself from the shock, he managed a chuckle at his own expense, the relief shining off his noble features. His city had indeed been spared. Idril, for her part, was biting so forcefully on her lips to keep from giggling that they were crimson, while Ecthelion just shook his head in bafflement, then smiled warmly at Glorfindel, a gesture which was stealthily returned, as was the scepter to its rightful owner.
“He does indeed have a penchant for shiny things, my Lady,” Glorfindel quipped, effortlessly brightening the mood.
While poor Maeglin would doubtlessly be deprived of his baubles until he learnt to share, the Lord of the Golden Flower was pleased that no one would be cast over the western wall that night, at least not as a result of his investigation. Rather, his own evening would be a far more intimate one, especially since he expected he and Ecthelion would be granted a month’s leave for their diligent and dedicated service to the realm.
A more propitious resolution none could have hoped for; thus it was with a champion’s smile that he locked eyes with his King and beseeched his far more benevolent brand of judgment.
* * *
An insurgent, and rather mercenary, truth be told, ray of sunlight woke Glorfindel from heavy, sated slumber, bedazzling his bleary eyes as they opened to the scintillating morn. The glare momentarily distracted him from the most glorious realization: that he was cocooned in Ecthelion’s bed, in Ecthelion’s bedchamber, in Ecthelion’s suite of rooms in the House of the Fountain. The maidenly fancy of his previous thought was quite decadently undercut by the carnal abuse his body had so enthusiastically suffered, for his thighs were strained from wrapping themselves around a lank waist and muscular buttocks, his wrists creaked from overexertion, his jaw was sore from treating his darkling lover to a variety of tawdry delights, and that exquisite but unmentionable place ached most emphatically from impassioned bores into his sacred core.
In short, Glorfindel had never felt so exceptionally used, so thoroughly mauled, ridden so expertly well that he might verily birth a foal, such did he revel in playing mare to Ecthelion’s monumentally endowed stud.
Their evening had begun with whispered troths and ended with bays of rapture. After a leisurely meal in Ecthelion’s study, through which Glorfindel had detailed his discovery of the treasure trove and his interview of Maeglin the previous afternoon, they had strolled through the moonlit gardens, their banter teasing but their glances reverential. The silver spokes and cascading rush of the fountains sparkled under the canopy of stars, but no glint lured him in such as the one in his beloved’s eyes, which raked his brawny frame in a patently predatory manner. There was no explicit invitation to proceed to his chambers, only fingers stealthily entwined with his own and a purposeful tug towards the back stairs, to which he was almost demurely escorted, in the moments before Ecthelion pounced.
In the countless times he had imagined that particular rite of passage, he had never envisioned them so rambunctious, racing up to the landing like schoolboys returning home from their lessons, smashing into the banister for an incendiary grope, stumbling over the top steps then collapsing into a heap of grappling limbs and devouring lips, giddy from the sublime surge of feeling that left them thoroughly intoxicated, far more so than an overabundance of drink could ever have done. There, on the hallway floor, Glorfindel had ripped Ecthelion’s tunic off his arms, subsequent to having been violently divested of his breeches and fondled into thick, insistent erection. Yet the sight of that sculpted chest had only further incensed him, such that he had gingerly tossed his beloved over and clamored atop him, all the better to torment his dusky nipples into a violet pucker.
Ecthelion, meanwhile, had shucked his own breeches that he might grind his emphatically engorged groin into his golden one’s glossy nethers, panting huskily at the indelible pleasure of this first erotic act. While Glorfindel had shut his eyes as a result of the ferocity of the sensation, Ecthelion had instead gazed up at him, searching out the eloquent stare that had first provoked him. Unfulfilled in this, he had slowed his gyrations that he might steal a sultry kiss, one that reminded them both of the heart implicit in even their most salacious maneuvers.
This had sobered them some, but not enough to smite the flame of desire. Instead, they had retired to the Lord of the Fountain’s bedchamber, then had proceeded to undress one another with due tenderness, kindling the heat of their souls as well as the blaze in their loins. Glorfindel would never forget Ecthelion’s poignant look as he first beheld him bare and wanting, the fever he betrayed whilst being stroked by the golden elf, the emotion in his eyes as he painstakingly claimed him, conveying both his sense of privilege at being able to command him so and his deep honor at being entrusted the care of such a vulnerable area, even on one as colossal of might as the Lord of the Golden Flower. For all their patience and sensual generosity, their quickening would not long be leashed, as neither had ever known such incandescent ecstasy afore and both were eager to sing with it.
Though they had later delved further into their endless reservoirs of passion, they had emerged from that initial tangle edified by the incontrovertible rightness of their love, by the undeniable synchronicity that reigned within. They had recognized one another for what the Valar had long ago decreed they were, but neither dared speak of it, least the spell be broken.
