TITLE: Flawed and Fair
AUTHOR: Tehta
AUTHOR'S EMAIL: a_tehta@hotmail.com
PAIRING: Ecthelion/Glorfindel
RATING: R
GENRE: Humour, mostly.
FIC SUMMARY: Aredhel is leaving Gondolin, and Ecthelion is part of her 
escort. During the journey, he will have to deal with Finwe's grandchild, 
spitting Sindar, orcs, Unlight, giant spiders -- and his unnatural feelings 
for Glorfindel. Slash, spiky humour.
DISCLAIMER: These characters and settings do not belong to me. I am making 
no money off them.
FEEDBACK: Tends to inspire me to write more. Constructive criticism always 
welcome.




-----
Chapter One: Victims of Lorien
-----



Ecthelion hated Glorfindel.

He hated Glorfindel's easy charm, his ready laugh, his air of entitlement 
and serenity. Above all, he hated Glorfindel's golden beauty, so rare on 
this side of the Great Sea. That shining hair was a particular irritant. For 
one, it was overrated: he had heard it compared to sunlight, when, in 
reality, at night it was barely brighter than a candle flame. And then, it 
was a serious safety risk: Glorfindel would insist on wearing it unbound 
even when dressed for battle, ignoring Ecthelion's cautionary tales of 
hunters whose free-flowing hair got caught on something at the worst 
possible moment.

Ecthelion hated Glorfindel because there was no real reason to hate him. 
Because he was brave, and kind, and neither shallow nor pretentious. Because 
he got up early and did all his work without complaint, but still managed to 
sympathize with the work-related complaints of others. And because, in spite 
of all his obvious charms and graces, and in spite of all that ridiculous 
hair, he was a competent warrior and leader of men.

And then, Ecthelion hated Glorfindel because he was so universally loved. It 
wasn't as if people did not love Ecthelion also, but that love was of a 
respectful, remote kind. He was admired as a tough but reasonable captain, 
and as an unusually accomplished singer. Glorfindel was loved on a personal 
level. Complete strangers would find it quite natural to wish him a happy 
begetting day, right there in the street. Ecthelion had heard random people 
discussing his beauty and his warmth as if they were perfectly acceptable 
topics of general conversation, matters of shared interest.

Ecthelion, meanwhile, wished Glorfindel gone, gone and forgotten. Daily, 
hourly, he longed to recover his peace of mind, to finally stop counting 
Glorfindel's many fine qualities. For the true reason why Ecthelion hated 
Glorfindel, a fine man he might so easily have come to love as a brother, 
was that Glorfindel was perfect, while Ecthelion himself was flawed through 
and through. It did not help that few were aware of his flaws, nowadays; 
Ecthelion himself knew the wrongness was still there, and he hated 
Glorfindel for throwing it into such sharp relief with every graceful 
gesture, every movement of his golden head.

It was not jealousy. That would have been a natural response to all those 
perfections, slightly dishonourable, perhaps, but nowhere near as shameful 
as the truth. Still, Ecthelion did not want to be suspected of so petty a 
feeling, and so he worked hard to keep his hatred hidden. He worked even 
harder to keep it going. He needed it: his dreams made that clear. For, when 
Ecthelion dreamt, his loathing would abandon him and he would spend time 
with Glorfindel quite happily. Sometimes, they would simply feast together, 
without restraint, or engage in elaborate swordplay, or ride difficult, 
spirited horses. Innocent pleasures, all -- but Ecthelion was subtle enough 
to read the meanings behind them. Worse were the dreams that needed no 
interpretation. Ecthelion cursed the public baths of Gondolin, where a 
warrior was expected to sit beside his peers. Without all the information 
his unwilling mind had picked up there, his dreams would never have been so 
maddeningly and verifiably accurate, at least in their surface details.

---

One morning Ecthelion woke up feeling quite drained after a vivid dream in 
which Glorfindel had taken a poisoned arrow to the upper thigh. It had 
fallen to Ecthelion to suck the venom from the wound, and then to dig for 
the arrow with his dagger. Quite vigorously. It was a new dream, and its 
combination of realism and blatant allusion had proved very potent. Really, 
the best thing that could be said about it was that it had not been one of 
his Fingon and Maedhros fantasies. He did not know why the story of that 
cliffside rescue should have sounded such a resonant note within him; all he 
knew was that Glorfindel's hair would sometimes take on a red tinge in the 
evening sunlight, and that, outside of his dreams, he had never seen 
Glorfindel helpless, or disheveled, or even visibly pained -- which was just 
as well, since the merest thought of it could make him as hard as the rock 
beneath the city.

It was all wrong, in so many ways. For one unwed to be haunted by desire was 
bad enough, but to be haunted thus by unnatural desire -- it was the most 
spectacular failure of will and character imaginable. Once upon a time, 
Ecthelion had believed that the Valar must be weeping for him, but then he 
had remembered that they -- well Nienna, anyway -- wept mostly in 
compassion, and that he deserved none. Now he imagined them angry and 
disgusted at the way his weakness had, at times, conquered both his body and 
his mind.

Although, really, one might have expected Lorien to have done something 
about the dreams by now. For one, they were starting to interfere with 
Ecthelion's ability to perform the tasks required of a Lord of the Guard.

On the day after the poisoned-arrow dream, Ecthelion began his work feeling 
rather peevish and disagreeable -- but determined to keep his temper. If he 
could not fix his great flaw, he would at least attempt to be the best man 
he could be in lesser ways. He would be calm and fair.

It did not matter that the night shift had reduced the guard room to an 
unusable mess, or that his favourite sword was inexplicably missing, or that 
the weekly rota sheet appeared to have been filled in entirely at random, 
and then by someone with only a marginal understanding of basic spelling and 
no common sense. This unknown individual had actually assigned something 
called a "hoarse partol" to the White Tower. Since there weren't enough 
raspy-voiced men in the guard to form a whole patrol, Ecthelion had to 
assume that this was to be the mounted patrol that normally roamed the 
larger squares. He had the feeling that getting the horses back down the 
tower stairs would somehow become his responsibility.

"So, the night shift has struck again," said Glorfindel.

That was all Ecthelion needed. What was Glorfindel doing in the guard room? 
He was off duty. It was right there on the rota sheet: "Off duty -- Lard 
Glorf. of Flour", sounding like a cryptic recipe for bad cake. And yet, 
there he was in the doorway, and the guards were beaming at him even before 
he had walked into the room and offered to help them clear up the mess.

Ecthelion would not beam. He would not wonder whether Glorfindel was there 
to talk to him, would do nothing to encourage his already overenthusiastic 
friendship. Instead, he bent over his sheet. Still, he could not help 
sneaking enough brief glances to see Glorfindel drop to his knees and start 
cleaning out the fireplace. Such shameless gallantry infuriated Ecthelion. 
What was even more annoying was that he just knew that, although the 
fireplace was gloomy with soot, Glorfindel was not going to get dirty -- 
except perhaps for some charming, small facial smudge. Even though he was 
now prodding the ashes with a poker.

No, not with a poker. With Ecthelion's favourite orc-slaying sword.

Ecthelion tried to count to twelve, but he had only reached five when he 
found himself on his feet and walking towards the fireplace. Once there, he 
loomed over Glorfindel, hand outstretched.

"My sword," he said.

"Excuse me?" Glorfindel looked up at him, all courtesy and helpfulness. 
There was a small, dark spot on his left cheek.

Wordlessly, Ecthelion grabbed for the weapon and drew it to his side with a 
wide flourish, spraying soot all around: onto the freshly swept floor, as 
well as onto Glorfindel's fancy green cloak. The symbolism was too 
amateurishly obvious, too bitter to handle with grace. Shaken, he stalked 
into his private office, where the table was covered with untallied weapon 
purchase slips. Sorting through them would be a tedious, unrewarding task -- 
just the thing to help him calm down. He could clean his sullied blade 
later. He sat down and exchanged the sword for a pen.

"Ecthelion."

So Glorfindel had decided to follow him and smooth things over. How typical 
of him.

"I am sorry about your sword," Glorfindel said.

"Don't be." Ecthelion glanced up. "I am the one who should be apologizing, 
for my rudeness. And for the dirt on your cloak. My apologies. I do know it 
was not your fault." He looked back down at the paperwork.

"Well, no, it was not my fault," said Glorfindel. "But... there is something 
else, is there not? You seem unhappy with me, somehow. I have been noticing 
it for some time."

Ecthelion searched for a reasonable response. "You have done nothing. I am a 
disagreeable sort."

"You are a singer, with an artist's temperament, that is true," said 
Glorfindel, annoying Ecthelion, who always thought of himself as a warrior 
first. "But I have never seen you treat anyone else unfairly. I know I must 
have offended you. Please, tell me how, so that I do not repeat the offense. 
Let me make amends."

He was leaning forward on the table by then, his hair falling forward past 
his ears, catching the morning sun. I have had this dream, Ecthelion 
thought. It ended here on this table, with all the paperwork well and truly 
ruined.  He was very grateful for the concealment the desk afforded, but he 
hated Glorfindel for making him need it.

"I told you it is nothing. Surely you cannot expect every single person in 
the city to love you?"

Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably, no doubt shocked by the discourtesy of the 
question. And yet he remained in the room. "You do not love me, that is 
clear. But will you not tell me why?"

Asked a third time, Ecthelion could think of no plausible excuse. He would 
have to repel Glorfindel in some other way. "You will not like my answer," 
he said.

"I can take it, whatever it is."

Ecthelion fought down a bitter smile at the irony of that statement. "Well, 
then, the truth is this: I am jealous of you. You are well-loved, an image 
of perfection. You see, I am a petty sort, that is all. Nothing can be done 
about it."

"Do not be ridiculous. You are not petty, and clearly have no reason to be 
jealous. I expect that you are simply too courteous to admit that you find 
me unbearably smug. A few people do seem to feel that way."

Ecthelion stared at Glorfindel. The expression on his face was knowing. 
Smug, even.

"In reality, I am well aware of my many flaws," he said.

"Oh, good." Ecthelion looked back down and shuffled his paperwork.

"You do not believe me? Truly, I am." Glorfindel stood up very straight, as 
if preparing to deliver a formal recitation. "To begin with, I am somewhat 
vain. You yourself have often commented on my obsession with my hair. Of 
course, it is rather nice hair."

He paused to draw a strand through his fingers. Ecthelion watched it change 
colour as it moved between sun and shade: bright polished gold to ancient 
gold, the colour of treasure.

"Also, I enjoy being liked far too much," said Glorfindel. "Indeed, I 
sometimes find myself wondering what course of action would make me more 
likeable, instead of what course of action would be right. And then, there 
is my greed. It is not that I like money, but I do enjoy surrounding myself 
with the beautiful things it can buy. I have never spent my own salary on 
good equipment for my poorer soldiers, the way you have." He gave Ecthelion 
a look so full of warm admiration that Ecthelion's stomach turned. Or 
perhaps it was his heart that fluttered. At any rate, something moved around 
inside him: whichever organ is in charge of horribly inappropriate emotion.

"I also enjoy the sensual pleasures more than is seemly."

Glorfindel's voice drew Ecthelion away from the contemplation of his organs. 
Then the actual words hit him. He started. Though his mouth opened, he could 
think of nothing to say.

"It is true! I love wine and rich food. Really, I am quite certain that a 
natural ascetic like yourself would be utterly disgusted by the amount I can 
consume when out on the town--"

"I am not a natural ascetic."

"But of course you are. Everyone knows it. You do not care about your food 
at all, and as for the other desires of the body... I would be very 
surprised if you had ever had any problems with... lustful feelings... even 
in your early youth."

Again, words eluded Ecthelion.

