Earendil's Hero

Earendil's Hero

Posted: April 18, 2008
Title: Eärendil’s Hero
Author: LK
Type: FCS
Characters: Eärendil, Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: No claim whatsoever is made to any of the characters belonging to JRR Tolkien or the world he created. No money, just for fun.
Warning: Implied slash
Timeline and Place: First Age 509, Gondolin
Story Arc: Predates my stories The Perfect Yule, Yule Wishes and Yule Blessings. I have decided to expand the story line, but each one can stand completely by itself.
Beta: Di
Author's Notes: Minuial Nuwing wrote “Differences” for Elfscribe, who asked for a young Eärendil hero-worshipping Glorfindel. I read it–liked it very much–and was inspired to write this.

Some facts thanks to “The Encyclopedia of Arda” – Eärendil was born FA 503, Gondolin fell FA 510, this takes place one year prior to the Fall, making Eärendil six years old.

Summary: Eärendil has an unexpected encounter with his hero.

*****

First Age 509, Gondolin

Eärendil found an abandoned bucket by the low stone wall. This solved his problem. The six-year old peredhel was wondering how he would manage to see over the top of the barrier, but the solution was right in front of him.

He knew he was not supposed to be there. His Nana had strictly forbidden it, saying it was much too dangerous for one so young and small of stature to be anywhere near the practice grounds. When she made that proclamation just that very morning, he had looked to his father for help. Tuor had opened his mouth as if to give a retort, but the hard look Idril gave her husband forestalled whatever it was he was about to say. Closing his mouth slowly, Tuor merely nodded his agreement with Nana’s edict and smiled wanly.

As young as he was, Eärendil still understood the silent exchange between his parents. His father obviously disagreed with Nana. He probably even thought it was a good idea for his son to watch the warriors run through their paces, but Nana had THAT look in her eye and they both knew what it meant. It was the same look his grandfather got when he wanted something, and no one argued with King Turgon when he wanted something. Princess Idril was too like her sire in that regard, leaving only the option to surrender to her wishes.

But Eärendil had inherited that stubborn streak and was determined to have his way. His courage was bolstered by the fact that his father was really on his side, despite his reluctant agreement with Nana’s instruction. He knew that if he was caught, Ada would come to his defense, as would his grandfather if the King heard about it. Turgon often agreed with his law-son concerning matters as grave as getting dirty, tussling with other elflings, or carrying frogs around in your pocket. Surely this would be no different! So, should he be caught, both his father and grandfather would surely intercede on his behalf, and even Nana would have to yield.

Still, it would be better not to get caught.

With that in mind, the youngling upended the bucket, giving it an experimental shake in its place to be sure it was stable enough to stand on, and stepped onto the up-turned bottom.

He was careful to remain crouched, using the stone wall for concealment. He had chosen a spot along the wall that was shaded by a large tree standing on the other side. He thought that if he remained in the shade and did not stand directly in the sun, there was less chance he would be seen. Also, it was unlikely that any of the warriors would be too close to the tree, as it would only get in the way during training. If there was anyone standing or sitting beneath the sheltering branches, he reasoned, they would likely be watching the action out on the field, not looking at the wall. It was the perfect spot!

He waited a moment, listening intently for any sound on the other side that might provide a clue as to whether or not it was safe to peak out. He could hear the clash of metal on metal and the distant voices of the higher ranking warriors as they shouted instructions to the trainees. He clamped a hand over his mouth to forestall a giggle when he heard one warrior shout, “Left! No! Your other left, you shithead!”

He could not suppress a scandalized smile as he began to identify some of the other crude words being used. They were some of the same words that made Nana shush Ada and slap his father’s shoulder whenever he said them before she would turn to Eärendil and admonish him never to repeat what he had heard.

He scrunched up his face and stuck out his tongue with a silent “blech!” when he heard what a passing pair of ellon were discussing. Why they would be talking about how soft the skin was of some elleth’s breasts, or even how they would have found that out, was beyond him and just yucky! The voices faded away though, and although the other shouts and voices were loud, they were nowhere near the wall. There was one sound, though, that made him frown with confusion when he heard it. A strange “whoosh, whoosh” had started and it was fairly close.