Peeking out from behind the safeguard of the coverlet, Glorfindel was disappointed to find the bedchamber as empty as the bed he lay in, the only trace of Ecthelion the effervescent scent that wafted off the massive pillow they had shared. A prickle of concern tingled at the nape of his neck, threatening to bolt down his spine. He could not, he *would not* be like all the others, abandoned amidst the very sheets they had soiled, servant to the housemaster’s compassion. Surely by virtue of their friendship alone, Ecthelion owed him more than this, though he did not believe himself more worthy than his former lovers, no matter his depth of heart. He scoured the night table, the wardrobe, the mirror, for a slip of paper, a tucked-in scroll, any trace of his darkling one’s consideration, but there was nary a scrap to be found. Flopping back into his downy berth, Glorfindel uttered a muffled curse as he yanked the coverlet back over his head in defiance of his suspicions.
Twas folly itself to embrace such assumptions before all the facts were disclosed. Indeed, he would never have solved the mystery if he had considered all the evidence as presented to him, solid proof of a treachery plot. Still, he grew morose at the thought of having to recommence his suit (for it was unfathomable to him that he should quit Ecthelion altogether), of the awkwardness and avoidance that would surely ensue, of the further length of time he would have to assay a measure of patience well beyond his usual capabilities, especially after such an incredible night. His mouth was rife with bitterness when he considered the endless months without Ecthelion’s kiss, caresses, sweetness, sensual favors. His deprivation would be the more acute for having sampled these delicacies, for having supped at his prince’s table. He was exhausted by the very idea of venturing beyond the bounds of the bed, of skulking away from the remnants of his lordly lover’s heat, thus he enforced a measure of calm upon himself and fell into a light doze, the better to ignore the imminent tap of the housemaster’s knuckles at the door.
He was startled into wakefulness by the smash of a hard body into his side, the resultant snickers possibly the most gorgeous sound that had ever tickled his ears. His brow was bussed quite noisily, then a pair of silken lips covered his own, precociously demanding that he match their fervor. Before he could properly focus his eyes, the sheets were thrown over and his bareness exposed to the sunlight’s scorch, though he was suitably diverted by the sight of Ecthelion haloed by that blast of light, such that his silhouette appeared otherworldly.
“My, but you do tax one’s patience,” the Lord of the Fountain complained, though a chuckle quavered under his tone. “Lazing about like a bear in late hibernation. Such a pristine day should not be a second more neglected. So come, my burly one! A sumptuous fast-breaking awaits our leisure on the balcony beyond, as does a rather iconic view of our city fair.”
“The balcony?” Glorfindel groggily queried, then inwardly berated himself for his thickness, as this was not the first time he would be received there. Yet he made no mention of his misgivings to his beloved, who was still radiant with afterglow from the revels that had ended hours before. “Am I to stalk out there wearing only my love-bites, or might I borrow a robe?”
“Enticing as it would be to admire your majesty the day long,” Ecthelion coyly responded. “I would not prematurely flaunt my good fortune before my courtiers. There is, indeed, a robe of aquamarine hue awaiting you, delivered in the early hours by a thoughtful page. Verily, I hope you recompense your housemaster for such foresight.”
“Not so well as I shall repay you for a rapturous evening once I have refueled,” Glorfindel wickedly insinuated. “Do not think I will forever bend to your will, moren vain, no matter how riveting your domination. I’ve a commanding presence all my own, as you will soon discover.”
“So long as there is a forever,” Ecthelion murmured, locking eyes with the one who adored him and stroking a tender touch down the side of his face. “You may rule me in every way.”
Elated by this impromptu oath, Glorfindel claimed his mouth anew, enthralled by every precious aspect of his own priceless treasure - his indefatigable spirit, gallant heart, and uniquely beautiful soul.
Finis
Author: Gloromeien
BETA: Eresse
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Glorfindel/Ecthelion
Warning: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Request/plot: Established relationship but no character death (either first age or after their returns).
Do not include: No rape, no parody, no noncom, NO MPREG, a little humor is ok but not extreme.
Summary: The King enlists Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s help in unmasking a palace thief. Tracy/Hepburn-like antics ensue (or so a humble author hopes).
Written for Aussie Lass
A/N: This plot bunny was begging to be written, though I hope it doesn’t fall too short of your parameters. There is, however, romance aplenty to be had, as well as an indecent amount of flirtation, so I hope you and everyone enjoys!
A/N 2: Some liberties are taken in this with the story of Aredhel and Eol. I am pretending that Eol did not immediately reject the notion of remaining in Gondolin, but, at Turgon’s invitation, resided there awhile to test out his liking of the place, with the same tragedy occurring after the conclusion of this tale.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Untold Annals of the First Age present…
The Scepter and the Serpent
A Gondolin Mystery
Part Three: Bite
The Lord of the Fountain surveyed his antechamber with pride at the efforts of his talented and discreet staff. As per his request, they had subtly transformed the room into a cozy parlor by adding a throw over the fireside divan, a tapestry to the western wall, and, most revealingly, a plush pelt before the hearth. Twin candelabra flanked the humble but hardy buffet of cured meats, sharp cheeses, toasted nut bread triangles, a basket overflowing with fruit, and a tray of honey cakes to sweeten the palate. The wine carafe had been replaced by a jug of cider, as Ecthelion would have clear heads rule that night; or, if not pristinely attuned, then reasonably lucid, especially given what had transpired between him and Glorfindel afore.