"See? I am right!" said Glorfindel. "I, meanwhile--" His face reddened 
slightly. He turned to look out the window. "Let us just say that I 
sometimes have to concentrate very hard so as not to utterly disgrace 
myself. Virtue does not come easily to me. These strange ideas seem to just 
seep into my mind at the least suitable moments. Very strange ideas. I 
suspect they are not even physically possible."

He was silent for a moment. Since his eyes were averted, Ecthelion felt free 
to stare at him just as much as he liked. He hated the way the blush only 
made Glorfindel look better: healthier and brighter. His lips were reddened 
and parted slightly. It was enough to give a deeply flawed man his own 
ideas. Ones he knew to be physically possible.

"But I cannot tell you more. You would be utterly shocked," Glorfindel 
concluded.

"Try me," Ecthelion almost replied. But then he realized he did not want to 
hear any sort of nonsense about Idril or Aredhel or whatever other beautiful 
highborn maiden had captured Glorfindel's imagination. He did not want her 
appearing in his dreams, perhaps even -- knowing Lorien's usual style -- 
joining in. "Then, by all means, let us not shock me," he said instead.

"Right." Glorfindel collected himself. "But please do keep in mind that I 
have impure thoughts. And dreams. Indeed, I sometimes wonder just what 
Lorien is thinking."

This question was so intimately familiar to Ecthelion that, momentarily, he 
found Glorfindel's attempts to blacken his own name rather endearing. He had 
to remind himself that one of the reasons he hated the self-obsessed twit 
was that he was so intrinsically likeable.

"But enough about that," the twit was saying. "I also--"

There was a timely knock on the door.

"Come in," Ecthelion called.

Elemmakil, one of his captains, entered and bowed.

"Lord Glorfindel! I am so glad to find you at last -- Lord Turgon has just 
sent word that he wants to speak to you, at your earliest convenience."

Ecthelion's first thought was of the patrol in the White Tower. Perhaps Lord 
Turgon had decided that the horses might find Glorfindel's presence 
soothing, as they undoubtedly would.

"Lord Turgon?" asked Glorfindel. "Why? What has happened?"

"The message did not say." Elemmakil fidgeted. He glanced from his own 
trusted captain to Glorfindel, who was trusted by all, and his guardsman's 
stance relaxed slightly. "The messenger, however, said that the Lady Aredhel 
wishes to leave the city and visit her other brother. And that she has 
requested Lord Glorfindel's presence in her honour guard."

Glorfindel's eyes widened. To Ecthelion, also, the first part of the 
explanation had come as an utter shock. No one had left the city in 
centuries. The second part, however, sounded just right: for who was more 
suitable for an honour guard than Glorfindel, even with all his 
self-confessed flaws?

It was only when he was alone again that Ecthelion realized that he was 
about to get his wish: a Glorfindel-free life. The thought slipped past his 
defenses and hit him like a sword-hilt to the stomach.

-----
---
-
---
-----

Author's notes:

1. I want to assure everyone that the puns/misspellings were hilarious in 
Sindarin.

2. The much-mentioned Lorien is, of course, the Vala of dreams.



-----
Chapter Two: 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, really, since 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 would 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," Glorfindel 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 debate 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.

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.



-----
Chapter Three: Finwe's Grandchild
-----



Turgon was a wise lord. He knew much about his subjects and their 
amusements, and he would, with foresight and compassion, make a point of 
keeping a decanter of pure Gondolin water in his study on certain mornings.

"Please, do have some more."

As Ecthelion accepted the full glass, he could not help feeling as if he 
were repaying open-hearted kindness with a subtle lie. He knew he was only 
confirming Turgon in the belief that his pained appearance was a result of 
wholesome, if over-enthusiastic, revelry. In reality, of course, Ecthelion 
was tormented by the memory of last night's temptation. However, he could 
never confess this to his lord, whose opinions on the matter of such 
debaucheries were widely known. Egalmoth still spoke of the music-hall 
incident of a year ago, when Turgon had thrown a harpist out of the room for 
singing a suggestive song about Turgon's brother Fingon, his cousin 
Maedhros, and their dueling swords.

But today Turgon was all gentleness, his speech soft as he offered Ecthelion 
advice.

"Be wary," he said. "For although Morgoth is besieged up North, there are 
many other perils in this land."

Ecthelion knew this already, but he also knew that it was Turgon's great 
love for his younger sister, whom he considered 'a shy, white woodland 
flower,' that made him so overprotective. Ecthelion, in turn, loved his lord 
-- blessedly, in a pure way, uncomplicated by unnatural desires. And so he 
had accepted the position in Aredhel's escort, in spite of all his 
misgivings. Soon, he would be spending all his time talking to Glorfindel, 
eating with Glorfindel, sleeping with Glorfindel... it was difficult not to 
dwell on the possibilities. Still, somehow, Ecthelion mustered his fading 
will-power. He listened to the repetitive warnings, and nodded 
sympathetically.

---

An hour or so later, Ecthelion walked out onto the palace courtyard. The 
place was full of the usual foppish courtiers, absent-minded scholars, and 
harassed pages. However, one striking figure stood out among the common 
rabble.

Glorfindel looked quite well for someone who had, only twelve hours earlier, 
found walking unsupported so difficult. Only the lightest shadows under his 
eyes betrayed him.

"Well met, Ecthelion," he said.

Here it came: the mutually embarrassing show of misplaced gratitude. 
Ecthelion braced himself. "Well met, Glorfindel. I suppose you have heard 
that I will be joining Aredhel's escort? I am told that Salgant could not 
bear to be away from his family for so long."

"Yes, it is a hard thing to be separated from those you care for," said 
Glorfindel.

Ecthelion was irritated by the diplomacy of that statement; any other 
guardsman would have pointed out that Salgant, a man who spent all his 
off-duty hours in the officers' drinking hall was, presumably, quite used to 
not seeing his family.

Glorfindel, meanwhile, went on. "Yes, I had heard the good news; and I came 
here to congratulate you and also to, well... thank you for your 
assistance."

"Please do not mention it." Ecthelion meant every word.

"But I must. My state was inexcusable. I really want you to know that I do 
not normally drink anywhere near that much. It is just that everyone wanted 
to drink a toast to my departure, and--"

"That is understandable. You have many friends." Ecthelion really wanted 
this exchange to end. Still, there was something more that needed to be 
said, and, as uncomfortable as it made him feel, he knew that he was the 
only one who could say it. "You might want to be more careful in the future, 
though. You were barely conscious. What if you had fallen prey to a... 
practical joke?"

"Oh, that seems very unlikely. I was not so far gone that I would have 
accepted any assistance from Salgant. Even when drunk, I am still myself." 
Glorfindel's voice carried such utter certainty that Ecthelion felt almost 
convinced. He longed to be certain: to know that he could not really have 
fallen, that, if he had tried to fall, Glorfindel would have helped him by 
throwing him down the stairs.

"I suppose you were fairly in character," he said absentmindedly. "You have 
always been naturally affectionate."

"Affectionate?" Glorfindel paled. "Merciful Manwe. Ecthelion, I am so sorry. 
I thought... What did I do?"

"You rubbed my shoulder."

"Ah. Your shoulder. I think I remember that. Good. And, really, it was only 
natural, seeing as I had been hanging off it all the way home." Glorfindel, 
red-faced now, forced a laugh. "But I fell asleep immediately afterwards, 
right?"

"I do not know. I left... What do you mean, you 'think you remember that?' 
You just said you were not all that far gone."

After a brief venture into his natural skin tones, Glorfindel was red again; 
he seemed to be turning into one of those flashing lamps the Palace put out 
on holidays. "I was not. I do remember the... shoulder incident. I just 
thought it was part of a dream. Truly, I can remember everything. Falling 
down the stairs. And the key." Glorfindel touched his hip. Ecthelion hoped 
he was recalling some bruise sustained in the fall and not the trauma of the 
key search. "Getting into bed, and... undressing... which is, again, only 
natural. It is healthy to sleep in the nude."

"Why, certainly it is." Ecthelion could just picture it. The dark green 
sheets, and Glorfindel upon them. Knowing it was horribly cliche, he thought 
of shafts of sunlight in a murky wood. At that thought, the green sheets 
turned to moss, a surface they might both be sleeping on in a few days. 
Ecthelion was getting increasingly worried about the logistics of this trip.

"Except, perhaps, while on a mission such as ours," he said. "We would not 
want to frighten the lady."

"Frighten Aredhel?" Glorfindel looked doubtful. "You do not know her very 
well, do you?"

"No," said Ecthelion. But of course Glorfindel did. Had not Egalmoth implied 
that there was something between them? How else could Glorfindel have known 
her attitudes towards nudity?

"You will." Glorfindel sighed loudly, exactly as a wistful lover might.

---

They rode out of Gondolin the following morning, under the envious eyes of a 
cheering crowd. No doubt they made a splendid sight, clad in their fine mail 
and flowing cloaks: Ecthelion in silver, Aredhel in white, Glorfindel in 
green and gold, and Egalmoth in an outfit Ecthelion could not bring himself 
to contemplate. The trip through the valley passed without incident. Aredhel 
seemed giddy, delighted both with the journey itself and with her 
companions. Ecthelion discovered that he was expected to sing, just as 
Egalmoth was expected to discuss the finer points of archery and gossip, and 
Glorfindel -- to amuse the lady by being teased. About his hair, his 
clothes, the length of his sword; about anything, including the invariable 
cheerful politeness with which he deflected all comments. Ecthelion himself 
would have considered this torture rather than flirtation, but then, he was 
not Aredhel's admirer.

Once they were outside the Encircling Mountains, the mood changed. Aredhel 
rode out ahead and turned to face her escort, her back soldier-straight, her 
face imperious.

"Now that this journey begins in earnest," she said, "I want to make a few 
things clear. First of all, the purpose of my trip is to visit my cousin 
Celegorm in Himland. I would prefer to have your company, but it is not 
vital. Secondly, as long as we travel together, I am in charge. It is only 
right, as I am Finwe's grandchild. And, thirdly, I expect all three of you 
to answer to the name Huan. I have always wanted a faithful servant called 
Huan, and I cannot be bothered with all these Sindarin names."

The first two statements had not been unexpected, but the third... "My lady, 
you may be Finwe's grandchild, but we are your escort, not your servants--"

"Ecthelion, no," Glorfindel whispered.

How could he defend, even admire, such an infuriating woman? Ecthelion, at 
any rate, would not fall for her wiles. "And you certainly do not have the 
right to rename us on a whim. I intend to answer to 'Ecthelion', or 
'Ehtelion' if you really insist, or even 'Hey you!' in an emergency. But 
definitely not to Huan."

Aredhel smiled. "Oh, very well. I will forget the renaming business. But I 
am glad the rest has all been settled." She rode off a short distance. "Are 
you three not coming, then? Never mind. Finwe's grandchild needs no escort."

They followed, of course. They owed it to Turgon.

---

They made camp just before sunset. Ecthelion built a fire, and his friends 
joined him beside it. Aredhel stood some distance away, practicing her 
archery skills on a dead tree.

"Truly, I am glad to be on this journey," said Egalmoth. "It has long been 
my life's ambition to visit every Elven realm in Beleriand."

"That is rather ironic," said Ecthelion, "considering that you live in a 
sealed-off city."

"Many of life's ambitions are tinged with irony. Do you have a life's 
ambition, Ecthelion?"

Ecthelion quickly rejected the first idea that popped into his head, the one 
about Glorfindel, the forest stream, and the shampoo. Not only was it not an 
actual ambition as such, but it was utterly shameful. Striving to focus on 
virtue, he sought a more noble suggestion. "Yes. My life's ambition is to 
defend the innocent. In Gondolin, or anywhere."

