Day 2 – The Grain of Truth (Ecthelion)

PROMPT NOTES: It was really hard for me to cut this scene from 'The Seven Gates' because I love it to death – but I realized that whatever happens here could have a much larger impact on the Gondolin thread if it happens off-page, becomes mystified, and we can only see its consequences at work. Because things are not quite so black-and-white as one might think reading this snippet – and Ecthelion is not the only one who is going to tell this tale!:)

THE TALE OF 'THE GRAIN OF TRUTH'

as told by Ecthelion of the Fountain

"Again, the carefully crafted words. The cool surface, without a single ripple. But who knows what is under that surface?"

(Anardil to Tyelcano in The Seven Gates, Chapter 27. 'Faith and Fallacies')

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"You should not have brought me with you," said the Feanorean in that low shrill voice of his.

I lowered my sword, tearing my eyes away from the head of Laurefindil's spear; and I also did my utmost to disclose polite incomprehension instead of the exasperation I truly felt. An entire day's worth of council meetings was enough: I truly had no more patience or tact to spare for frivolous talking!

Getting dirty and sweaty out in the training fields were a true salve for my weary mind, as I am sure you can understand.

"Whyever would you say that?" Laurefindil laughed, and turned the spear-shaft playfully between his fingers. "Itching to fight already?"

The answer was dripping with the same acrid sadness as every word I had heard this Tyelcano utter since his coming to our city.

"Not in particular. It is your friend who wanted to try my blade – and so now I have seen him fight, and I know how to defeat him."

"A bold statement," I narrowed my eyes. "Can you prove it?"

"I said I knew how to do it," he answered with tact, "not that I shall be able to."

He stood nevertheless, and pulled his dagger from his belt. A masterfully crafted thing it was, its blade longer and narrower than most, its hilt encrusted with cunning jewels; and it gave a joyful, twanging sound as it was drawn. I almost envied him for it, truly.

"I would have taken you for a swordsman," I admitted.

"So I am," said Tyelcano, "but I lost my sword in the Orc-raid. There was little time to salvage my belongings… do not tell Turukáno, I beg you, for I could not suffer to have him drag me through the entire range of his armoury."

It was hard to ignore the way he skipped titles and honorifics as if they had never existed, with the sole exception of the lord he served; but his eyes were honest, and his voice bore no inkling of haughtiness, and so I chose to believe him.

"We shall keep our mouths firmly shut," said Laurefindil playfully. "Now fight! I should very much like to see this."

I, for my part, would have been just as curious to see my dearest friend beat the wits out of that Feanorean; it seemed, however, that I would need to do it myself. Even if it had been Laurefindil's idea to approach Tyelcano after a paralyzingly long council meeting and ask him if he would enjoy some sparring on the morrow, visibly lonely as he was among the mighty lords of Ondolindë.

No wonder, I thought as I raised my sword once again, testing, inviting. Little love do we have for those who had abandoned us, leaving us at the mercy of the Ice!

If the King himself would not be clearly fond of this Elf, some would have thrown him off the Caragdûr already, I deemed – provided, of course, that they could reach him.

For he fought well with that dagger. Valar, he fought well!

My first three assaults were dodged with swift, fluid motions, lighter than the summer breeze dancing on the surface of a lake; and by the end of the fourth, that thrice-damned dagger slid past my defences, and it was only hard-earned composure that saved me from the singing blade. It was sharper than Lómion's glance.

From that moment on, I was sly and careful, taking up a defensive position, using the length of my weapon whenever I saw a chance to attack. I knew that if I let Tyelcano close to me again, that would mean the end of our duel; so on I danced, watching and waiting, biding my time.

And then came a moment when my sword found its opening, and touched his shoulder.

"That would be first blood!" I heard Laurefindil sing.

"Indeed," said Tyelcano lightly. "It was an honour, Lord Warden."

I did not lower my sword. "You let me win on purpose!"

"I spared my leg. Had we fought to last breath, I would have let you wound me so I would not break it once again; for then, my death would have been sure." He shook his head, discontented. "I must admit that my knee feels weaker than it should by now."

"Then you should let it rest," said Laurefindil. "The mere suggestion was thoughtless of me – tell me you have not joined us this morning merely out of courtesy!"

I saw the smile in the Feanorean's eyes before it reached the line of his mouth.

"Of course I have; and I am very glad that I have. Are you?"

Laurefindil and I both looked at him, and we laughed; but our mirth was short-lived, for another voice called in: low, shrill, and as insidious as a Lord of the Hidden City could make himself sound.