In the wake of that earthquake kiss the previous night, the darkling elf could not pry his thoughts away from a relentless and exacting analysis of the viability of Glorfindel’s suit, nor could he help but become acutely alert to all of his friend’s impeccable attributes. Sleep had eluded him, his appetite had diminished, and he had seriously contemplated truancy from their shared mission, all due to being utterly, indecently consumed with curiosity, as well as with shock at his soul’s emphatic reaction to the golden elf’s brash overture, to the rare eloquence that shone from those sapphire eyes.
If he had solved one mystery in the ensuing hours, it had been a most galling one indeed: Glorfindel loved him. No matter how skittish he had been in acknowledging it, no matter how he had diverted him with talk of courtship, patience, and propriety, those eyes had never once deceived him, regardless of the mercurial nature of the spirit that beamed through them. More astonishing still had been Ecthelion’s instinctive response to this insight into his friend’s heart: joy. Pure, unadulterated joy, of an intensity that he had never experienced before. It had confused him, this blitheness, for he had known unbearable tragedy in his life, the rush of ambition and the elation of triumph, but never happiness in its crudest form. Indeed, the Lord of the Fountain considered the emotion on par with communing with the gods, perhaps even a gift from their divine majesties, since it was as unprecedented as it was inconvenient.
Yet how could he fail to religiously pursue it? How could he deny something so ineffably true? Why was this revealed to him now, and in such a blindsiding manner? The questions only compounded as he further reflected on the situation, until his absorption bordered on obsession. How long had Glorfindel regarded him thusly, or was it a recent development, a product of the complacency of their current commission? If he had been pining, then why keep this from him, when a word could have relieved him? Ecthelion was self-examined enough to offer his own answer, readily admitting that his friend’s advances would have been unwelcome in their earlier years. Furthermore, what exactly had led to their first night of intimacy? Had he perhaps been the aggressor, with Glorfindel unable to refuse him due to his care, yet too honorable to later paint an accurate portrait of the affair? Something about that scenario deserved further reflection, but there was hardly time at the moment to resurrect such bleary memories.
In the wee hours of morn, his thoughts had turned tawdry, more explorative than honestly inquisitive. He had been overwhelmed by a vision of their coupling, of Glorfindel submitting to his scarlet caresses, as he must surely have done, otherwise Ecthelion would have been wickedly sore, for he had not played mare since his late adolescence and it was doubtful he would have done so when in his cups, however daunted his inhibitions. He had imagined stroking Glorfindel’s honeyed skin, fisting his fingers into that silken mane, lashing his tongue along that sinuous slope of neck, and pushing between those tautly muscled thighs. By that time, he had been mercilessly engorged, glaring proof of his rampant, long-repressed desire, on which he could not fail to act.
Not when the potential consequences were so dire; discord, estrangement, and loneliness were the few he was willing to contemplate. Regardless, he was no coward to flee from such a challenge. Glorfindel had risked much in revealing himself, and he should be rewarded, but not so much as Ecthelion suspected he would be if he opened himself to the golden elf’s heart. It had long been theorized among their fellows that whomever won the title of Consort of the Golden Flower would find themselves ravished and lavished in equal measure. However bleak his early years had been, that was a fate he could readily succumb to.
A curt knock at the door heralded his guest, who at his word sauntered in with something akin to trepidation, a reserve that ill-suited one accustomed to the charge. The very look of him at leisure appeared to brighten Glorfindel, though the creases still lining his brow betrayed his deductive mood, the riddle of Aredhel’s complicity in the crime evidently not resolved to his satisfaction. A wave of potent euphoria crashed over Ecthelion when their eyes met, such that he strode over to him as if compelled by an aphrodisiac scent, his face soft and his smile generous. A mixture of earthy musk and mild perspiration, as well as the faint trace of lightening fumes, since he was fresh from the thunderstorm outside, did indeed emanate from the Lord of the Golden Flower, though more enticingly than ere the darkling warrior remembered it.
Before a syllable was uttered between them, he snatched hold of the clasp of Glorfindel’s cloak and rid him of this encumbrance, his hands brushing over those impossibly broad shoulders as he gathered up the cape. His friend assayed a look of bald wonderment at the tenderness of the gesture, at the shiver of sensation that prickled down his back, searching his face for some indication of how to comport himself from then on. Ecthelion could only gaze at him, directly and earnestly, enthralled by the harmony of his features as never before, as if some veil had been lifted to reveal the masterpiece behind.
With a scapegrace grin that portended much for their evening, Glorfindel darted in to steal another quick kiss, the glint in his eyes in the seconds after roguishly unrepentant, especially given Ecthelion’s rough intake of breath just before.
“Brute,” the Lord of the Fountain chided, but could not mask his pleasure. “That is twice you’ve usurped upon my person.”
“You are free to wreak whatever retribution you see fit,” Glorfindel quipped, then swatted him on the rump as he swaggered by, awaiting no invitation as he headed straight for the buffet.
“You may come to rue being so cavalier,” Ecthelion gamesomely warned him.
“How I do hope so,” Glorfindel smirked, visibly reinvigorated by their flirtation. “May I?”