"That is possibly the least interesting ambition I have ever heard of," said 
Egalmoth. "And not even a bit ironic. Ecthelion, you may be righteous, but 
you are also very boring."

Even without looking, Ecthelion knew that Glorfindel was scrutinizing him 
thoughtfully. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable compassionate 
words.

"I think," said Glorfindel, "that Ecthelion--"

"Please do not say that it was my childhood. I mean, I know I spent a large 
part of it living in Alqualonde, and... " Ecthelion could still recall the 
sickening shock of arriving at the city after it had been sacked by the 
Feanorions. His lord's allies. He remembered looking for the music school 
and finding only a dark outline filled with twisted shapes. "Fine, 
Glorfindel, you win. I admit that the kinslaying might have upset me on some 
level. Happy now?"

Glorfindel looked far less smug than he had expected. "Well, no, of course 
not. I think--"

"I think we all have mixed feelings about the Feanorions," said Egalmoth. 
"However, seeing as we are on our way to visit one, perhaps this is not the 
best time to explore them."

"I could not agree more," said Ecthelion.

"Good. In that case, let us discuss your ambitions, Glorfindel. And your 
heritage. You are part Vanyarin, are you not? Plenty of ironic possibilities 
there, I think. Do you want to go back to Valinor?"

"No, of course not. As long as there are dark forces afoot in Middle-earth, 
my place is here. But if you want to know my non-boring ambition, it is to 
somehow convince one of the Eagles to take me up into the sky."

This was exactly why Ecthelion had to hate Glorfindel: because he could say 
something noble, and mean it, and then, suddenly, laugh and lightly answer a 
bizarre question. It was fortunate that they slept on opposite sides of the 
campfire, and that nobody seemed in the mood to explore the health benefits 
of nudity. Still, Ecthelion spent far too much of his watch staring over the 
fire and realizing that clothes were no impediment to one gifted with a 
perfect memory -- although the reflection of the flames on naked skin might 
have made for an interesting effect. He knew such thoughts were wrong, but 
they were the only way to keep his mind off Aredhel and all that flirtatious 
teasing. He envied the sleeping Glorfindel his serenity.

---

The following day, when they reached the fork in the road, Aredhel turned 
south without a moment's hesitation. Her escort followed, and soon all four 
were riding among the trees of Doriath. Ecthelion felt happy to be in a 
proper forest again, even if the sunlight shining through the branches 
reminded him of a certain inappropriate fantasy. Or perhaps because of this, 
for the others seemed slightly uneasy.

"There is something strange about this place," said Glorfindel.

"Well, we are definitely being watched," said Egalmoth. "But I am not sure 
how strange that is. We are crossing a border, after all."

Not being a skilled hunter, Ecthelion could not detect any watchers; he was, 
however, aware of the forest's enchantment, and he did feel that there might 
be something unusual about it, something that was due to more than the 
familiar magic of nature. This impression was confirmed when the trees 
thinned, and they found themselves back at the spot where they had first 
entered the woods.

Aredhel said nothing. She simply turned around, and waited for the others to 
do the same before heading back inside.

The next time it happened, she growled and doubled back without waiting.

It was on the third attempt that they finally met the border guards. As they 
rounded an ancient oak, they found their path barred by two heavily-armed 
Sindar. Their armour was leather, their faces grim. The dark-haired one 
carried the largest bow Ecthelion had ever seen, while the pale-haired one 
held an interesting longspear.

"Hail, Noldor," the bowman said. "Please, tell us why you persist in trying 
to enter our forest."

Aredhel rode forward. "I am Aredhel, daughter of High King Fingolfin, 
grandchild of--"

"I know who you are," the spearman said. "We have met before. Although I 
expect I was below the notice of such a high Noldorin lady."

From her high seat on her horse, Aredhel studied him as if inspecting the 
trail of a strange animal. "Ah. I believe you came to my father's council," 
she said at last. Judging from her expression, she had just decided the 
animal was below the notice of a serious huntress. "Now, will you show us 
the path that leads to the eastern edge of these woods?"

"Why would you want to go there?"

"I wish to visit my cousin Celegorm."

The spearman took a step back. "The Feanorion! Curse him and his kin." He 
spat upon the ground. The bowman followed his lead; and a rain-like sound 
coming from the trees suggested that they concealed many more warriors, all 
of whom shared the anti-Feanorian sentiment.

The bowman toyed with his quiver. "These woods are not open to the friends 
of the sons of Feanor." Again, he spat after saying the hated name. This 
time, Ecthelion tried to count the sounds made by the concealed Sindar, 
arriving at two dozen.

"In fact," the spearman said, "they are closed to all Noldor." He replanted 
his spear.

Aredhel rode forward a bit further, ignoring the implicit threats. "Yet I am 
quite certain that my cousins Ingoldo and Artanis have traveled through 
these woods."

"Certain, perhaps, but mistaken," the spearman said. "None have entered our 
realm bearing such hideous Noldorin names."

"Mablung," said the bowman thoughtfully. "I think she means that man who is 
always asking strange questions, and who loses so gracefully when we play 
cards. And that sister of his with the stare, the one who always wins. They 
have some Noldorin blood, I believe."

"Oh, them," said Mablung. "Well, they are relatives of our King. These 
travelers clearly are not."

"Ecthelion is part Telerin," said Egalmoth.

"Ecthelion? The one with the spear?" Mablung looked at said spear in a most 
insolent way, obviously all too aware that his own weapon was both larger 
and scarier. "He looks like a typical Noldo. And even if he does have 
Telerin blood... how would that help your case? I could never trust a Teler 
who, of his own free will, wished to visit one of Feanor's kinslaying, um... 
kin."

The spitting that followed seemed more profuse than before, but Ecthelion 
would not be intimidated. "I travel as I do in the service of my lord, Lord 
Turgon."

"Lord Turgon?" the bowman asked. "Is he the one who rescued the Feanorian 
leader?"

"No, he is the one with the hidden city," said Mablung after the usual 
Feanorian-inspired spitting was over. He was still staring at Ecthelion. 
"Tell me, Noldo, is your city near here?"

Ecthelion felt annoyed. And reasonably confident that he could take down 
this judgmental, over-inquisitive tree-dweller, no matter how their spears 
compared.

"We cannot speak of this." Glorfindel edged forward on Ecthelion's right. 
"We must protect our city, just as you protect your realm. I am sure you 
understand. After all, we are warriors with a common cause. Are we not all 
simply obeying the commands of our lords? And, since it is your king's law 
that keeps us out of this forest, might we not at least petition him in 
person? Our errand is... urgent."

Listening to him speak, Ecthelion felt strangely proud: of his composed 
beauty, of his reasonable words, even of that slight hesitation on 'urgent' 
that revealed his honest nature. For a moment, he thought the speech would 
work. The spearman smiled.

"Perhaps. If you agree to give up all your weapons, travel blindfolded, and 
then pay homage to King Thingol as king of all Beleriand."

"As king of--" Aredhel's horse danced and backed away. "Come, men, we are 
wasting our time here."

Glorfindel persisted in his diplomatic efforts. "If you will not let us 
through, will you at least tell us if there is another way?"

The Sindar exchanged glances. Then, the bowman spoke. "Your path must lead 
around Doriath, to the north or to the south, but the northern road, the one 
leading through the Nan Dungortheb and the Fords of Aros, will be faster. 
Though perilous."

"To you Sindar, perhaps. We Noldor laugh at peril," said Aredhel.

The spearman jiggled his spear again. "Do you also laugh at orcs and giant 
spiders?"

"Speak not of giant spiders to a grandchild of Finwe, Dark Elf!" said 
Aredhel. "Long have I despised their smaller brethren, and killed them on 
sight, ruining many a fine slipper and scroll. Filling them with my arrows 
will be both a solemn duty and a great pleasure. Indeed, now that you have 
spoken of them, I am impatient for our first encounter."

For once, Ecthelion sympathized with her. He sought Mablung's eye again, 
warrior to warrior. "It is quite true," he said. "We Noldor like killing 
large spiders."

Mablung's expression was only half-mocking. "Well, give it a try then. 
But..." he appeared to struggle with himself. "...do not drink any of the 
water that comes off the mountains. It is poisonous. Stick to the edge of 
the forest; you will find sweet water there."

He would say nothing more. Ecthelion gave him a nod before departing.

---

As they rode out of the woods, Aredhel refused to talk about her travel 
plans. "The trees may have Sindarin ears," she said.

Her escort trailed behind her, discussing the matter in low voices.

"I would not mind shooting a giant spider or two," said Egalmoth. "Do you 
think they twitch much, when they die?"

"It would be interesting to find out," said Glorfindel. "And, of course, it 
would make a fine story, once we are back in the city."

Ecthelion hoped that his friends would not think him a coward for saying 
what needed to be said.

"You are right, spider-slaying sounds most amusing," he began. "And yet... 
Nan Dungortheb: The Valley Of Dreadful Death. If I recall correctly, it lies 
just south of the Mountains of Terror, and, of course, just north of a 
forest inhabited by some Sindar who do not seem to like us very much. Is 
this really the sort of place where we would want to take our lord's only 
sister?"

"I was wondering who among us would have the courage to bring that up," said 
Glorfindel. "Of course, now I am wondering who will have the courage to 
bring it up with the lady."

It was Egalmoth who took up the challenge, once they reached the edge of the 
wood. "My lady!" he said. "As those Sindar said, the road through Nan 
Dungortheb is perilous--"

Aredhel threw him a furious glance. "You are either a coward, or a fool, if 
you doubt my courage."

Ecthelion could think of nothing to say to that; but Glorfindel rode 
forward.

"My lady, we value your courage highly. It is just that you travel under our 
protection."

Aredhel turned around. "I did not ask for protection, but for an honour 
guard. If you think me weak, then you are blinded by my gender."

"No, my lady, I do not think you weak. Your prowess with the bow is often 
discussed among the men of the Guard. However, the risk--"

"I do not ask you to risk your lives for me."

"No. But you will risk your own, just to travel to Himland." Glorfindel 
spoke gently. "Will you not, at least, discuss the matter?"

"Oh, very well."

The two of them dismounted and began a debate. As far as Ecthelion could 
tell, it was immediately going round in the expected circles.

"I suppose," said Egalmoth, "that Glorfindel will do his best, even if the 
odds are not good. Let us set up camp."

Ecthelion took charge of the horses. When he next looked over towards 
Aredhel, she was sitting on a fallen log, and talking earnestly. Glorfindel 
was seated close beside her. Ecthelion felt strangely pained, for they did 
make a fine couple, a pleasingly contrasting one. He touched his own dark 
hair, decided that he was a perfect idiot, and turned away.

He had only just started the campfire when Egalmoth joined him, carrying a 
small handful of wood.

"Poor Glorfindel," he said. "I accidentally overheard a bit. They were 
discussing the effects a long separation might have on the heart. I had only 
just heard Celegorm's name mentioned when Aredhel spotted me and told me to 
stop skulking in the bushes."

Poor Glorfindel indeed, since soon he might be separated from Aredhel, with 
whom he was speaking of love. Ecthelion could not decide whether to pity 
Glorfindel, or himself. Or, indeed, Celegorm, if he really was the object of 
Aredhel's affections.

Glorfindel certainly looked rather pitiable as he assumed his usual spot by 
the fire.

"The Valley Of Dreadful Death it is," he said.

Egalmoth wasted no time. "So, what did Finwe's grandchild say about Finwe's 
other grandchild? Celegorm, I mean?"

"Why not ask her yourself?" While Glorfindel's answer was diplomatic, his 
tone was less so. Ecthelion winced at this slip, an obvious sign of pain.

