A Denial of Souls

Title: A Denial of Souls 1/?
Author: Eawen Penallion
email: cross_stitcherire@yahoo.com
LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/eawen_penallion/
Type: FPSlash/Het
Pairing: Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Ecthelion/OFC, Glorfindel/OFC, Glorfindel/Erestor
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, Het, death of character, incest
Beta: Nienna, beta reader extraordinaire!
Disclaimer: all rights to the characters belong to JRR
Tolkien – I’m only playing with them.
Timeline: First - Third Ages
Feedback: Yes please,
Archive: OEAM, AFF, LJ, anywhere else, please ask


Summary: On arriving in Middle Earth, Glorfindel thinks he has found the one who will share his life. But Life must take many paths before he realises who that person truly is.

Chapter 1

Glorfindel had loved him from the first moment that he saw him. The elf was tall, slender and oh, so dark. Like darkness given life, his black hair was as a fall of midnight sky, shimmering in the starlight. His creamy face glowed like the rays of the moon, bright and pure. His lips begged to be kissed. Yet even in the desperation of their plight - here in the cold of the northlands of Beleriand - his eyes, his royal blue eyes, held a twinkle of joy at the fact that they had survived the crossing of hell, of the Helcaraxë. His mouth elucidated that joy and curved into a happy grin that brightened the dark night with the promise of happier days to come. Glorfindel fell in love with Ecthelion at that smile. Their friendship began that night with an answering grin and answering eyes. Glorfindel raised his earthenware mug in salute.

"To survival, my friend," he said tiredly.

"To life, seron!" came the response, and the strong ale was tossed down in two gulps. The black-haired elf grimaced. "Ai, I pray the days of peace come soon so that our vintners may set up shop and ply their trade the soonest. There must be *somewhere* in Middle Earth that they can grow grapes!"

Glorfindel laughed, a sound foreign to their ears after the tortuous journey they had just made. They both knew that this would be the least of reasons to wish for peace, and it certainly would not be fulfilled anytime soon. They had followed their lord and kinsman out of both fealty and love, but also for a desire to see the Land of Awakening. Both elves had been born in Aman and though they loved that shining land, they were yet young and longed for quest and adventure. Still, they had wept bitterly on seeing the results of the slaughter of Alqualondë, knowing that even though they had not raised arms in anger against their kin, this kinslaying of the Teleri would stain their souls forever.

Now they sat on the cold stones of Middle Earth under the dark skies; exiles in a land both familiar and foreign to them. Here their people had been born, awoken under the stars by Ilúvatar. It was from here that their families had journeyed to Aman at the request and entreaties of Oromë. What would their new life hold for them? Glorfindel decided to ask his new friend.

"So, my friend, what do you hope for here, on Middle Earth? Apart from a vineyard, that is."

Ecthelion grinned then sobered. He looked pensively down at his hands, cradling the rough cup gentle between the strong fingers, then looked back up to Glorfindel's sapphire orbs.

"The destruction of Melkor and the evil he has brought to this world. To serve my king and my kin. Fëanor's head on a silver platter, both to beat the stubborn thoughts of Silmarils out of his thick skull and to revenge myself upon him for the hardship and torment he has put us through."

His gesticulating hand swept about him, including in his speech all the surviving elves of the crossing. Nearby sat Turgon, brother of Fingon, cradling his silver-haired daughter in his arms as they both mourned the death of his wife and her mother. So many lost, so many dead - and probably more to come. Their way ahead was fraught with danger and the possibility of starvation, never mind the presence of Melkor's twisted multitude. Glorfindel had to nod in agreement. Ecthelion stretched, his long limbs showing the muscles that yet stood out against the thin frame. The elf took a deep breath as he finished his listing.

"And a fountain. I want a fountain."

"A fountain? What in Arda do you want one of those for?" Glorfindel exclaimed in surprise. Ecthelion laughed, that tinkling voice enchanting the golden haired quendu. Ecthelion laughed, with a mischievous smile upon his lips.

"Well…" he drawled, "I did think about a waterfall but then I thought of the pressure of the torrents flowing over a cliff, so I think now that a fountain will be more suitable for my needs."

"Which are?"

"To wash. To cleanse myself. To rid my body of months of accumulated grime. Oh, I know that a hot bath sounds more appealing but really… the way I feel is that so thick I am with dirt, the water of a bath would turn to mud in seconds. Aye, a fountain would wash the dirt from me, leaving me in clean water - ah, heavenly!"