“If you care to sate that particular appetite forthwith,” Ecthelion volleyed back, his own senses roused by their banter. If this was a glimpse of how it could be between them, caring *and* casual, an effortless exchange of affinity, fraternity, and passion that did not compromise them as leaders of the community, then how could he refuse to court such an ideal relation? “We here at the House of the Fountain do aim to provide for your every need.”
“But surely not at the expense of your own energies,” Glorfindel asserted, nodding towards the rest area. “Be seated. I will fill you a plate.”
A resplendent one it was, heaping with Ecthelion’s every preference, from the chutney that he felt best accompanied his meat to the observant selection of cheeses. Far from being unnerved at his friend’s prescience, he acknowledged for himself how doting the golden elf had ever been; the beauty of the gesture was that it could have been accomplished for any one of their friends, as Glorfindel was ruled by such graces. Yet Ecthelion was the one benefiting from this excess of thoughtfulness, just as he would continue to do so for years to come, regardless of whether they remained comrades or dared to be more. Though he required no further encouragement, he relished this quality all the same, enchanted as he had never been before by one who until then had been his constant companion, but never meant so much as now, never so much more.
Alas, there was royal business to attend to, and by the sobriety of Glorfindel’s mien as he ate, the weight of his burden had not yet been lifted, not even by their flirty exchange.
“Let us dispense with courtly matters,” Ecthelion urged him. “What has come of your afternoon investigations?”
Glorfindel chuckled wryly, but without mirth.
“I believe I may have a sound theory,” he informed him. “Though I have yet to devise a means of testing it without alerting the guilty party to my suspicions. If I am correct, then more than one life may very well have been spared, at least for the present. One thing I did not fail to uncover is how base a creature Eol truly is. Whatever the outcome of our current mission, I suggest we confront the King, once he has recovered himself, about the threat this blackguard is posing to the realm.”
The darkling warrior received this stoically, having been a longtime opponent of the King’s decision to try and make peace with his law-brother.
“He is complicit, then, in this affair?” Ecthelion hotly inquired.
“I pray not,” Glorfindel warily replied. “It would simplify things enormously.”
“But whom do you suspect, gwador?” the Lord of the Fountain all but demanded, though the familiar appellation slipped awkwardly from his tongue, of pithy significance given his lately emotion.
To his surprise, Glorfindel cheered considerably, a mercurial glint repossessing his eyes.
“Would you not wait on revelation and be edified by my theater of conjecture on the morrow?” the golden elf queried, twinkling with anticipation.
“Not if you blunder and spoil all our efforts thus far,” Ecthelion stated plainly, then snickered at the mock wounded look foisted upon him. “Besides, I aim to earn equal credit and acclaim.”
“None need be the wiser,” Glorfindel explained. “Methinks it will serve the drama better if you are unaware of what is being sought, if your objectivity is preserved and you observe the playing out with a fresh mind, to better identify the flaws in the timeline I will propose.”
“Indeed,” Ecthelion acquiesced, though he burned with intrigue. “But at least give me some indication of what will transpire. Will we interrogate someone? Or startle them by interrupting their daily routine? Do we seek one or many? Do you mean to confront the one responsible or to provoke him or her through another?”
“I will say only this,” Glorfindel coyly responded, pausing to nibble on some nut bread to heighten the suspense. “The drama involves one who watched the entire evening unfold, but whom we have overlooked until now.”
Stunned, Ecthelion could only gape dumbly at his friend, his thoughts racing towards an as yet untenable conclusion. Though he soon gave up, having learnt long ago that one mystery which would never be solved were the mischievous ways of the Lord of the Golden Flower. If he relinquished himself to the adventure, then all would be well.
Revivified by his meal and by the success of his machinations, Glorfindel relaxed into his seat, indulging in an extended, felicitous perusal of Ecthelion’s angular features. The darkling elf did not evade the purity of his stare, but met this intensity head on, deeply touched to be the subject of such kindly meant scrutiny. In the scintillating fathoms of those sapphire eyes, he beheld the kaleidoscope of Glorfindel’s spirit, all the colors that shaded his character, all the intersecting motivations that conducted him through life. The reigning hue, however, was irrefutably love; it was the purpose that fuelled his light, the emotion that nourished his soul.
Ecthelion desired nothing more than to be sustained by that strength of heart; thus he dismissed the last of his reservations and grazed the back of his palm down Glorfindel’s cheek. He closed the distance between them, cupping his friend’s face as he lured him into a slow, smoldering kiss. The golden warrior’s taste thoroughly tantalized him, such that he delved in past those succulent lips, exploring the savory cavity of his mouth and the delectable texture of his tongue. Soon, his body was so ravenous that he felt he could have devoured him whole, but settled for entwining his arms around that colossal torso, for reveling in the taut press of their muscled chests, even buffered as they were by layers of garments. His callused hands snuck down to fondle his meaty buttocks, a slow broiling need simmering in his groin as a result of the indelible heat between them.
Everything about his gilded one enthralled him; the satin feel of his skin as he tucked his hands under his tunic and stroked up his sleek length of back, the raw growling sounds that purred up his throat as he was undone, the sheer might of those brawny arms cinched around him, the relentlessness of his caresses now that he had given irrevocable sway to his passion. Clashing thusly with Glorfindel was akin to being mauled by a lion, but he would have it no other way, since for the first time he felt equally matched with a lover – for that was what they would soon become if their fervor continued to progress. Little wonder that with their lucidity dulled and their inhibitions diminished they had all but pounced on one another. Once they had begun to kindle such a sultry fire, it could do naught but blaze, such did their spirits ignite when finally unleashed.