"Of course," said Egalmoth, "We all know what they say about half-cousins in 
our ruling family. Has either of you heard Salgant's latest song about 
Fingon and Maedhros?"

Ecthelion had not, but then, he did not want to. Or rather, he wanted to, 
quite badly, but he really did not need to. He would have to distract 
Egalmoth, and quickly. Perhaps he could...

"I have not," said Glorfindel. He seemed eager for a change of subject. 
"What sort of song is it?"

"Oh, a hilarious one. It is titled 'Where Is His Other Hand?'"

Ecthelion had expected something more... erotic. But this was a mockery: of 
Maedhros' disability, certainly, but, even worse, of his own innermost 
desires. "But that is obscene," he said. "Hideous."

"It is rather a strange song, yes. I cannot remember it exactly, but in the 
first verse--"

"Egalmoth, I do not want to hear this."

"Do you truly think it so hideous?" Glorfindel was looking at Ecthelion 
intently. "Why do you judge it so harshly? Desire is not always given where 
one chooses, it is not always wise."

Yes, Glorfindel was ever the defender of difficult people. But even he would 
not be speaking with such sympathy if he had any inkling of just how unwise 
desire could be. The temptation to simply slide over there and show him was 
not particularly strong, but it was there. Ecthelion turned away from the 
bright gaze and looked into bright flames.

But Glorfindel would not give up. "Indeed, unwise desire is rather common. 
Just think of all the men you know who long for an unavailable woman."

Ecthelion understood then: this was no idle sympathy. This was about 
Aredhel, who loved her cousin, and so was not available to other men. He 
stared unblinking into the fire until his eyes watered.

But now Egalmoth was speaking again, eager. "You believe that it is true 
about Fingon, then?"

"I do not know," said Glorfindel. "It is none of our business, surely."

"I doubt it," said Egalmoth. "They both seem rather competent. Surely such 
an... unusual passion would affect their ability to perform their duties?"

"No, I cannot believe that," said Glorfindel. "Two people who are both of 
valiant, honourable heart, who feel for each other -- surely such people 
will strive all the harder, so as not to shame themselves in one another's 
eyes. Hone their battle skills and their honour together. Inspire each other 
to deeds of surpassing courage and greatness."

His voice had grown richer and deeper as he spoke. Now he shone: eyes, hair, 
skin, all were shining with the strength of his belief. Ecthelion shifted, 
painfully roused by this sudden evidence of passion. He thought of Aredhel 
who was, surely, valiant -- and, even more surely, foolish to reject someone 
so irritatingly glorious.

"Even when the situation is impossible, when desire is not returned..." 
Glorfindel smiled a little sadly. "Even then, something good can, I think, 
come of it. That inspiration will still be there, even if it is only 
one-sided."

How could he torment himself so over someone so unworthy? Ecthelion wanted 
to do Glorfindel violence. Throw him on the ground, weigh him down so he 
could not breathe. Shut him up. He knew his anger was an ugly emotion, but 
he could not hold it back.

"That certainly sounds like a useful sort of bond," he said, "if it will, 
um, 'inspire' that Feanorion to ever greater deeds. Because, of course, we 
all know what his other hand will most likely be doing. Killing a Teler."

Glorfindel flinched slightly. Egalmoth raised his eyebrows.

"That was a bit abrupt, not to mention over-wrought," he said. "But it does 
seem appropriate. You should ask Salgant to put it in the song."

"I see what you mean, Ecthelion -- I was not thinking." Glorfindel had 
recovered from his shocked silence. Now he hesitated, briefly. "Is that why 
you thought it hideous and obscene?"

Ecthelion considered saying that it was, objectively, hideous and obscene 
and wrong, but the hypocrisy of that statement gave him pause. It was a 
difficult moment. Relief came from a very unexpected source.

"Come quickly!" Aredhel stepped into the firelight. Her smile was so joyous 
that, for a moment, even Ecthelion could see that she was beautiful. "And 
bring your weapons. There are orcs out in the valley."

-----
---
-
---
-----

Author's notes:

0. In case anyone out there does not know this, Maedhros and Fingon are 
arguably the slashiest elf couple in all of Tolkien's works. I can recommend 
some amazing angsty Maedhros/Fingon stories.

1. The name thing: back in Valinor, the Noldor spoke Quenya and had Quenya 
names. In Middle-Earth, they took on new, Sindarin names, and started to 
speak Sindarin, in part to appease the irritated Sindar. So "Ehtelion" is 
supposed to be Ecthelion's Quenya name. Oh, and Huan was Celegorm's magical 
dog.

2. Among the Elves, cooking is more commonly done by men. Women usually bake 
the bread, though.

3. Regarding my heroes' heritage: in canon, both Ecthelion and Glorfindel 
are described as Noldor. However, Ecthelion's affinities for water and music 
just scream 'some Telerin blood' to me. And there has to be some explanation 
for Glorfindel's yellow hair. (All the blond Noldor we know of have some 
Vanyarin blood.)

4. Ingoldo and Artanis are the Quenya names of Finrod and Galadriel. Aredhel 
uses them because she is feeling increasingly Noldorin and snooty.

5. The name "Ecthelion" can (possibly) be derived from the Sindarin word 
"Ecthel", meaning point of a spear. That is how Mablung picks Ecthelion out: 
he is the only one with a spear.

6. Glorfindel's little outburst is based (very loosely) on the immensely 
slashy speech of Phaedrus in Plato's Symposium. Sample thereof:
"And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army 
should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best 
governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonour, and emulating 
one another in honour; and when fighting at each other's side, although a 
mere handful, they would overcome the world."



-----
Chapter Four: Brothers-In-Arms
-----



To any warrior who has spent centuries in hiding while his enemies roamed 
free, a chance for battle is a very special occasion. The smallest details 
take on great significance. Ecthelion hesitated over his choice of weapon, 
glancing from his spear to his mace to his old sword. At last, he decided 
that Aredhel's orc warning had made him feel rather nostalgic, and picked up 
the battle-tested blade. He then joined the others at the edge of the forest 
where, half concealed by the trees, they were watching some hunched shapes 
move across the valley.

"Four dozen," said Egalmoth.

"Running towards us. Good." Aredhel hugged herself happily, like a little 
girl preparing to unwrap a present. "Here, this big oak looks sturdy. Let us 
find good positions up there and string our bows. We will hold our fire 
until we can count their teeth; that way we can pick them all off, even if 
they run. The swordsmen will guard our tree down by the roots."

Reluctantly, Ecthelion had to acknowledge that it was as good a plan as any. 
Aredhel was clearly skilled at hurting things, whether they were game, orcs, 
or Glorfindel's feelings -- although Ecthelion was pleased to note that 
Glorfindel, at least, cheered up somewhat once they had assumed their 
positions under the tree.

"You know, Ecthelion," said Glorfindel, "this is what I meant, in a way, 
when I just spoke. Surely it is neither hideous nor obscene, to stand beside 
a worthy companion and fight creatures of evil? The... desire part hardly 
matters at all."

Ecthelion could detect a certain tightness in his voice during that last 
statement. Glorfindel had never been a good liar; but if lies helped him get 
over his pain, who was Ecthelion to argue?

"Quite right," he said cheerily. "Let us forget all about unnatural desires 
and focus on our swords."

Glorfindel blinked and lowered the weapon he had been holding out in front 
of his body just as Aredhel, up above them, whistled a hunting signal. Off 
in the distance, the first orcs started falling to swift arrows. The 
remaining creatures headed straight for the forest.

---

When the orcs finally reached the oak, Ecthelion found them a 
disappointingly poor lot. For one, their tactics were atrocious. Instead of 
holding off until they could launch a concentrated attack, they arrived in 
small groups, so that Ecthelion and Glorfindel never had to deal with more 
than two or so apiece. And then, their actual fighting skills were 
underwhelming: Ecthelion never got a single chance to take advantage of all 
his battle formation training by blocking a blow meant for Glorfindel. The 
only real challenge was the footwork, which got increasingly tricky as the 
pile of bodies at his feet rose higher, until it was, more accurately 
speaking, the pile of bodies at his knees.

Once all his orcs were dead, Ecthelion glanced over to his right, where 
Glorfindel was dispatching his final attacker, fighting with grace and a 
smug smile. Watching him, Ecthelion felt elated by the victory, in spite of 
the disappointments of the battle itself. However, Glorfindel did not seem 
to share his joy. His smile faded even as his opponent fell, and he just 
stood there awkwardly, uncharacteristically reluctant to exchange the 
traditional congratulatory gesture of victorious warriors -- a rough hug 
followed by a slap on the lower back.

"Well fought," he said instead.

Ecthelion had to admit that he was quite relieved by the break with 
tradition, for his elation was making the blood sing throughout his body. A 
rough hug seemed rather risky. "You too," he said.

"Are you injured?"

"I am not sure. You?"

"I am not sure, either."

They both began to check themselves over in the usual fashion, scrutinizing 
the weak points of their armour and running their hands over their 
lightly-armoured limbs. Ecthelion's subconscious had only just presented him 
with the predictable thoughts that they should really be checking each 
other, and that clothes were only in the way, when Glorfindel let out a 
pained hiss. Ecthelion felt an immediate pang of concern, which faded only 
slightly when he realized that the cause was simply a huge clot of gore 
caught in Glorfindel's hair.

Though unsettled by the orcish origins of the mess, Ecthelion had a sudden 
vision of other ways in which hair could be disheveled. Yes, his blood 
certainly was singing, and in some parts of his body more than in others. He 
could not look away from Glorfindel, not even when Aredhel and Egalmoth came 
down from the tree.

"Oh, do not stare at me in that disapproving way, Ecthelion," said 
Glorfindel. "I am not about to 'start braiding my hair like a normal 
warrior.' Now, if anybody wants me, I will be bathing in the river."

Aredhel laughed. "Well, that certainly is a tempting invitation! Who is it 
aimed at, I wonder?"

Ecthelion wanted to slap her for the cruelty of toying thus with someone she 
had just rejected. He tried to send Glorfindel a sympathetic look, but 
Glorfindel would not meet his eye.

"I meant 'if anyone wants me to slay any more orcs'," he said with great 
dignity before walking off.

Ecthelion was in need of a wash himself, but the recent victory, the 
hair-related visions, and Aredhel's innuendo made even the thought of 
bathing anywhere within a league of Glorfindel far too dangerous. He settled 
for cleaning his sword, and helping the archers collect their spent arrows. 
They had some sort of a bet going as to who had scored the most kills, but 
Ecthelion retired before the matter was fully resolved.

---

Ecthelion dreamed that he was standing opposite Glorfindel in a landscape of 
gently rolling hills topped with silvery shrubbery. He knew it was a dream 
because Glorfindel's presence was a source of simple pleasure, unmingled 
with shame. The fact that the hills were, in fact, piles of dead orcs, and 
the shrubbery -- a tangle of broken orc weapons only confirmed his 
suspicions. The fact that the dead orcs were all singing the Orc-Slaying 
Ditty was a completely superfluous clue. Finally, the fact that both 
Glorfindel and Ecthelion were nude made perfect sense, because the two of 
them were supposed to check each other over for injuries. Ecthelion circled 
Glorfindel, but he could see none on his flawless body.

"Those orcs were running away from something in the valley, you know," said 
Glorfindel. "They practically ran onto our swords."

At the mention of swords, Ecthelion was shocked to realize that he was 
unarmed. This made him feel twice as naked. He looked down at himself.