Ecthellion ignored Glorfindel's amused chortling and blithely continued to expound on the subject.

"Aye, a fountain, a spring of hope. Sounds good, doesn't it? I think that I will found a dynastic House - the House of the Fountain. And in every courtyard and room I will place one of these edifices. Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain - how does that sound?"

Glorfindel nodded once more, thinking that anything this beautiful quendu said sounded wonderful to his ears. He looked down at the gesticulating hands, so slender, so emotive in their actions. So dexterous. To feel those slim digits upon his flesh, upon his muscles, his skin, his -

Glorfindel shook his head and gave a short laugh, scarce believing that although he had barely survived the Crossing and was unlikely to live through the dark days to come, yet he had a great lust for this elf of Aman. Nay, of Aman no longer for they had defied the Valar and were they not doomed to live in darkness, exiled here in Middle Earth? Aye, even as their kin in Aman were, now that the Two Trees were no more Yet his heart held much love and much hope. He looked again at the dark-haired quendu and laughed once more. Others about them looked at the two beauties in dull surprise at this sound, so alien in recent weeks, but they two were bound within their discussion and dream and saw naught beyond their personal space.

"Your dreams are refreshing, my friend. It is a dream of a possible future, one that is good and wholesome." Glorfindel lifted his cup, sour and bitter though the contents were, in a toast to his new-found friend. "To the completion of your dream, my friend."

"Ecthelion. My name is Ecthelion," the dark elf smiled. "Ecthelion, of the House of the Fountain. And you?"

Glorfindel smiled in return. "I am Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower."

Ecthelion started, and Glorfindel laughed again.

"Oh, it is my true name. The House was founded by my grandfather, who was cousin to Indis wife of Finwë, on his arrival in Valinor. The golden flower refers to a birthmark borne by a member of his line in each generation. The mark is shaped like a celandine and is pale yellow in hue upon the skin. My grandfather was the first, then my uncle and now myself. Mine is on the blade of my right shoulder."

Ecthelion was fascinated by this tale spun by the elf with the sunshine hair, one whom he longed to know better. Leaning forward, he clasped a hand to that right shoulder.

"Then may there be ever friendship between our two houses, my friend," he said determinedly.

"Aye," Glorfindel replied, his voice firm in the new avowal. His heart lurched as his eyes met their near-twins, and it spoke in a soft inner voice. 'And love - I hope that there will be love too…'

****

The cold snows of the Northern Wastes still took their toll upon the weary mass of exiles, and the migrating horde was yet thinned by death from starvation and exhaustion. Those still able to travel became slender as the last of the meagre supplies dwindled and foraging was scarce. Hunting parties were hastily formed from those quendë who still retained some health and strength, and were sent forth to seek the wild bears, deer and winter foxes able to live in this bleak tundra.


Glorfindel and Ecthelion were paired in the hunting group led by Turgon, for they were inclined to this wise prince of the Noldor and had aligned themselves to him. In turn they were given captaincy over some of the warriors and, in the harsh conditions of the wastes, they proved their worth and gained the respect and allegiance of these warriors. Unwittingly the two young lords had gained the adherents who would form their Houses.

The hunting parties ranged out from the migrating company, seeking their prey in the low hills that bordered their trail. No elf had left Aman without their weapons be they sword, knife or bow, and although possessions had been purposely disposed of onto the packed ice to lighten their loads on their travels, not one single sword had been lost. They would be needed when the time came to face the evil of Melkor and his foul creations. The twilight darkness surrounded them as they stepped lightly across the frozen earth. Two deer had been brought down by the accuracy of the archers' eyes, and two of the youths now stood guard over the carcasses as the more experienced hunters sought more prey to bring back to the awaiting exiles. Two deer would not fill the many stomachs that now were shrunken with hunger.

Glorfindel led his small party into a narrow ravine as Ecthelion's warriors scaled the slopes. Snuffles and growls had been detected by sharp elven hearing and it was hoped that they had discovered a bear pack. The fatty meat of these creatures would feed many, especially the few remaining children. Glorfindel mourned again the little ones he had seen die upon the Helcaraxë, remembering with sorrow the tiny bodies as they were slid into the icy waters where they were commended to the mercy of Ulmo and ultimately to the Halls of Mandos. He blinked back the painful memories for watery eyes would not help to feed their remaining siblings.