Having gorged himself on those kiss-savaged lips, on that incendiary mouth, Ecthelion dealt them a tempering smooch, then gently extricated himself from their embrace. His gaze redolent with warmth and welcome, he glanced meaningfully towards the pelts before the hearth, then attempted to tug Glorfindel to his feet. To his dismay, the Lord of the Golden Flower resisted, his patrician features mired in ambivalence, though his irrepressible desire burned through. He bowed forward, pressing his baking brow against their clasped hands, in a manner so penitent, so beseeching that Ecthelion’s reason roared back into the forefront of his mind.
“Melethen,” Glorfindel pleaded, his voice still husky with need. “We cannot.”
“Do not dare speak the word ‘duty’ whilst we are under such straits,” the darkling warrior censured him, struggling to slow his heaving breaths.
“Though that is a concern,” Glorfindel conceded, lifting his head that their eyes might lock. “Tis rather a fault of mine that may prevent us from… Ecthelion, I have failed you.”
“How now?” the Lord of the Fountain inquired, irritated that such trifles delayed them. “But we have yet to…” Thunderstruck by an insight that had heretofore eluded him, he instinctively released the golden elf’s hand, turning inward to puzzle out the revelation. Interpreting this gesture for a rejection, Glorfindel shut his eyes that he might figure out a means of repairing the damage wrought of his capriciousness, though there was hardly need. Within minutes, Ecthelion had resolved himself, lowering back onto the divan that he might address his lover directly, as was ever his wont. “I should have known. Loyal, honorable, incomparable Glorfindel… Tis my own dunderheadedness that has invariably complicated such a simple affair.”
“Gwador,” Glorfindel rallied, formalizing his posture that he might deliver an elegant apology. “You are by no means to blame-“
“Hush yourself, *melethen*,” Ecthelion gently silenced him, ensuring his complicity with a commanding kiss. “My fear of true intimacy prevented me from realizing what should have been obvious all along. You, my steadfast one, would never have succumbed to the folly of drink nor the ravings of the flesh if an ounce of lucidity was left you. You would never bed me without my true consent, proven by your reticence now, when only a meager, well-meant deception lies between us, a complot we will both laugh about in our dotage, but you would not have me under any pretence but honest and utter desire.”
“I would not,” Glorfindel concurred, radiant with contrition. “I could never.”
“Indeed,” Ecthelion concluded. “Thus, you did not. We have never been intimate, have we?”
“Nay,” Glorfindel admitted, tensing for the blow to come. “Though I earnestly have never felt more so with another than whilst you were slumbering in my arms.”
“So it appears,” Ecthelion beamed, weaving their sculpted forms together anew, though resisting the heat that reared up. “One can only imagine how compelling it will be when the subject of your tenderness is conscious.”
“Then I am forgiven?” the golden elf queried, in the tone that most approximated trepidation.
“You have done no wrong in awakening me to…” Ecthelion sighed contentedly, then gave him a poignant squeeze. “To what you had so long deserved, but were selfishly deprived of. To the riches to be mined in my own heart. An expedition we will together embark upon once this royal madness is ended. You are right to temper us. I would not further neglect any part of you, whether partaking of your erotic person or perusing your genial intellect.”
“But what of my lonesome spirit?” Glorfindel whispered against his temple. “That, too, seeks the luxury of your keeping.”
“Then it best prepare to be indecently spoilt,” Ecthelion assured him, once again claiming those florid lips for his own.
* * *
Twas upon the first fair day in a fortnight that Glorfindel found himself once again enclosed in the austere banquet hall that had launched the investigation, no less oppressive for the stark shafts of light streaking down from the high windows. The dungeon atmosphere did little to put his fellow guests at ease, though this would abet the bit of theatre he had impulsively planned. While he was inwardly praying to the skies that the script he had imagined would play out, for his King would be present and he did not wish him to think his trust misplaced, he enacted the part of calm, confident host, directing each person to their proper seat that the drama might unfold.
His beacon amidst the brume that afternoon was the one whom he might soon come to name *his* Ecthelion, his noble, comely visage the personification of support and encouragement however concerned the Lord of the Fountain himself was that this gambit would fail to unmask their culprit. Enacting the role of Salgant, a conceit to merriment that Glorfindel could not quite restrain himself from making, his beloved had not quite embraced the spirit of his character as yet, for he sat in quiet observation with his usual poise, neglecting to jabber on incessantly about insipid trivialities in the overloud whisper of a career gossip. No matter what transpired that day, the promise of Ecthelion’s arms to retire to was beyond alluring, the memory of that scarlet kiss and searing touch the sweetest of motivators. Yet he nonetheless shouldered the burden of his darkling one’s approval, of defending both their reputations against what could still prove to be a travesty of epic proportions.