"Yes," said Glorfindel. "I know your sword is long and keen. However, I do 
not know if it can compare to the White Lady's gently arching bow." His hand 
drew a curve in the air, and he turned away, towards an orc-hill. "We must 
count all these orcs, and see how many have been slain by arrows. Only then 
will I know which of you two is capable of the greater acts of valour."

Ecthelion, used to singing songs written by the finest poets, found the 
clumsy symbolism physically painful. But then, he had always known that the 
dream Glorfindel was far worse company than the real one, in spite of his 
frequent willingness and even more frequent nudity. Still, he was all 
Ecthelion had, and so Ecthelion started to count arrows.

---

The process went on all night; in the end, the only thing a frustrated 
Ecthelion took away from the dream was the conviction that the orcs had, 
indeed, been running from something. When he shared this insight with the 
rest of the group, Aredhel, predictably, insisted that they follow the orc 
tracks towards the source of danger. So, they rode out of the forest and 
across the plain, and, after fording a river, entered the Valley of Dreadful 
Death.

The valley was a barren, rocky place, only occasionally broken by dark 
streams, which twisted among the stones as if in torment. Even their 
gurgling had a tortured sound. Ecthelion had never heard water sound so 
discordant, had never seen it look so black. But then, everything was 
shadowed here, and the shadows seemed longer than they should be.

Finally, there was the smell.

"What a very strange aroma," said Aredhel.

Ecthelion found it less strange. "A bit like the sewers under our city," he 
said.

"How do you-- Oh, right," said Egalmoth. "I keep forgetting that 'Lord of 
the Fountains' is code for 'Lord of the Plumbing.' I suppose it makes some 
semantic sense, but I will never understand why you chose to supervise such 
an unpleasant aspect of city planning instead of helping out with the 
concert halls, or something."

"Some people," said Glorfindel, "simply do whatever needs to be done."

"Yes, Ecthelion is very virtuous, is he not?" Aredhel sounded flirtatious, 
and probably looked even worse, but Ecthelion was too busy staring at the 
ground to check.

"A tree!" said Egalmoth, suddenly. "I see a tree in the distance, one 
bearing strange pale fruit."

Ecthelion could see only a blurry mushroom shape but, as they rode towards 
it, this shape did, indeed, resolve itself into a fruit-laden tree. As they 
got even closer, the fruit started to resemble the cocoons he had once seen 
in a silk-making workshop -- only these cocoons were filthy, and large 
enough to conceal a warrior. Spider work, for sure. Ecthelion decided to 
check whether they hid the spiders themselves, or their dead prey. He lifted 
his spear and rode ahead of the others, hoping they would have sense enough 
to hold back. Once he was within reach of a cocoon, he tapped it lightly 
with his far-reaching weapon. The movement it made was not entirely due to 
the prodding, and, through the threads, he could just discern a familiar 
shape.

"This one contains an orc," he said over his shoulder. "A living orc." As he 
looked around, he realized that the other cocoons held similar captives. In 
a few cases, he could even make out faces trapped beneath the thread, 
contorted in anger and fear. "They all do, I think."

His companions joined him, and the four of them wandered together under the 
giant tree, among the bound orcs.

"A spider's larder," said Egalmoth. "Very interesting. I expect our orcs 
were the ones that got away -- or, more likely, the ones that got tossed 
back, since they did look a bit scrawny."

"It is a fitting end for such creatures," said Aredhel. "Evil feeding on 
evil... it is almost poetic, would you not say, Ecthelion?"

Surprised by the question, Ecthelion said what was on his mind. "If you 
think about it that way. And yet, what a horrible death."

"You feel for the orcs?" asked Glorfindel. "Can you not sense their evil? I 
certainly can."

Ecthelion might have taken that statement to heart, only he knew very well 
that Glorfindel was incapable of detecting evil even when said evil was 
sitting on his bed. "I am sure they all had terrible childhoods," he said.

"What would you have us do? Free them?"

"I think I would like to kill them. Give them a merciful--"

"Kill them. Yes," said Aredhel. "Ecthelion, you are a warrior after my own 
heart."

"Of course," Ecthelion continued, "killing these orcs might upset the 
spiders."

They debated the matter. Egalmoth, who had found some fresh spider tracks, 
was against upsetting the spiders. Ecthelion was leaning towards 'against', 
too, because of his duty to protect his lord's sister; he calmed his 
conscience by telling it that he would not be doing the orcs any active 
evil. Glorfindel said he needed more time to think.

"Well, I am all for it," said Aredhel. "I am not afraid of the spiders. And 
we would not want these orcs to escape and kill any innocents, would we?" 
Ignoring the others, she strung her bow and started shooting. Ecthelion 
joined her, sword in hand; it would have been hypocritical to stand aside.

---

Their grim task done, the travelers turned eastward and set out across the 
rocky plain. As they rode, the clouds above them thickened, hanging heavy 
like orc cocoons, and a murky fog started to drift off the mountain. They 
passed strange stagnant pools, where darkness played upon the surface of the 
water as light might play upon the surface of a clear lake. Up ahead the fog 
was denser, with patches of solid blackness.

"Unlight," said Ecthelion.

"My grandfather died in unlight," said Aredhel. "The spiders must be close." 
She looked at the cloud as if facing down a despised enemy; then, perhaps 
judging that it had been sufficiently intimidated, she started to move her 
shying horse towards it.

"We should probably lead the horses through the fog." Glorfindel caught up 
with her and dismounted. He placed his hands on the two animals' necks, so 
that they stood in place, calm but wary.

"Actually, " said Egalmoth, "I think we should lead the horses around it. 
Preferably towards the forest. Call me a coward, but I have no wish to 
practice archery inside a cloud of unlight. I cannot aim for a spider I 
cannot see, no matter how giant it is."

"I think I can see them," said Aredhel. "Inside the cloud."

Ecthelion stared into the unlight. At first, all he could see were vague 
shapes, reminiscent of childhood nightmares, but then the shapes got 
clearer, until he could see legs like twisted tree trunks, and multi-faceted 
insectile eyes -- but no hairy spider bodies. He strained, trying to guess 
whether the visions were real, or a trick of unlight. The edge of the cloud 
tensed and billowed, like the surface of an overfilled water-skin. 
Ecthelion's fingers were closing on his spear when the darkness burst, 
releasing a shadowy shape.

Glorfindel immediately slapped Aredhel's horse, causing it to back away 
rapidly. "Get behind us!" he shouted, before grabbing for his own saddle.

Ecthelion tried to ride forward to cover him as he mounted, but both their 
horses were bucking violently. He struggled to regain control, very aware 
that the dark shape was drawing ever closer. Abstractedly, he noted that it 
was not exactly a spider: instead of a rounded, regular abdomen, it had a 
shapeless mass, in places dark as unlight, in places revoltingly pale. It 
certainly was huge. It towered over Glorfindel as he faced it on foot, blade 
raised high.

Ecthelion yelled and threw his sword at the monster's head, but his horse 
spun in place and he did not see the effect. As he turned, he could see 
other, smaller, spiders approaching. One was lurching, pierced by a 
white-fletched arrow. He saw Glorfindel again, briefly -- still standing -- 
and felt increasingly helpless. While his horse trashed around in terror, he 
could do nothing more than keep the animal from bolting. He could not even 
prevent the spiders from killing his mount beneath him. Thinking quickly, he 
tossed his spear clear away and half-jumped, half-fell from his saddle and 
into a shoulder roll.

The rocky ground slammed into his back. He looked up into the sky, too 
stunned to breathe, until the spider loomed above him, now larger than ever 
and far more hideous, clawing at the air with upraised limbs.

There was no time to think about how hard it is to move while winded; 
Ecthelion threw himself in the direction of his spear, and got it pointing 
nearly upward by the time the monster struck. Soon, he was crouching under a 
hideous flopping thing, every spasm threatening to rip the spear from his 
hands. He held on, pelted by gore, until the creature shuddered and stilled; 
he managed to get out just before it collapsed, dragging the spear behind 
him.

Ecthelion staggered, stabbed at something small and nasty, staggered again, 
and saw Glorfindel.

The sight made him feel like singing. Glorfindel was radiant, a golden 
figure in all the murk, dancing quickly in and out of the reach of several 
spiders, some of which were starting to resemble archery butts. His 
brightness was a beacon of hope; the spiders seemed to shrink from it, just 
as they shrunk from his sharp sword. But there were so many of the 
creatures! It was the archetypal battle of light and dark, the battle 
Ecthelion himself longed to join. He did start singing then -- a song of the 
first coming of the sun -- and he leapt forward to take his place at 
Glorfindel's side.

They made their stand together, not side-by-side or back-to-back, but both 
turning in place; Ecthelion, with his greater reach, poked at the bigger 
spiders, while Glorfindel sliced at the smaller ones. Although this was not 
a technique they had ever practiced, they worked together well: trusting in 
each other's skill, aware of one another as good warriors should be, 
thrilled to be moving in such harmony. The moment when all their opponents 
were finally motionless came as a shock. They looked out over the valley, at 
the disappearing shreds of dark fog, and turned towards each other, 
grinning.

This time they did embrace, fully and in genuine happiness. Also, in a sort 
of innocence, at least at first -- it was only when Ecthelion realized their 
position that he became aware of Glorfindel's hipbone against his body, of 
the strong back beneath his hands. He could never understand why, when all 
warriors had the same tapering shape, Glorfindel seemed to look -- and, 
apparently, feel -- particularly good. He would have to ask Glorfindel 
whether he did any special back exercises.

"Oh." Glorfindel froze. Ecthelion drew back in a panic, afraid that he had 
betrayed himself somehow; but he saw that Glorfindel was looking past him, 
and turned to see a horse motionless on the ground, raked by spider claws.

"Yours got away, I think," said Glorfindel. Ecthelion remembered his fall, 
and became aware of the pain in his back. It was true: his horse was nowhere 
to be seen. There was a hope that it had escaped being webbed and dragged 
off somewhere. But no such hope for Glorfindel.

Ecthelion put his arm around Glorfindel and squeezed his shoulder lightly. 
They stood there together in silence until the others joined them.

"Thirty spiders, including those two huge monstrosities," said Aredhel, once 
they had collected all the arrows and other scattered equipment. "Not bad, 
considering we suffered no real injuries. Pity about the horses. We will 
have to double up on our way back to the forest."

The forest! Ecthelion was surprised by this unexpected evidence of common 
sense.

"Yes. We can rest in the forest, find fresh water..." Aredhel was looking 
very thoughtful. "Perhaps catch some wild horses. Or deer. Or even moose." 
She remounted. "Come on then, Ecthelion."

It took Ecthelion a while to realize that she meant for him to ride behind 
her. He handed her his spear and climbed up, placing one awkward arm around 
her waist, while Glorfindel joined Egalmoth. Ecthelion thought he saw him 
glance at Aredhel with longing, as if he were wishing himself in Ecthelion's 
place.

"Tell me, Ecthelion," said Aredhel, a few minutes into the ride. "Is there 
anyone you... have strong feelings for, waiting back in Gondolin?"

"No," said Ecthelion, regretting the truth of that statement for more than 
just the usual reasons.

"You and Glorfindel both, then. You virtuous warrior types... I daresay you 
find it difficult to relate to most women, who share none of your interests. 
Oh! But I am overjoyed that you are my brothers-in-arms on this great 
adventure..."

She continued in this vein for some time, her voice disturbingly playful. 
Ecthelion distracted himself from her chatter, and from the pain in his 
back, by watching the creepy clouds overhead turn into ordinary rainclouds. 
By the time they reached the north edge of the woods, it was beginning to 
drizzle.

---

They made camp. To keep the rain off as they slept, they wove branches 
together to form two traditional hunters' shelters: one for Aredhel, and one 
for any sleeping members of her escort.

