Chapter Two: Intruder
It was only because his entire patrol threatened mutiny that Glorfindel reluctantly turned for home. His troop had been making the rounds of the valley, and all had been quiet, but Glorfindel had planned on riding to the northern limits and camping there before heading back next day.
'But today is Yuletide Eve,' first one, and then another of the knights had protested. 'Lord Elrond expects you at his board, even if we will not be missed.'
'No… Elrond only expects us at his board so he knows we're not drinking in the taverns…'
'But, my lord, there will be fine wine and warmth and song…'
And, since even Asfaloth seemed keen to turn for home, although that was the last place Glorfindel wanted to be today, around celebrations and amongst revellers – even the stately revelry of Imladris – he knew it was unkind of him to forbid the other warriors such comforts, and so he sighed and allowed them to head back.
Around him the voices of his knights rose and grew more joyful in tone as they approached the Last Homely House and as the short day began to fade his own mood plummeted further. He'd lived through many ages of Yuletide, seen them celebrated and ignored, seen good ones and bad ones pass, but the one that was looming was not one to which he was looking forward.
Glorfindel's best Yuletide ever had been spent in the company of a warrior of Mirkwood (the same who had gifted him the towel which Laindis had tried to steal just weeks previously). No Yule since had ever compared favourably with that, and this one, with the recent reminder of his long-lost friend of the beautiful fëa still sharp as knives in his heart, was doomed before it began, a time of dread worse than any battle the Balrog-slayer had ever fought.
By the time they were in sight of Rivendell, the daylight had almost gone and the lights shone out bright and gold, eliciting a chorus of song from his companions.
Glorfindel sank further into his gloom. Tonight, he was going to ask for a tray in his rooms, and if that wasn't forthcoming, he'd go hungry…
Finally they reached the stables as a thick, sleety rain began to fall. The seneschal dismissed the rest of the knights and took Asfaloth into his stall to unsaddle the horse and rub him down, lingering over the task as long as he could.
'Lord Glorfindel?' Laindis, the housekeeper stood outside, looking hesitant; the stables were not her normal territory and she had never really been at ease with Glorfindel since the quarrel about his belongings. Now she looked more uncomfortable than ever. 'My lord Elrond has asked that I tell you…'
'Tray in my room tonight, Mistress Laindis,' Glorfindel said, giving Asfaloth a final pat and closing the stable door before brushing past her. 'Tell Elrond I'm not fit company for the Great Hall this evening.'
'But… he says… you have a…'
But he pushed past her, towel-thief that she was, and stalked into the house.
He stomped up the back stairs that led to his chambers and shoved his way in, dropping his saddle bags and cloak on the floor and pausing to pull off his boots.
It was then that he noticed the door to the bathing chamber was open and there were noises coming from within.
But this was an outrage! Not only had his room been plundered, in recent weeks, by the housekeeper, but now somebody was making free of his bathing pool…
Determined to give whoever it was a scare, even if they had some vague right to be in there, he drew his sword and approached the doorway.
'Who's there?' he demanded. 'Come out and show yourself or I'll…'
'Glorfindel? You are here already? You are home?'
He knew that voice.
Stunned, the Balrog-slayer dropped his sword onto the floor with a clatter as someone emerged from the bathing room… someone only loosely clad in a towel, someone Glorfindel had thought never to see again.
He knew that face, that wonderful head of dark-flame hair.
'Triwathon?' he whispered.
'Yes, indeed… did Elrond not tell you? He said he would send the housekeeper to speak with you as soon as you got back… meanwhile, he said to make myself at home… he seemed more accepting of our arrangement than I expected… but is this too much at home, Honey Beer, iphant-nin, hir-nin?'
Glorfindel shook his head and then launched himself at his visitor, swamping him in a hug that lifted Triwathon off his feet and had him laughing even as he hugged back, even as Glorfindel squeezed him so tightly his breath was restricted.
'Can't breathe, Laurefindil, can't…'
Glorfindel relaxed his iron grip and began to smother Triwathon's neck and throat with kisses. The almost-naked elf threw his head back with a sigh and pushed his fingers through Glorfindel's tangled golden mane, swallowing under Glorfindel's tongue.
'So… you missed me then?'
'Oh, your beautiful, beautiful fëa…! I…'
Triwathon caught Glorfindel's face between his hands so that he could look into his eyes. He smiled.
'Too blue, those eyes. Always, too blue to believe. Look at you… Will you bathe with me? I know you've been on patrol for the last five days, you'll be glad of hot water…'
'I'm more glad of you, Triwathon… I didn't know… couldn't find out…'
Triwathon kissed him softly on the lips, a friendly kiss with the offer of more, later, lingering in it.
'We'll talk soon. I want to see you, to wash you, to hold you.'
'That sounds exactly what I need…'
Long fingers left Glorfindel's face and worked at the openings of his tunic, untied his lacings, pulling the garments away to uncover the Balrog-slayer's skin, pink-welted from fire, white-scored from scars, soft peach skin holding all together. Finally unclothed, Glorfindel followed his surprise visitor into the bathing room where he grabbed Triwathon's towel.
'One of mine, again!' Triwathon said with a grin. 'I remember you had a thing about stealing my towels and making them yours... even after I gave you some for your very own…'
'Oh, Triwathon…' Glorfindel put his arms around his friend and held him tight. Triwathon returned the embrace. 'How have you been, how are you, really?'