The rest of the assembly evidenced their willingness to indulge this whim of his to varying degrees. The King’s regal features, while cautiously avid with interest, were also shrouded by resignation over the sentence he may have to pass that very day and the potential ramifications thereof. As requested, he had worn a similarly ornate brooch, though one of far lesser value. Idril was typically bemused, as she was by all of Glorfindel’s schemes, though also wary of betraying her mirth to her sober companions. Aredhel, though jittery with nerves, was raptly focused by her suspicion that the blame may yet come to lie squarely on her. Such a beleaguered lady had little opportunity for vengeance against her abuser and might wreak some of her own if she felt the least bit under scrutiny; a volatility that Glorfindel carefully monitored lest one of her eruptions of rancor scared the true culprit away. Penlodh, Duilin, and Enerdhil were not represented, as they were too distant from the King during that portion of the meal to thieve anything. After much coaxing, Maeglin had been lured away from his pile of rocks, grappling onto the only place of security, upon his royal uncle’s lap.
The Lord of the Golden Flower took his seat at the head of the table, in place of Eol, that their noontime meal might commence. As Aredhel served them all a bowl of somewhat anemic-looking soup, product of the haste of its commission, no doubt, the guests exchanged uncomfortable glances, unsure of what they were meant to do. Glorfindel gestured for them to eat, but they remained tense, wondering what tricks their mercurial host had plotted and what would come of them. Idril was the first to tire of this nonsense, and thus to protest, in her own inimitable fashion.
“Now then, my dear Chief Detective,” she pointedly remarked to him. “What are we about? Is there a particular topic you would introduce, or are we verily supposed to invent conversation like to those we aim to mimic? If so, I will play Idril, and ask if everyone will be attending the harvest ball? Salgant?”
“For certes, Your Highness,” Ecthelion answered, with none of the vocal tics he had affected earlier, in private, much to Glorfindel’s disappointment. “Though have you heard that Lord Egalmoth will be escorting Glinfiriel of the House of the Swallow, with the approval of her Adar, his fellow?”
“I had not!” Idril exclaimed, genuinely enthralled by this piece of news. “Is that truly so, Ecthelion?”
“Perhaps,” his beloved demurred, to further entice her curiosity.
“And here I have relied on serving maids and house masters for such insights,” Idril delightedly proclaimed. “When all I might have done is flirt with a few high-ranked warriors for the choicest snippets of information.”
“I daresay our guardians are better preoccupied by their duties,” Turgon suggested, a mild irritation to his tone. “Verily, Glorfindel, are we to banter about trifles the afternoon long? Or is there some method to this madness of yours?”
Though his King had somewhat preemptively tired of the theatrics, their attention had been diverted long enough for the snake to slither out of its nest. He had only to distract them a few moments longer, and he might shut the trap.
“I meant no dishonor, sire,” he reassured his testy sovereign, then waited until Aredhel took to her chair. “I shall explain my reasoning forthwith, leading to the revelation we have all been anticipating.”
All four foisted hawkish eyes upon him, which, though a touch discomfiting, was a tribute to their commitment to justice. With any luck, they would all soon be chuckling at the severity with which they had confronted a problem that was, in the end, no more complex than an elfling’s playground game.
“As eager as I am to attend you, Lord Glorfindel,” the King interrupted him. “I would ask why our suspects are not present at this gathering, since this most concerns them. I also do not like to think that such a villain might escape us, if word of our activities reaches him.”
“Believe me, Majesty, the culprit could not be closer at hand, nor more securely held,” Glorfindel replied, to the astonishment of all.
“Then they are being held under guard somewhere near?” Aredhel breathlessly asked, desperate to be cleared of any lingering charges against her or her family.
“They are pillars of the city all,” Glorfindel declared. “The elders among the House lords, of unimpeachable virtue, so far as Ecthelion and I can ascertain. They are to-a-one innocent of this crime, thus spared the harshest of their city’s judgment.”
A rumble of disquiet thundered through the assembly at this controversial statement, such that Maeglin scrambled off his uncle’s legs and skittered over to the far side of the mantle to conceal himself in its shadow. Glorfindel smirked at the telltale sound of stone scraping against stone.
“Impossible!” Aredhel all but wailed, stricken by the straits this placed her in. “Brother, it was in the name of peace that we invited you into our home-“
“Hush now,” Glorfindel tempered her, then glanced meaningfully at his King. “Sire, it seems you have misplaced yet another of your jewels.”
All then gaped at Turgon’s tunic, from which yet another brooch had been surreptitiously snatched.
“Fiend!” the King bellowed, incensed at this latest desecration, until Glorfindel placed a finger over his lips, then pointed silently at the mantle.
There for all to see was Maeglin sneaking another treasure away, as oblivious to the treachery of his act as he was to the scrutiny of his elders.
“Ioneth!” Aredhel yelped anew, then rushed over to retrieve both him and the considerable trove he had amassed, Valar-gifted brooch included.
Once the King had recovered himself from the shock, he managed a chuckle at his own expense, the relief shining off his noble features. His city had indeed been spared. Idril, for her part, was biting so forcefully on her lips to keep from giggling that they were crimson, while Ecthelion just shook his head in bafflement, then smiled warmly at Glorfindel, a gesture which was stealthily returned, as was the scepter to its rightful owner.