"Right, then," Egalmoth said when they were done. "I might as well take 
first watch; I want to straighten my gleaned arrows." He sat down beside 
Aredhel, who was already looking through hers under a makeshift canopy made 
out of cloaks.

Ecthelion sought out a stream and washed off the spider gore, wincing 
whenever he touched his bruises. His stiff shoulder needed attention, if it 
was to be of any use tomorrow; as it was, he could not even get his shirt 
back on. He crawled into the shelter to fetch his medical supplies before 
remembering that they had been inside his saddlebag.

He was just considering alternatives when the branches covering the entrance 
rustled and parted, revealing Glorfindel. Noticing Ecthelion, he hesitated.

"Ah, Glorfindel -- I was just tending to my shoulder," said Ecthelion. "You 
would not happen to have any balm, would you? Mine is probably inside a 
spider by now. Or at least inside a spider cocoon."

"One moment." Glorfindel slipped in and rummaged around in his bag. "Here, 
turn your back towards the light." His touch was gentler than Ecthelion's 
own had been. "Well. Interesting. It must have been all those rocks. Do you 
want me to... I mean, perhaps you should ask Egalmoth to help you. He would 
enjoy seeing all the colours you have on here."

It was a rather terrible joke. No wonder Glorfindel had sounded so 
uncomfortable when he made it, almost as uncomfortable as Ecthelion himself 
was feeling at his touch. Egalmoth seemed like a much safer option, until 
Ecthelion remembered that he was sitting beside Aredhel. Considering her 
recent behaviour, it was almost certain that she would offer her assistance; 
he did not want to put Glorfindel through the jealousy this would, no doubt, 
elicit.

"Egalmoth is busy," he said. "Would you mind?"

Glorfindel settled in behind him. Ecthelion was really happy that eye 
contact was impossible, for the physical contact was enough to contend with, 
both because of the unavoidable pain of it, and because of the equally 
unavoidable pleasure of being touched by the object of his sick desires. He 
tried to focus on other, less attractive, things. Well, there was one such 
topic he wanted to discuss.

"Glorfindel," he said. "I just wanted you to know that I find Aredhel's 
recent attentions... puzzling. I mean, I have done nothing to encourage 
them, and I am not interested in her."

"I did not think you were." Glorfindel's hands moved down his back, pressing 
so lightly that the pain was easy to ignore. "But why do you want me to know 
this, exactly?"

"Well, I am quite aware of your... feelings." The pressure ceased; Ecthelion 
was almost certain that Glorfindel had paused in mid-breath. He realized 
that bringing up his friend's unrequited passion was slightly unkind, but 
for some reason he felt compelled to press on. "I mean, I know that you have 
some interest in the lady, and I just wanted you to know that I--"

Glorfindel laughed, a little oddly. "You believe that I am interested in 
*her*? Valar, but that is too strange. I mean, Finwe's Grandchild... I would 
sooner court a Balrog." He exhaled, and his hands resumed their motions. 
"No, wait, that was discourteous. Would it be better to say that I believe 
Aredhel would sooner court a Balrog? She is always saying that you cannot 
have true passion without irritation."

Ecthelion felt dizzy. His mental landscape was shifting confusingly, and 
then there were the hands on his back.

"But the way you have been acting: paying her so much attention, speaking to 
her of love..."

"Well, I do know her quite well, and what I know evokes my compassion. She 
has ambition, but no direction. She is proud, and all the more lonely for 
her pride, because she views her brother's vassals as her inferiors; so, she 
has no-one to love except an overprotective older brother who will not let 
her seek the excitement she craves, and a niece who is happy with the sort 
of life that bores her."

Ecthelion's back tingled as the balm began to work. He shivered. "You do 
sound fond of her."

"I understand her, but... Ecthelion, she is risking all our lives for a 
frivolous reason, traveling to visit a cousin she vaguely likes in the hope 
that time has intensified her feelings. It is, of course, quite possible 
that recent historical events have made a Feanorion more irritating, but I 
do not believe love works like that. And surely you have seen how she baits 
me?" Glorfindel sighed. "Truly, she has taught me that it is possible to 
feel irritation without passion."

The pain of the bruises was almost gone now, its memory growing as faint and 
ridiculous as the memory of Ecthelion's suspicions. "In that case, you have 
been demonstrating remarkable restraint. As I have not. I suppose that 
explains why she shows interest in me now; she must have noticed my 
irritation."

"Perhaps. More likely, it is your fighting skills." Glorfindel shifted 
slightly. "And that aloof and slightly rude air of yours. A lot of people 
find that attractive. And your looks, of course."

"What about my looks? Do I remind her of some other cousin?"

"No, I was referring to, you know, the whole 'fairest of the Noldor' 
business," said Glorfindel evasively.

Ecthelion had heard that description applied to himself often enough, but 
this was absurd. "Come on, you know as well as I do that Pengolodh only 
calls me that because I always pay my share of the beer money."

"You mean that!" Glorfindel sounded almost outraged. "Do you never look at 
yourself in a mirror?"

"Certainly, when I need to fix my hair or my clothes. So, I am well aware 
that I look quite normal."

"Normal? But what about your jawline, and the way your... Never mind. If you 
do not believe me, ask someone else. Ask Aredhel herself. At any rate, I 
think I am done here." Glorfindel's hands came to rest on Ecthelion's 
shoulders. "You know, there is one thing I have been meaning to ask you -- 
do you do any particular exercises for your lower back?"

They discussed the finer points of weight training while Ecthelion dressed 
again, his arm moving freely now. Afterwards, they stretched out on the 
ground and fell silent.

Lying beside Glorfindel in darkness and privacy, their shoulders almost 
touching, Ecthelion realized that, even though Glorfindel was clearly 
mistaken in his interpretation of that ridiculous 'fairest of the Noldor' 
epithet, the nature of his mistake implied that he found Ecthelion 
objectively attractive. Ecthelion was disgusted by how happy this made him 
feel. Worse, his joy was making him delusional, for he was beginning to 
think that he had detected a certain sensuality in Glorfindel's touch. He 
replayed their conversation in his head, giving it inappropriate, warm 
overtones. The fantasy made him long to reach over and take Glorfindel's 
hand.

And do what? What disturbed him about this impulse was that he had not even 
intended to put the hand anywhere specific on his body. Of course, on one 
level, grabbing another man's hand was far less unnatural than grabbing any 
one of several appealing alternatives -- just a friendly gesture between 
brothers-in-arms -- but Ecthelion knew he had not meant it that way. Lust is 
bad enough, but lust is a hungry creature that can be fed and satisfied for 
a while. The more tender emotions weave an entrapping cocoon from which 
there is no easy escape.

No, far better to feel lust, unnatural as it may be. Ecthelion summoned 
forth his usual irritation, knowing that, for him, like for Aredhel, 
irritation was close to passion. Rather like friction, which is, after all, 
a form of irritation. He turned towards the wall of the shelter, pressing 
himself into the hard ground, firm as another warrior's body, and mustered 
his harsher fantasies. How often had he longed to say, "Kneel down before me 
and let me grab you by the hair?" To shock Glorfindel out of his complacent 
virtue. To see him helpless before unnatural advances, overwhelmed with dark 
pleasure. Flushed, but not with embarrassment. Or even with embarrassment, 
for there is a thrill to be found in discomfiting one normally so smug.

The fantasies worked; Ecthelion could not longer remember what he had been 
trying to forget. He decided to go outside for a bit. He crawled to the 
entrance, taking great care not to disturb his tentmate, and stood up in the 
drizzle.

"I am so glad to find you awake!" Egalmoth was heading towards the shelter. 
"I think I can see more spiders heading our way. I told you we should have 
left that tree alone."

His words checked Ecthelion's excitement. A single look out over the valley 
quenched it entirely. He, also, could see the spiders: or, at least, he 
could see a mass of unpleasant shapes, darker than the night.

"I have been watching them for some time," said Aredhel. "They are smarter 
than yesterday's orcs. I think they are mustering their forces before 
attacking."

Glorfindel joined them. "Perhaps they are simply attempting to keep us out 
of the valley. We could try moving away along the edge of the wood. Could 
they follow us in here, I wonder?"

Aredhel's nod was barely visible in the darkness. "There are old 
spider-tracks in this wood."

"Yes, that is true," said Egalmoth. "Now that I know what to look for, I see 
their traces everywhere. There must be hundreds of the creatures living in 
the valley. This trip could turn into a serious military campaign."

Ecthelion reviewed the odds. "We cannot risk it," he said, certain that his 
friends were reaching the same conclusion. "We must fall back towards the 
city."

"What, give up?" Aredhel's eyes glittered. "Never."

-----
---
-
---
-----

Author's notes:

0. In case anyone cares about the geography of all this, the orc battle 
takes place in Dimbar, near the Brithiach. So Glorfindel washes his hair in 
the Sirion. The crossing of Dimbar, which probably takes a while, is 
dismissed in a single sentence. The story ends in the forest of Neldoreth.

1. The "fairest of the Noldor" business: this is how Ecthelion is described 
in 'The Fall Of Gondolin'. Which of the possible meanings of the word 'fair' 
was intended is left up to the reader.




-----
Chapter Five: The Incident
-----



The night air was full of rustling sounds. Some came from the leaves up 
above, while others drifted in from the valley where the spiders were now 
gathering, just beyond the edge of the forest. Ecthelion was surprised by 
how similar all the noises were; he had been expecting the leaves to sound 
less evil than the spiders, somehow. He eyed the trees with suspicion. 
Behind him, Egalmoth launched into yet another attempt to goad Aredhel into 
action.

"It is undeniable that giant spiders have a better grasp of tactics than 
panicked orcs." Egalmoth spoke like a scholar addressing a difficult pupil. 
"However, I would really like to know where Elves fit into this hierarchy. I 
want to believe that we are somewhat wiser than spiders, but our current 
behaviour leads me to suspect that we are dumber than orcs. At least the 
orcs retreated while they had the chance."

"It is the spiders who are foolish, for plotting to attack their betters." 
Aredhel's voice carried no conviction; the moment she was done speaking, she 
disappeared into the forest.

"There she goes again, visiting the horses," said Egalmoth. "Pacing back and 
forth is a sure sign of stress. I do believe the valour of Finwe's 
Grandchild is faltering at last."

"Perhaps she is merely disturbed by our mutinous attitudes," said 
Glorfindel.

"Why should she be?" asked Ecthelion. "It is not as if we are going to 
overpower her and carry her back to Gondolin in a sack."

"Maybe she does not know that," said Egalmoth. "It sounds like exactly the 
sort of thing she would do, if the circumstances were reversed."

Ecthelion had to agree. "And if we had a large enough sack."

"Well, seeing as we cannot actually use physical force, no matter how 
tempting it sounds," said Glorfindel, "perhaps we should try courtesy again. 
Courtesy and guile. We could tell Aredhel that we want to return to the city 
only to reequip: to pick up more horses, more arrows, perhaps even more 
warriors. And if she says that Lord Turgon is unlikely to support a second 
expedition once he hears of the danger, then, well, I thought we could tell 
her that we are willing to conceal the danger from Lord Turgon. Surely..." 
He turned towards the valley. "Surely lying to her is a lesser evil."

"It is worth a try," said Egalmoth. "Ecthelion, she seems to like you best, 
right now. Would you be our spokesman?"

Ecthelion believed in getting unpleasant tasks over with quickly. His steps 
were brisk as he approached the clearing concealing the horses.

Or, more accurately, the horse.

Egalmoth's mount looked rather lonely as it walked up to Ecthelion and 
nudged his shoulder. There was a length of black-and-white silk tied around 
its neck: one of Aredhel's scarves, strangely marked. Once Ecthelion had 
untied it, he saw that the markings were elaborate, aristocratic tengwar, 
barely readable in the moonlight. He ran back to the others.