Bestial sounds from ahead signalled their success in tracking their quarry. Glancing up, Glorfindel saw that Ecthelion's men were in position, but he could see no sign of his friend. His sapphire eyes burned as he searched in vain for the darkling elf but Glorfindel had no time to expand his search as a loud roar was heard from the canyon ahead.

The arrows flew down from the heights as the three massive bears bounded towards them, their jaws gaping in fierce bellows of pain and defiance. Glorfindel gave a shout to the spearsmen at the front of the group, two of Fingolfin's men who had utilised the sharp-tipped weapons as walking staffs to cross the uneven wastes. They were no laggards with their use and they expertly drove the points into two of the ursine creatures. Swiftly the warriors nearest the beasts fell upon them, driven by their hunger and need to return to their starving families.

Glorfindel turned his attention to the third bear, having been distracted by the kills. Despite the numerous arrows penetrating its thick pelt it yet lumbered towards them at a frightening rate. Obviously the male and the most ferocious of the three, it struck out at its assailants. Its swiping paws had flung more than one warrior out of its path, the others leaping to the side in the hope that their late flung knives would bring it down. Glorfindel held his breath as he retreated before it, sword held high and ready to thrust into its belly. The bear was unnervingly close and its stinking breath played hot upon his skin as he stabbed forward to plunge the sharp blade into the beast's gut. The bear reared up, stretching its length high above Glorfindel's towering height - and pulling the sword out of his grasp. The golden warrior looked about him, preparing to leap to safety. Too late he realised that he had been backed against the cliff face, directly in the great beast's path and with wide eyes and sorrowful heart, Glorfindel reconciled himself to facing the Valar once more albeit in the Halls of Mandos.

"Fin!"

The shout came from above him, jerking him abruptly from his mournful reflections. Alarmed, he saw a flying figure and a flash of black hair The bear fell backwards, away from him with a resounding thud as the beast's assailant plunged a knife repeatedly into the exposed throat. Ecthelion clung fast to the thrashing bear until it finally relinquished its hold on life. The panting elf stood wearily triumphant upon the bulky mass, his dark hair flaring out in streaking tangles as he swung around searching frantically for Glorfindel. His voice was hoarse as he called out his partner's name.

"Fin?"

The single word throbbed with emotion - with fear for his friend's life; with the exhilaration of the kill; with overwrought nerves from the trauma of the past months. With desire. With lust. With longing to share with the only elf here who meant a damn. Ecthelion's eyes were alight with a fire that sparked a corresponding flame in Glorfindel's loins and, like moths accelerating to the enticing light of a candle, the two quendë flew into each others arms as the relieved cheers of the hungry elves echoed around the canyon.

But their hunger was not for food.

****

Precious kindling had stoked the fires that night and the flames burned brightly as the mouth-watering aromas of roasting meat increased the morale and filled the bellies of the exiled ones. Songs were sung for the first time since their arrival in Middle Earth and even the bereaved had felt their spirits lifted as the children's stomachs were satiated. Yet two were missing from the happy gathering.

In a tent pitched at the outer rim of the camp, two bodies collided in an aggressive act of release, of lust, of life. Calves were laid high across broad muscled shoulders as the folded body rocked vigorously with each driven thrust, with each frantic lunging of the perspiring elf above. Black tresses spilled over pitted ground and golden hair swung desperately over gasping chest. Bestial grunts and aching low cries of urgent need spilled from both sets of lips in the rut, and mouths and tongues duelled in battle royal. When the final thrusts triggered explosive climaxes the two elves fell, collapsed in entwined satiation - enveloped in the adhesive moisture of sweaty exertion and spilled cum. And of tears.

In the long hours that followed Glorfindel held the replete and drowsing Ecthelion tight within the circle of his arms, bathing in the satisfaction that emanated from the elf of his heart. Yet he remembered the whispered words uttered by the erstwhile Lord of the House of the Fountain as they lay in shattered exhaustion and he wept softly. For even in the loving aftermath Ecthelion had eschewed the soft words that Glorfindel had longed to hear in favour of the bland epithet 'seron'. Now, in the hidden depths of his heart, Glorfindel swore that one day Ecthelion would yield to his advances and return his feelings, and the intensity of his love.

One day, Ecthelion would call him ' melmë'.


TBC

Elvish (Quenya) from http://www.councilofelrond.com/index.php :

seron - friend (m)
quendu - male elf (sing.)
quendë - elves
melmë - love (endearment)