Triwathon smiled and disengaged, tugging at the Balrog-slayer's hand and encouraging him to descend into the pool's hot spring water.
'I am well, really. But you, Glorfindel? You look weary… I am surprised to find you here, still, I heard – we kept hearing… so many from Rivendell have sailed…'
'Not me.' Glorfindel shook his head as he allowed his hungry hands to graze over his dear friend's back. 'Too much to do here, all the clearing up… Triwathon? What's this?'
The Balrog-slayer pulled back to look into Triwathon's face, his fingers exploring a shoulder blade, the touch no longer loving but interrogatory, anxious, and he turned the warrior round so that he could see.
Triwathon's shoulders lifted in a shrug.
'A scar, Glorfindel, it is a scar… there was a thing, we called it the Battle of the Five Armies… we were not meant to be involved, my king had withdrawn into his boundaries but… it became more than just somebody else's fight and I was injured then.'
'An orc axe?'
'Yes, it was a warg rider… was lucky I had comrades around me or the second blow would have killed me. One attacked the warg, the other shot the orc, so I heard later. The axe split the bone, I was a long time healing…' Triwathon sighed as he felt himself turned, Glorfindel's eyes looking now for other injuries. 'My dear friend, I fully intended telling you the tale of all my injuries, but I had hoped we would be lying in your bed, first…'
'All? All your injuries? Who hurt you, did they die? Did they die horribly enough…?'
'Glorfindel…'
'When were you hurt?' The Balrog-slayer's hands and eyes were more urgent now, his voice panicked. 'What else happened?'
'Laurefindil!' Triwathon hit the water with his hands, causing a splash that momentarily halted Glorfindel's examination. 'I am fine. I am here, and I am well, now, of my hurts. Please, give me a moment just to look at you… once we are done with washing, I'll tell you all.'
'Sorry. I am sorry, beautiful. But I have been so afraid that you were dead or that you'd been hurt and I have felt so helpless, here, trammelled in by the valley… well, not always, but when not by the valley then by Elrond, by duty…'
Glorfindel fell silent as Triwathon silked soap over his shoulders and arms, washing away the dirt of the Balrog-slayer's travels with gentle hands. He sighed, relaxing under the ministrations.
'There. Clean, unless you want to wash your hair…'
For answer, Glorfindel submerged himself beneath the surface of the pool and shook his head.
'There, done. Come on, I need to know!' Glorfindel took Triwathon's hand and tugged him towards the steps out of the pool. 'You look thin, now I think about it.'
Triwathon wrapped himself in a towel and patted at Glorfindel's wet hair with another.
'I am still getting back to fitness, if you please! I am toned and my body is hard from riding through the wilds for ten days on short commons. But that is all.'
'Well, bits of my body are hard, too…'
Triwathon laughed.
'And I thought you wanted me to do some storytelling first?'
'Could we combine it with a Triwathon Cuddle? I have so missed your cuddling…'
'Of course. But you won't be able to see my scars while I'm telling you.'
'Then I'd better see, first. My eyes are hungry for you, anyway.'
Triwathon finished drying himself and glanced over his shoulder at Glorfindel, walking to the window. Placing his back to it, he spread his arms wide to open the towel and allow the Balrog-slayer full view of the front of his body. The gaze of those too-blue eyes was almost palpable, and Triwathon lifted his chin and swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable.
'And what do you see, Laurefindil?' he asked.
'I see the most beautiful fëa I have ever been privileged to meet… I see it has been honed and refined by suffering and pain, I see it is still sweet, and kind, and generous… there is a long, raking scar on your left thigh, knee to hip, almost…'
'A skirmish with an orc-pack. We were almost overrun… pack after pack came after us, not just passing through the forest, but actively hunting us… I lost a comrade that day, and we laid her to rest under one of the beech trees that she loved… I'll tell you about her tomorrow, perhaps.'
'Of course, it's the Night of the Names, isn't it? I've a few names of my own to share tomorrow.'
Triwathon's smile was sad.
'More than a few for me… and I must spend some of the evening with my escort. But for now, I am yours… there is just one trophy more to show you…'
Bare feet padding softly on the polished wood of Glorfindel's floor, Triwathon crossed to the bed and lay down on his back, aware again of the hyperblue scrutiny. He interlaced his fingers behind his head, the motion raising his chest and lifting his ribcage, exposing his sides to view.
It said much for Glorfindel's emotional attachment to Triwathon that his gaze was focussed entirely on the marks of war on the lean body spread before him. The Balrog-slayer's expression changed, grew dismayed and he hurried to kneel at the bed so that he could see more clearly the round puncture wound in Triwathon's side.
'How in the name of all the Valar did you survive that one?' he demanded, concern making him sound rough and harsh.
Triwathon freed a hand to drop it on Glorfindel's golden hair and tangle in the still-damp strands.
'I do not know. I was a very long time healing. The lance that impaled me was on fire at the time, and one suggestion is that it cauterised the blood vessels even as it broke them. But it left a big hole in my side, and if you would like that cuddle now, I would find it easier to tell you the tale of these old injuries if my arms were full of you.'
'So when I hugged you…'
'It was a very lovely hug. Bit tight, perhaps.' Triwathon patted the side of the bed next to him. 'Come, iphant-nin. Let me wrap myself around your old bones and feel it is good to be alive again.'