"Aredhel is gone," he said. "She took her horse. But she has left us this 
farewell note."

He shook out the scarf, and started to read it out loud.

"Dear Brother."

Ecthelion paused. Reading a letter meant for another was clearly wrong. But 
then he realized he was far too angry to care. "Well, she did call us her 
brothers-in-arms," he said. "I will go on."

"The Valley Of Dreadful Death proves perilous. I have no wish to risk the 
lives of your men any further; besides, one may travel more swiftly and 
safely than four. I have, therefore, decided to dismiss the Guards--"

"What?" Egalmoth clutched at the fabric. "Does she truly expect us to turn 
back and deliver this... fashion accessory... to our Lord? To let her go on 
alone?"

Ecthelion let him take the note; its remaining contents did not really 
matter, and the three of them had to act quickly. "One of us must take the 
horse, ride out after Aredhel, and offer what aid he can," he said. "The 
other two should follow together, with all possible speed."

"No." Glorfindel's tone was uncharacteristically abrupt. He was gazing out 
into the valley. "Look, the spiders are heading east. They must have noticed 
her. Perhaps she is even drawing them off on purpose to give us a better 
chance, hoping to outrun them. We have to protect her, to distract them. We 
have to attack."

And so they did, without delay. While Egalmoth climbed a tree, Glorfindel 
and Ecthelion ran out into the valley, yelling battle cries. In the 
darkness, it was difficult to tell how many of the spiders responded to the 
challenge, but some certainly did, for soon the two of them were facing an 
odorous crowd of dark shapes.

At first, they fought together as efficiently as before, and the experience 
was still intoxicating. Ecthelion found himself becoming rather skilled at 
skewering the smaller creatures and retracting his spear rapidly, with the 
minimum of gore. However, the larger spiders remained problematic: their 
thicker skins were harder to pierce, and their death throes were wilder. One 
flailing leg struck Ecthelion on the head, knocking him to the ground. As he 
lay there, something small attached itself to his left elbow. He had to 
punch the thing several times before it let go.

The rest of the battle was a blur. Ecthelion wandered around, sword in hand, 
cutting at shapes as they became increasingly visible, and hence 
increasingly disgusting. Dawn came, every bit as welcome as his occasional 
glimpses of Glorfindel -- still fighting, still alive. The new light 
revealed that most of the remaining spiders were in far worse shape. He 
wondered briefly if any of them had experienced an unnatural desire for 
another spider, or for an orc perhaps, but he walked around stabbing them 
anyway.

Once all the spiders had stopped twitching, Ecthelion walked up to 
Glorfindel, who was examining a wound on his thigh. The blood leaking from 
it was strangely frothy. Poison, then. Ecthelion would have been very 
concerned, but, fortunately, his dreams had prepared him for just this 
situation. Perhaps Lorien knew what he was doing, after all.

"We have to drain the poison," said Ecthelion. "Suck it out."

Glorfindel looked down at the bubbling mess. "I cannot... Oh. You mean you." 
He looked around, at the ground, at the spider corpses. "I think I need to 
sit down." The large corpse he chose for his seat squelched when he lowered 
himself onto it. He leaned forward slightly and let his hands fall across 
his lap.

"Well, how do we do this?" he asked.

Ecthelion crouched down beside him. The injury itself did not look very 
dangerous -- it resembled a very shallow arrow wound -- but its edges were 
begining to turn an unhealthy yellow. As gently as he could, Ecthelion 
pressed down on the flesh around it, hoping to halt the spread of the 
poison. Then he placed his lips over the wound and drew out a mouthful of 
blood. It made his lips and tongue tingle before he spat it out onto the 
ground, feeling vaguely nostalgic for the Sindar of Doriath. In all, the 
situation was far less erotic than his dreams had suggested, in spite of the 
pleasant feel of the muscle beneath his fingers.

He had repeated the whole process a dozen times when he realized that 
Glorfindel was muttering to himself.

"The Place of the King. The Place of the Gods. The Place of the Fountain."

Had the poison caused delirium already? Ecthelion emptied his mouth. 
"Glorfindel, are you well? You seem to be listing the major squares of 
Gondolin."

"Yes, so I am," said Glorfindel. "You see, I find that it keeps my mind off 
things."

Ecthelion felt a stab of concern. "Am I hurting you?"

"No. It's just that I feel a bit... odd," said Glorfindel. "It must be the 
poison."

Come to think of it, Ecthelion was feeling a bit odd himself. His body 
seemed slightly numb, except for his mouth, which was itching. He rubbed at 
it absentmindedly before returning to his task.

"What on Arda are you two doing?" Egalmoth's voice came from very far away.

Glorfindel's leg shifted slightly. "I have a spider bite," he said. 
"Ecthelion is trying to get the poison out."

"By putting it in his mouth? But poison is, well, poisonous. Has he been hit 
on the head? Oh, never mind, I can see the dent in his helmet from here."

The phrases floated past Ecthelion's ears like patches of unlight across a 
rocky valley. The dark patches seemed to drift straight into his mind, and 
merge there into a dense fog, like unlight does. Soon, all was dark.

---

Ecthelion dreamed that there were arms around him, strong as bands of 
mithril, but much warmer. He knew it was a dream because he felt no 
irritation and no shame even when he realized that the arms were 
Glorfindel's. In this dream, they were in the hunters' shelter again, but it 
was not night: sunlight was coming in through the leafy walls. In spite of 
the light, Ecthelion felt chilled, and very grateful for the body heat at 
his back. His chest was cold, though. He turned around.

"You are awake." Glorfindel's smile was the one Ecthelion had learned to 
associate with Aredhel, the one tinged with sadness. In the dream it was, of 
course, meant for Ecthelion and Ecthelion only. But Glorfindel was pulling 
away now, even as Ecthelion responded to his embrace.

"You must drink something," said Glorfindel.

Maddening dream Glorfindel with his ridiculous games. Was this some 
reference to the poison Ecthelion had consumed? Glorfindel's thigh, neatly 
bandaged just where the real wound had been, was alluding to it already. Or 
was it one of those clumsy dream innuendoes? Ecthelion looked at the area 
above the bandage with anticipation, waiting for Glorfindel to strip, but 
his hopes were dashed when he was handed a flask instead. He took a sip. The 
cool liquid made him shudder even though, as he now realized, he was dressed 
warmly, and wrapped in two cloaks.

"Are you cold still?" Glorfindel touched his hand. "You were near frozen 
when we brought you here -- we suspected that it was an effect of the 
paralyzing poison, but it was rather worrying. That is why I... why I am 
here with you. We used to do that during the Crossing, share the heat of our 
bodies."

"Yes, I remember huddling together for warmth." Ecthelion set the empty 
flask aside. "Never with you, though; I hardly knew you then. But we know 
each other now." He moved towards Glorfindel and slid his arms around him 
again. Glorfindel tensed for a moment before reciprocating. Ecthelion felt 
warmer at once.

"I remember visiting your camp to listen to you sing." Glorfindel spoke into 
Ecthelion's hair. "I know now that you sounded terrible by your current 
standards, but your singing cheered me. It was inspiring just to know that 
some among us were still willing to devote energy to something other than 
mere survival. I remember thinking about how cold you looked... and... Of 
course, we were all cold, back then."

The real Glorfindel never babbled like this. Anyway, talk of those miserable 
days on the Ice sounded very strange, coming from someone so warm, so 
obviously healthy, so... well-built. Ecthelion ran a hand across 
Glorfindel's back. The muscles under his fingers were too tight to be real. 
Glorfindel seemed to be made of sun-warmed metal, hard and immobile.

"You do not feel cold now," said Ecthelion. His mouth was at Glorfindel's 
neck, lips moving against hot skin. He pulled in closer. The feel of the 
firm body pressed against his own made his head spin with excitement, in 
spite of his suspicion that, in reality, he was simply sleeping on hard 
ground again. At least it was a particularly fortuitously chosen piece of 
ground, with largeish rocks in all the anatomically appropriate places.

"Ecthelion." Glorfindel jerked away. "If you are still cold, we should 
probably go outside, where you can sit by the fire."

Ecthelion did not feel up to facing the piles of singing spider corpses the 
outer dreamland would probably contain. "I like it here," he said.

"Well, I need to go outside, at any rate." Glorfindel sat up.

Clearly, this dream Glorfindel was more temperamental than usual. But then, 
he was also more impressively built than usual: those anatomically 
suggestive rocks had implied it, and now, as Ecthelion studied Glorfindel's 
breeches, he found visual confirmation -- and felt himself grow almost 
equally impressive in turn. He realized then that, if he let Glorfindel 
leave, this dream was going to prove even more painfully frustrating than 
the last one. Well, he would not let that happen, would not play any more 
silly counting games. It was his own dream, and he could be as direct as he 
liked. Ecthelion looked Glorfindel straight in the eye, eyebrows raised.

"You cannot deal with *that* outside." He flicked his gaze downward. "Let me 
help you in here."

It was absolutely amazing that someone who would decapitate orcs without a 
second's thought could still turn red for no good reason. Glorfindel shook 
his head mutely, hair swaying against his flushed cheeks, and shrunk back 
against the shelter wall.

"You want me to." Ecthelion rose up on his elbow, ignoring a strange twinge 
of pain.

"You know, then." Glorfindel looked away. One strand of hair had fallen 
across his half-open lips; it trembled slightly as he shuddered. "I admit 
that I do want it, but--"

Ecthelion silenced him by touching the bandage, then sliding his hand 
upwards. "Lie back down," he said.

Their eyes met again. Glorfindel's looked almost green in the leaf-filtered 
sunlight -- or perhaps they were simply contrasting with his flushed skin. 
His pupils were huge, unfocused. He lowered himself to the ground without 
further protest.

How Ecthelion longed to see the real Glorfindel in this state: breathlessly 
compliant, stripped of his smug serenity. At least in this dream he could 
strip him of even more. He tugged on Glorfindel's clothing, baring him from 
mid-thigh to mid-chest. Yes, this dream Glorfindel certainly was impressive. 
Ecthelion reached over to stroke his most imposing part, which responded by 
twitching in a most gratifying manner. He closed his hand.

Glorfindel felt warm against his palm, prompting him to realize that he 
himself was no longer cold. But how could he feel anything but overheated 
when he was looking at all that exposed skin, and seeing the muscle beneath 
it tense with the effort to keep still? Ecthelion's hand moved with the 
practiced ease of the lonely nights when he could not help himself, in spite 
of his knowledge that what he did -- and, worse, what he imagined as he did 
it -- was wrong. But now it was his tormentor's turn to struggle against 
desire, and lose. The long muscle in Glorfindel's thigh shifted as his legs 
slid apart slightly, allowing his tense body to arch upward. The new pose, 
with its contrast of obvious strength and vulnerability, affected Ecthelion 
like an intimate caress. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of his arousal, 
of the constraining clothes that felt so wrong against his skin. But when he 
paused to free himself, Glorfindel moaned desperately. That single sad plea 
tugged at Ecthelion's heart. He could not refuse it.

"Ecthelion, if you... I..." Glorfindel was looking down at himself, at 
Ecthelion's rapidly moving hand, with a sort of terrified fascination: so 
might the early Elves have looked when they first beheld the sea. His mouth 
was half-open. Ecthelion was tempted to kiss him, on the lips or anywhere, 
but that would have meant losing sight of this dream-vision, so wonderfully 
detailed and inspiring that he felt almost undone just watching it. And then 
it was too late, for Glorfindel turned his face into the wall, shivered, and 
spent across his stomach.