Unable to identify the odd sound, curiosity finally won out over any lingering hesitation he might have felt at being there against his mother’s wishes. He decided it was finally time, and probably safe enough, to take a peak over the wall.

Slowly, he raised his head, and what he saw made his eyes grow wide and his jaw go slack. There stood the Elf Eärendil so very much wanted to emulate–the same Elf who was reputed to be the largest and strongest Elf on Arda, which Eärendil was certain was true. He was also called the most beautiful Elf on Arda, although Eärendil was sure that particular distinction belonged to his Nana.

Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, was putting himself through the paces of a set of intricate practice moves, and he was only feet away from Eärendil’s hiding place! The child had a perfect view. Even if his little excursion was not the best idea he ever had, it was worth disobeying his Nana to see this!

Nana said that although Glorfindel was her cousin, he was her friend first and had been since they were elflings together in Aman. As such, Eärendil was encouraged to address the great ellon as “uncle” and felt himself privileged to share in his hero’s company on a frequent basis. Whenever Glorfindel was not standing guard on the Seventh Gate, attending to the business of his House, or making use of the practice fields, he would often spend his evenings visiting with Idril and Tuor. Most times, that nice Elf, Erestor of the House of the Fountain, would accompany Glorfindel.

The golden Elf would smile indulgently and patiently bear the worshipful gazes and endless questions about his duties as Guardian of the Seventh Gate; what did he use to polish his sword; how often did he have it honed; how he managed to wield a weapon and ride a horse at the same time, and on and on. Once, he heard Glorfindel comment to Erestor that he could not fathom what fascination the youngling had for him. Looking deeply into Glorfindel’s eyes, Erestor had smiled and replied softly, “Oh, I understand it completely.”

And here he was, mere feet from the great warrior as the Elf stood just beyond the shade of the large tree. It was obvious why Glorfindel had chosen the spot. As Eärendil suspected, no one else was using it for practice–it was not a suitable space for pairs to train together, but it was an ideal location for a lone Elf to perfect his skill at wielding his sword.

Eärendil watched, gaping, as the lethal weapon danced about the shirtless figure. Eärendil could see the ripple of muscle beneath the sun-kissed skin as Glorfindel swung his sword about his tall frame. The youngling could well imagine that with muscles so large and so sculpted, Glorfindel just had to be the strongest Elf on Arda. Not even his Ada had arms like that or a chest that broad. As Glorfindel moved, Eärendil could see that even the muscles between Glorfindel’s ribs, across his back and on his belly were powerfully toned.

Glorfindel moved back and forth as he swung the blade, his movements fluid and elegant, almost as if he was keeping time to music only he could hear. Although the moves seemed casual and loose, the mid-day sun glistened off a sheen of sweat covering Glorfindel’s torso, providing evidence of the effort he put into the exercise. It made him fairly sparkle in the sunlight.

Eärendil noticed that Glorfindel’s mouth was closed, his face tight and his eyes unfocused with concentration. There was no harsh gasping for breath or panting. His breathing was measured. Despite the physical nature of the maneuvers, the great warrior was not winded. The only sound was the “whoosh, whoosh” of the sword as it swung in its arches, cutting nothing but the air.

The shimmering, golden length of Glorfindel’s hair was unadorned save for two braids that kept the hair around his face from becoming a nuisance. Eärendil once had heard Erestor tease Glorfindel about his hair, saying it was the one vanity the Elf allowed himself and refused either to cut it or admit it was a battle hazzard. This had confused Eärendil. He did not know why a warrior’s hair could be a problem. What he did know about his hair, however, was that few within the city besides Glorfindel and his Nana had golden locks, and that it was the source of the great Elf’s name.

The child continued watch in astonishment, mesmerized by the scene before him as Glorfindel began to move faster and faster, the swinging weapon fairly singing as it sliced through the air.