“He does indeed have a penchant for shiny things, my Lady,” Glorfindel quipped, effortlessly brightening the mood.
While poor Maeglin would doubtlessly be deprived of his baubles until he learnt to share, the Lord of the Golden Flower was pleased that no one would be cast over the western wall that night, at least not as a result of his investigation. Rather, his own evening would be a far more intimate one, especially since he expected he and Ecthelion would be granted a month’s leave for their diligent and dedicated service to the realm.
A more propitious resolution none could have hoped for; thus it was with a champion’s smile that he locked eyes with his King and beseeched his far more benevolent brand of judgment.
* * *
An insurgent, and rather mercenary, truth be told, ray of sunlight woke Glorfindel from heavy, sated slumber, bedazzling his bleary eyes as they opened to the scintillating morn. The glare momentarily distracted him from the most glorious realization: that he was cocooned in Ecthelion’s bed, in Ecthelion’s bedchamber, in Ecthelion’s suite of rooms in the House of the Fountain. The maidenly fancy of his previous thought was quite decadently undercut by the carnal abuse his body had so enthusiastically suffered, for his thighs were strained from wrapping themselves around a lank waist and muscular buttocks, his wrists creaked from overexertion, his jaw was sore from treating his darkling lover to a variety of tawdry delights, and that exquisite but unmentionable place ached most emphatically from impassioned bores into his sacred core.
In short, Glorfindel had never felt so exceptionally used, so thoroughly mauled, ridden so expertly well that he might verily birth a foal, such did he revel in playing mare to Ecthelion’s monumentally endowed stud.
Their evening had begun with whispered troths and ended with bays of rapture. After a leisurely meal in Ecthelion’s study, through which Glorfindel had detailed his discovery of the treasure trove and his interview of Maeglin the previous afternoon, they had strolled through the moonlit gardens, their banter teasing but their glances reverential. The silver spokes and cascading rush of the fountains sparkled under the canopy of stars, but no glint lured him in such as the one in his beloved’s eyes, which raked his brawny frame in a patently predatory manner. There was no explicit invitation to proceed to his chambers, only fingers stealthily entwined with his own and a purposeful tug towards the back stairs, to which he was almost demurely escorted, in the moments before Ecthelion pounced.
In the countless times he had imagined that particular rite of passage, he had never envisioned them so rambunctious, racing up to the landing like schoolboys returning home from their lessons, smashing into the banister for an incendiary grope, stumbling over the top steps then collapsing into a heap of grappling limbs and devouring lips, giddy from the sublime surge of feeling that left them thoroughly intoxicated, far more so than an overabundance of drink could ever have done. There, on the hallway floor, Glorfindel had ripped Ecthelion’s tunic off his arms, subsequent to having been violently divested of his breeches and fondled into thick, insistent erection. Yet the sight of that sculpted chest had only further incensed him, such that he had gingerly tossed his beloved over and clamored atop him, all the better to torment his dusky nipples into a violet pucker.
Ecthelion, meanwhile, had shucked his own breeches that he might grind his emphatically engorged groin into his golden one’s glossy nethers, panting huskily at the indelible pleasure of this first erotic act. While Glorfindel had shut his eyes as a result of the ferocity of the sensation, Ecthelion had instead gazed up at him, searching out the eloquent stare that had first provoked him. Unfulfilled in this, he had slowed his gyrations that he might steal a sultry kiss, one that reminded them both of the heart implicit in even their most salacious maneuvers.
This had sobered them some, but not enough to smite the flame of desire. Instead, they had retired to the Lord of the Fountain’s bedchamber, then had proceeded to undress one another with due tenderness, kindling the heat of their souls as well as the blaze in their loins. Glorfindel would never forget Ecthelion’s poignant look as he first beheld him bare and wanting, the fever he betrayed whilst being stroked by the golden elf, the emotion in his eyes as he painstakingly claimed him, conveying both his sense of privilege at being able to command him so and his deep honor at being entrusted the care of such a vulnerable area, even on one as colossal of might as the Lord of the Golden Flower. For all their patience and sensual generosity, their quickening would not long be leashed, as neither had ever known such incandescent ecstasy afore and both were eager to sing with it.
Though they had later delved further into their endless reservoirs of passion, they had emerged from that initial tangle edified by the incontrovertible rightness of their love, by the undeniable synchronicity that reigned within. They had recognized one another for what the Valar had long ago decreed they were, but neither dared speak of it, least the spell be broken.
Peeking out from behind the safeguard of the coverlet, Glorfindel was disappointed to find the bedchamber as empty as the bed he lay in, the only trace of Ecthelion the effervescent scent that wafted off the massive pillow they had shared. A prickle of concern tingled at the nape of his neck, threatening to bolt down his spine. He could not, he *would not* be like all the others, abandoned amidst the very sheets they had soiled, servant to the housemaster’s compassion. Surely by virtue of their friendship alone, Ecthelion owed him more than this, though he did not believe himself more worthy than his former lovers, no matter his depth of heart. He scoured the night table, the wardrobe, the mirror, for a slip of paper, a tucked-in scroll, any trace of his darkling one’s consideration, but there was nary a scrap to be found. Flopping back into his downy berth, Glorfindel uttered a muffled curse as he yanked the coverlet back over his head in defiance of his suspicions.