Ecthelion, who had expected a loud cry, was so surprised that he withdrew 
his arm. For a moment, he just looked at Glorfindel's flushed chest, 
splattered with pale liquid, and at his tangled hair. Then he moved closer, 
to kiss and caress and claim his own relief -- but, in the same instant, 
Glorfindel grabbed a handful of leaves and turned away.

The rapid efficiency with which he cleaned himself and straightened his 
clothing stunned Ecthelion, who felt rejected and cheated, but was not sure 
how to protest. When Glorfindel turned back to face him, Ecthelion's 
confusion deepened, for Glorfindel's expression was very odd. It made 
Ecthelion think of young officers fresh from facing their first defeats on 
the field of battle.

"Tell me why you did that," said Glorfindel.

The easiest answers -- 'because you wanted me to' and 'because I wanted to' 
-- seemed too obvious to be of use. "Is that a trick question?" asked 
Ecthelion.

"It was not a question."

No, it had been an order. Ecthelion's first impression had been wrong. This 
was no novice warrior, but an experienced captain facing a sudden reversal, 
surprised but not overwhelmed, trusting in his remaining reserves.

"Well, then, I did it because you wanted me to," said Ecthelion.

"But many people want you, and I seriously doubt you are always so... kind. 
Such things are not to be done lightly."

Faced with this serious, worthy Glorfindel, so much like the real one, 
Ecthelion was flooded with shame. This was all wrong -- he never felt this 
way in his dreams. The shame was mingled with a dark dread. Was he awake or 
asleep? Had he committed an unspeakable act, or merely imagined it? He 
pinched his arm. When this hurt quite a lot, he tried something else: he 
crawled to the entrance and looked outside. The forest looked normal. 
Aredhel's shelter was exactly where it should have been; his spear and sword 
were leaning against it. There were no singing spiders in sight. No, his 
dreams were never quite this real.

Ecthelion sat back, and stared down at his hands. He could not look at 
Glorfindel. Self-disgust paralyzed him.

"What have I done?" he whispered.

"Yes, I thought you might come to feel that way. Like I said, such things 
are not to be done lightly, not by someone like you. I am sorry that I 
cannot offer you comfort. I doubt you would want it from me, in any case." 
Glorfindel was not sounding like himself at all. "Now, excuse me. I should 
go." He slipped past Ecthelion and out into the forest.

As soon as his mortification let him move again, Ecthelion followed.

---

He found Egalmoth and Glorfindel at the edge of the valley, beside a flaming 
pile of spider corpses.

"I was just telling Glorfindel," said Egalmoth, "that I have found Aredhel's 
tracks. When we attacked the spiders, she headed directly east. We can start 
following her as soon as the two of you feel strong enough to walk; right 
now, you both look rather unsteady."

Ecthelion tried to focus on the logistics of it all. "Glorfindel should take 
the horse," he said. "He has that wound on his leg."

Glorfindel flinched. "You think I should ride on before you? I would be 
happy to, but we have already decided that we should stick together, now 
that we know more about that poison. A lone rider seems more likely to get 
bitten and webbed."

"At least that is our hope." Egalmoth smiled. "Just imagine the joy of 
finding Aredhel packed in a spider-cocoon. We would not even need a sack, 
then."

Ecthelion felt so miserable that he could not enjoy that thought.

They set out soon afterwards, following the hoofprints of Aredhel's horse 
down the road that separated forest from valley. They had only just found 
their pace when they noticed the first spiders, scuttling around in the 
distance. It was an unnerving sight -- or, at least, it would have been, had 
Ecthelion not been preoccupied with even more unnerving thoughts.

At first, he could think of nothing other than the shame and degradation of 
his fall. His self-respect had hinged on the belief that there was a real 
difference between thought and deed; now that the Incident in the shelter 
had proven that this difference was an illusion, Ecthelion felt more evil 
than the spiders, which now seemed to be following them, although at a 
distance.

As the sun rose high in the sky, his thoughts turned more practical. He 
realized that he would have to make things right with Glorfindel -- but how? 
He could think of no reasonable excuse for his actions. His first idea, "I 
was thinking about Idril the whole time," was wrong on several levels. For 
one, it was insulting to Glorfindel. Then, it was vaguely insulting to 
Idril, who happened to be Glorfindel's cousin. And, finally, it was 
obviously the greatest lie since Melkor's speeches in Valinor. Ecthelion was 
no expert when it came to maidens, but even he knew that the Incident would 
not translate.

Only when the sunlight softened and the shadows grew long on the ground 
before him did it occur to Ecthelion that Glorfindel's behaviour had been 
just as peculiar as his own, and just as hard to excuse. For who could he 
have seen in Ecthelion's place? He had told Aredhel he was not interested in 
anyone back in the city, and he was certainly not interested in Aredhel 
herself.

The implications were disturbing.

He considered the matter from another angle. Glorfindel's recent statements 
made it quite clear that he was no stranger to passionate longing. And that 
the focus of his feelings would be a warrior, probably someone fairly 
high-minded and noble. Or, at least, a warrior who appeared to be 
high-minded and noble.

Ecthelion reached a conclusion. He could not state it directly, not even in 
his own mind, but his thoughts hovered around it, making him feel rather 
dizzy. He reviewed all the evidence: Glorfindel's warm attention, the recent 
embarrassment and strain, and the name 'Ecthelion' said quite clearly during 
the Incident. It really seemed as if--

But no, that could not be right -- not just because Ecthelion was utterly 
unworthy, but because, if his conclusion were true, then he would be even 
less worthy than he had supposed. For it would mean that more than just his 
own soul was at stake, that he had caused sorrow to someone who deserved 
only happiness. When he remembered the tense voice Glorfindel had used in 
the shelter, his clipped phrases, Ecthelion found it hard to breathe.

"Ecthelion?" Egalmoth was standing before him. "Why have you stopped 
walking? Is your spider bite bothering you?"

"Spider bite?" Ecthelion followed Egalmoth's eyes and noticed that his left 
forearm was neatly bandaged. "No. I never noticed it. I... seem to be very 
bad at noticing things, these days."

Glorfindel caught up with them. "Maybe Ecthelion does have a concussion," he 
said to Egalmoth. "He has been acting quite unlike himself." Turning aside, 
he busied himself with the horse.

Ecthelion wanted to speak to him, to apologize, to explain -- but he did not 
know what to say, or how to say it to someone who would not even look at 
him. So, he simply said he was fine, and the three of them moved on, 
ignoring the growing crowd of spiders out in the valley.

---

The spiders came closer at sunset. At least that was what Ecthelion thought 
at first, but then he realized that the shapes moving towards them were 
clouds of unlight. Soon, small clouds were drifting across their path, so 
that, at times, they were walking half-blind. A spider attack seemed 
imminent. Egalmoth mounted his horse, and they all drew together.

"Ecthelion." Glorfindel was a ghostly figure by Ecthelion's side. "I 
think... I hope we can fight side by side, as before."

"Of course." Ecthelion struggled for other words, the ones that would make 
everything right; but, before he could find them, the spiders struck, 
charging out of the darkness around them.

Ecthelion was a trained warrior, so he put it all out of his mind: the 
guilt, the doubt, the likelihood of death. To his great relief, Glorfindel 
seemed to do the same, for they worked together at least as well as ever, 
anticipating each other's moves, trusting one another without constraint. It 
felt glorious to rediscover this harmony, and Ecthelion decided that dying 
side by side would not be so bad -- at least until Glorfindel cried out and 
reeled against him, shield ripped to shreds. Then he forgot all such 
frivolous conceits; all that remained was the idea that he had to defend 
what he held dear, all that was good in the world, and that Glorfindel was 
its shining avatar. The world narrowed to a swirling mess of shining eyes, 
spears, and spider claws. Ecthelion fought on without thinking.

When he came to himself again, he was leaning against a tree and all his 
opponents were dead. Glorfindel was kneeling a few paces away and cradling 
his left arm, no longer a symbol, but quite obviously a creature of flesh 
and blood and pain. There were spiders all around him, a few still 
twitching. When Ecthelion tried to go help him, he sat right down instead, 
gasping with pain of his own: his right leg was ripped up rather badly.

They bound up each other's wounds as best they could, and ate some lembas to 
aid the healing. Then, they moved fifty agonizing yards deeper into the 
forest and built a small campfire. They spoke little; they were too weak to 
bother.

"Egalmoth?" Ecthelion asked as soon as he felt slightly better.

"I think his horse bolted," said Glorfindel. "Perhaps he has gone after 
Aredhel."

"I would rather he returned here. I could ride his horse then, and we could 
all go after her."

Glorfindel smiled weakly. "Are you turning into Finwe's grandchild? I know 
your battle rage is impressive, but even you cannot hope to fight spiders on 
one leg."

"I thought you were an optimist."

"I am an optimist. That is why I believe that we will be able to rest here. 
And that, tomorrow, you will be able to lean on me and walk without either 
of us half-fainting with each step. And that nothing much more will attack 
us, and that we will make it out of this valley alive."

Such beliefs were optimistic indeed, as Ecthelion was well aware. "I have 
one more hope for your list: that Lord Turgon will be understanding, and 
will at least let us say goodbye to our friends before placing us on 
permanent sewer-cleaning duty."

"Maybe you can use your connections to find us a particularly cushy sewer?"

The humour was feeble, but its return signalled that they were starting to 
think about more than basic survival. Other strong drives were returning, as 
well. Glorfindel combed out his hair with one awkward hand, and, looking at 
him, Ecthelion felt the first stirrings of his tormented conscience.

"You should rest," he said. "I will take first watch."

Agreeing, Glorfindel stretched out on the ground and turned towards the 
flames. Still, his eyes remained wakeful, even as time passed, marked by the 
throbbing ache in Ecthelion's leg. Was he dwelling on the Incident? 
Ecthelion decided to speak, to see if he could offer any solace, even if the 
perfect words still eluded him.

"Glorfindel, I am sorry," he said. "About this morning, I mean."

"I, too, am sorry." Glorfindel turned onto his back, face open to the stars. 
"More sorry than I can say. I should have been more careful, knowing how you 
feel about such things. I do want to thank you for your understanding, for 
the compassion you showed me. But I still think you should not have done it, 
not at such cost to yourself. Not at such cost to..."

Ecthelion stared at his face, calm and composed in the starlight. A 
much-watched face, now utterly alien, speaking very strange words. One thing 
was clear: there was a rift between the two of them, and bridging it was his 
responsibility. Ignoring his leg, he started to pull himself around the 
campfire.

"Ecthelion? You should not be moving." Glorfindel sat up and raised his good 
hand, as if to halt him.

"Yes, I should. There is something I have to tell you." Ecthelion knew that 
his words made no sense. It made no sense to reach for Glorfindel's hand, 
either, but he did it anyway. His mind went blank at the touch. All he could 
say was, "These things are not easy to face, or explain."

Glorfindel looked at their linked hands, his face still impassive. "Well, we 
are both supposed to be very brave."

"True." Ecthelion sought out his courage. "Here is what I want to say: I 
thought this morning was a dream. A good dream. I have such dreams often. 
I... " He shut his eyes. "I am very aware of your finer qualities, and then 
I have these... unnatural tendencies. I react to you very strongly. Too 
strongly."

Glorfindel's hand slipped out of his, and for a long moment Ecthelion knew, 
knew with absolute certainty that he had misjudged the situation completely. 
But then he felt a light touch on his face.

"Then it was neither poison fever nor cool compassion?"

Ecthelion could only shake his head; he had exhausted his store of valour. 
It was Glorfindel's turn to be brave. Glorfindel's fingers moved to the back 
of Ecthelion's head and pulled hi