A light wind arose in the heat of the day, lifting a few strands of the long, golden hair that hung loosely down Glorfindel’s back. Deeply concentrating on his task, Glorfindel paid neither the breeze nor his hair any mind. Spinning the sword, he transferred it from one hand to the other, never missing a beat or breaking rhythm. Once the changeover was accomplished, he bent his elbow to bring his now-empty hand up to the opposite shoulder, moving his arm out of the way as he swung the blade to execute a figure eight around his body. At that precise moment, a gust of wind conspired with the air currents made by the length of honed metal to grasp several strands of Glorfindel’s hair and loft them up and forward. Eärendil gasped when a long, thin lock of shimmering hair was sliced through, the strands cast upon the air eddies to flutter softly to the ground.

Much to his chagrin, the slight sound was easily caught by sensitive Elven ears–the same sort that his Nana possessed and which had landed him in trouble times too numerous to count. Before he could think or move to duck, Glorfindel, his concentration broken by the soft noise, stilled and turned in his direction. Instantly, Eärendil found himself pinned to the spot by a pair of cornflower blue eyes that missed little.

But the child need not have worried. His chest heaving only slightly from his exertions, the golden Lord gave Eärendil the broad, warm grin for which he was noted. Eärendil immediately relaxed and returned the smile. As he did so, the head, shoulders and, finally, the robe-clad body of the darkling Elf who kept company so often with Glorfindel appeared from around the trunk of the tree. Apparently, Erestor had been standing beneath the tree where Eärendil could not spy him. Seeking the source of Glorfindel’s sudden shift of attention, Erestor spotted the elfling peeking from over the top of the stone wall. Recognizing him immediately, Erestor smiled, too.

“Were you watching Uncle Glorfindel, too, Lord Erestor?” Eärendil asked.

“I was indeed, little one,” Erestor responded, turning to wink at his mate as he spoke.

Glorfindel’s grin shifted slightly, becoming a bit licentious and aimed directly at his husband. It was a poorly kept secret that Erestor’s greatest enjoyment was to watch Glorfindel execute his daily practice routine. No matter where he was, what he was doing or with whom he was meeting, the dark Elf left his daily tasks to attend the performance that began precisely two hours after mid-day meal. Even the King knew never to expect Erestor to attend him during those fifteen minutes each day. Invariably, once Glorfindel completed the full circuit of his practice, the pair would part with a passionate kiss, a meaningful last glance and a softly spoken promise of “Until tonight.”

Their routine, however, seemed destined to be disrupted this particular day, but neither begrudged the interruption. There would always be tomorrow, as well as countless other tomorrows within the safety of their Hidden City.

Giving the elfling his full attention again, Glorfindel asked in a conspiratorial tone, “Are you permitted to be here, young one?”

Eärendil’s face fell and he hung his head. With his lip jutting out, he answered morosely, “No.”

“Then,” Erestor said, exchanging fond smiles with Glorfindel, “we will be sure to say nothing to your Nana.”

“Indeed!” Glorfindel responded.

The smile that lit the child’s face was like the sun finally breaking through the clouds on a rainy day. “Thank you, Uncle Glorfindel; thank you, Lord Erestor,” he said, with a sigh of relief.

He turned on his make-shift stand as if to depart, but turned back to ask, “If I come back tomorrow to watch, will you tell Nana?”

Biting his lip, Glorfindel said, “Not likely.”

“How about the day after?” Eärendil asked hopefully.

Trying not to laugh, and definitely not looking at his spouse, who had turned away to hide his own chortles, Glorfindel answered, “No. Not the day after that, either.”

The youngling’s eyes grew round and his mouth opened in a silent O of wonder. To be granted such a privilege by his hero was truly marvelous.

“Thank you, Uncle Glorfindel,” he breathed.

Then, in a sudden shift toward happiness again, Eärendil chirped a cheerful, “Goodbye!” before jumping from his bucket to scamper off and find his next adventure.

He knew his parents loved him and would always take care of him. Still it was good to know that he had a real hero–the strongest Elf on Arda, in fact–to protect him and save him from danger if he ever needed it.

. . . And one day, maybe Glorfindel would do the same for his own son . . .

*****

THE END

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