Twas folly itself to embrace such assumptions before all the facts were disclosed. Indeed, he would never have solved the mystery if he had considered all the evidence as presented to him, solid proof of a treachery plot. Still, he grew morose at the thought of having to recommence his suit (for it was unfathomable to him that he should quit Ecthelion altogether), of the awkwardness and avoidance that would surely ensue, of the further length of time he would have to assay a measure of patience well beyond his usual capabilities, especially after such an incredible night. His mouth was rife with bitterness when he considered the endless months without Ecthelion’s kiss, caresses, sweetness, sensual favors. His deprivation would be the more acute for having sampled these delicacies, for having supped at his prince’s table. He was exhausted by the very idea of venturing beyond the bounds of the bed, of skulking away from the remnants of his lordly lover’s heat, thus he enforced a measure of calm upon himself and fell into a light doze, the better to ignore the imminent tap of the housemaster’s knuckles at the door.
He was startled into wakefulness by the smash of a hard body into his side, the resultant snickers possibly the most gorgeous sound that had ever tickled his ears. His brow was bussed quite noisily, then a pair of silken lips covered his own, precociously demanding that he match their fervor. Before he could properly focus his eyes, the sheets were thrown over and his bareness exposed to the sunlight’s scorch, though he was suitably diverted by the sight of Ecthelion haloed by that blast of light, such that his silhouette appeared otherworldly.
“My, but you do tax one’s patience,” the Lord of the Fountain complained, though a chuckle quavered under his tone. “Lazing about like a bear in late hibernation. Such a pristine day should not be a second more neglected. So come, my burly one! A sumptuous fast-breaking awaits our leisure on the balcony beyond, as does a rather iconic view of our city fair.”
“The balcony?” Glorfindel groggily queried, then inwardly berated himself for his thickness, as this was not the first time he would be received there. Yet he made no mention of his misgivings to his beloved, who was still radiant with afterglow from the revels that had ended hours before. “Am I to stalk out there wearing only my love-bites, or might I borrow a robe?”
“Enticing as it would be to admire your majesty the day long,” Ecthelion coyly responded. “I would not prematurely flaunt my good fortune before my courtiers. There is, indeed, a robe of aquamarine hue awaiting you, delivered in the early hours by a thoughtful page. Verily, I hope you recompense your housemaster for such foresight.”
“Not so well as I shall repay you for a rapturous evening once I have refueled,” Glorfindel wickedly insinuated. “Do not think I will forever bend to your will, moren vain, no matter how riveting your domination. I’ve a commanding presence all my own, as you will soon discover.”
“So long as there is a forever,” Ecthelion murmured, locking eyes with the one who adored him and stroking a tender touch down the side of his face. “You may rule me in every way.”
Elated by this impromptu oath, Glorfindel claimed his mouth anew, enthralled by every precious aspect of his own priceless treasure - his indefatigable spirit, gallant heart, and uniquely beautiful soul.
Finis
Oh!
Your Glorfindel is wonderful - wily and wise and poor oblivious Ecthelion! It was terrific to read such an interwoven plot - a mystery and a love story.
And Maeglin - even then, wanting things he shouldn't have. I liked your characterizations - Aredhel sounded just right and I loved Idril (one of my favorites, anyway.)
This one's definitely a keeper, Gloro. Thanks again for gracing SlashySanta with your formitable gift - I'll be reading it again and again.
Re: Oh!
I also was glad that the request was not for the typical Gondolin angst. While I love reading those fics, I feel like they've been done already and better than anything I could write so briefly. It's an epic tale for a reason, after all. But once I hooked onto this idea, I just couldn't ignore it, even though it took me almost a month to write.
All that to say thanks for your overwhelmingly kind comments, and as ever for your support. Good to know about Idril and Aredhel. There's not much to go on where they are concerned, so I'm glad my efforts have paid off.
Thank you, again and again, for being such a tireless champion, and have a Happy New Year!
-G. ;D
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I'm glad you enjoyed my depiction of them. I prefer to write both of them as bickering buddies, since I think that level of comfort with one another reveals much about the depth of feeling between them.
Aredhel was and is a tragic figure, but she's also the mistress of her own downfall, so don't feel too bad for her. ;)
Thank you so much for seeking this out, and I hope you and your family had a very Happy New Year!
All my best,
-G. ;D
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That said, I quite liked that Maeglin was the culprit... despite the innocence of his actions, it does sort of lay the groundwork for the development of a more devious persona later on, doesn't it? Well played!
I'm also delighted that Ecthelion was able to see through Glorfindel's ruse before Glorfindel had to own up. I'm glad he can see what a wonderful treasure is his for the taking!
I'm sorry it took me so desperately long to read this... this hasn't been quite the season I anticipated for a number of reasons, and many factors have converged which have either robbed me of time, or robbed me of motivation, to stay on track with LJ. Hopefully spring will see engergies, inspirations and aspirations returned, along with a more timely participation with friends both online and off. :/
That said, your Yuletide offering has aged quite well, and was just as delectable as an early spring treat!