"Good morn Ecthelion, Laurefindil," it said. "I hoped I would find you here, although I marvel at your choice of companion. One would think that famed lore-masters prefer the comfort of their chambers to the harshness of sword-practice."

"Salgant," said Laurefindil; and his voice was light, yet filled with warning.

The folk of Ondolindë have little love for the House of the Star, and the Lord of the Harp perhaps the least among all; yet there was no reason to speak like this, not here, and definitely not now that Tyelcano had already agreed to heed our King's command and stay, more or less on his own terms.

If he had taken offense, he did not show it – at least, not yet –; he merely bowed his head, and smiled at Salgant.

"It is most grievous, although not without precedent," he said, "that a servant should switch their quill to a sword."

"Yet alas," said Salgant, "the world would be a happier place if some servants would have never done so."

Tyelcano tilted his head. "Many have tried – yet the aim of a quill is quite terrible."

Laurefindil laughed, and a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as well – laughing at Salgant's expense was a chance I could hardly miss, especially considering how quick he was to anger whenever his pride seemed at stake.

"Of course," said the fool, the blithering idiot, "there is naught else one could expect from those who shield themselves with deceit, denying the wrongs they have done. Wordplay and jests!"

"Woe to us if we shall ever do greater wrongs than protecting the kingdoms of the Eldar from the Enemy!" said Tyelcano, all traces of kindness vanishing from his voice.

"Protecting!" Salgant laughed. "So does the fox protect the rabbits; so does the owl protect the mice! The fact that your lord fancies himself as the saviour of the Free People does not make him less of a liar, a traitor – and a slayer of kin!"

"Salgant!" I snapped; but it was too late.

"For that, I will fight you," said Tyelcano, voice calm as a mountain-lake, "and every time you speak ill of Lord Nelyafinwë, you will loose a tooth."

"There is absolutely no need for that," said Laurefindil. "Tyelcano is a guest here – Salgant, my friend, you would surely know better than to raise your hand against him…? Rash words lead to ill actions."

"I am a guest indeed," said Tyelcano coldly, "and for that reason alone shall I accept an apology, should I be offered."

"I shan't apologize for telling the truth," Salgant drew his sword, "and that is my last word."

I looked around, as if hoping to find something that would help me salvage the situation – although I was unsure if I wished to salvage it, to be entirely honest. Anor had risen above the mountains by then, and passers-by have gathered at the edge of the training fields to watch us fighting. Anardil, that irksome Teler lord was among them; and he had that tall, thin scribe by his side who would always write Council reports so flawlessly… Valar, how do they call him…?

Tyelcano's glance passed along the same route, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes: defiant, furious, yet amused, in a way; and our friend Salgant was most viciously doomed.

"Very well," he said. "Then grant me a moment of your patience, lord, for I much desire to borrow a weapon to match your might."

With a barely noticeable limp, he walked over to the side of the field, where spare weapons were kept –

And lo! he took a wooden sword!

"This is going to be ugly," I heard Laurefindil whisper; yet I could not bring himself to say something or to step in, not even to feel sufficiently scandalized.

"Salgant dug his own grave," I whispered back. "How about a wager? Say, three drinks on the counsellor?"

"I will take the bet," Laurefindil muttered. "Double, even. He shall do naught against a real longsword – and look at him, he is limping… clearly, Salgant must see this, and still he is entitled to fight him!"

"…aye," I nodded, "I reckon he finds it easier to be brave now than a minute ago."

As we placed our bets and did our arrangements, the theatrics were going on.

"Your insults shall not spare you, kinslayer!" Salgant cried. "If you are mad enough to match my blade with a piece of decaying wood –"

"Watch your teeth!" said Tyelcano, and charged.

The duel was short, yet spectacular – and all recounting, colouring and detailing would do naught but diminish its sheer glory. Let it only be said that by the time the unsuspecting bystanders realized the full rarity of what they were witnessing, the mighty Lord of the Harp was laying flat on the ground, his sword several feet away from him. A stringy piece of wood was pressed most unbecomingly against the side of his chin, and blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth from the broken tooth he had been promised – for many ill things could be said of the House of the Star, yet mark my word, they do keep their promises.

"We are even for now," said Tyelcano softly, dangerously. "Keep on insulting my family if that eases your heart – next time, however, I will fight you with steel."

What happened after this is part of another song, one of many; and hopefully many more that have not yet been sung – and for what it is worth, you should never believe whatever Anardil of the Falmari tells of those other tales.

He is only too bitter about a different wager I have won to his expense.