#26: there's always a choice / Gil-galad & Fingon
"Elrond."
Gil-galad's herald looked up from the tattered scraps of parchment he held tightly in his grimy, calloused hand, startled by the soft footsteps and the swish of fabric as his king slipped into the tent. He relaxed his grip on the hilt of his dagger at the sound of Gil-galad's voice, setting the rough notes down gingerly on the edge of his cot.
"You should know better than to startle me, my king." Elrond let out a mirthless chuckle and dipped his head in deference to the king. "We live in difficult times." He gestured to the stool, turning to offer Gil-galad more space in the cramped tent.
The king shook his head, instead stepping forward to take Elrond's elbow and guide him out of the tent. Elrond instinctively moved ahead of him, ducking through the tent flap with a hand on his hilt and the other held behind him, preventing Gil-galad's exit from the tent. He glanced about himself, appraising the situation. There was a gentle breeze snapping the banners above his tent, and the low murmur of a hushed conversation not far away, but nary a soul to be seen.
"All clear," he said quietly as he stepped away from the flap and allowed Gil-galad to follow him.
The king's distinct lack of protest did not escape his notice.
"Aye," Gil-galad murmured, "we do live in difficult times." He sighed distantly, his eyes resting on the far-off smouldering darkness. "But it does not do us well to dwell on it. We made our choices long ago." He slid his gaze to his cousin briefly, his frown deepening. "Some more so than others, I suppose."
Elrond's brow creased, the shadows carved across his face flickering in the dim torchlight.
The king cast his eyes to the scree beneath his feet, kicking up a shattered rock. "Listen, friend. If tomorrow goes as planned..." Gil-galad broke off, squinting as he watched the abused pebble skitter and tumble over its slightly more fortunate kin. "You'll ensure that the wounded return home safely, of course? Many lives have been lost already. Too many." He paused, sighing softly. "There'll be a lot of loose ends. That Ring, for one thing."
"Of course we'll make sure they're fine. I'm not just going to let you forget about them. Ereinion..." Elrond closed his eyes briefly, rubbing his face tiredly and pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate his building headache. "What's this about? Has Thranduil been bothering you again?" The ties between the realms are rough at the best of times, he thought irritably, but surely Thranduil - especially Thranduil - would understand the need for cooperation now.
The king's thin silence drew him out of his thoughts. "Ereinion, what in all Arda is the matter with you?"
Gil-galad merely nudged his friend's elbow, nodding towards the rocky cliff that rose beyond the camp. "Not here."
Elrond started, his eyebrows knitting together. "Gil-galad..."
Not here, and not in their tents, either?
"Is this about the plans? It is a long shot, yes, but I have faith. The warriors are well aware of the consequences, should we fail. There is yet hope, my king. It is as you said: we have all made choices."
Gil-galad shook his head, quietly leading his herald out of the camp. "We have all made choices, yet if any man or elf were to ask my leave to return home, I would not begrudge them that choice. I could not."
.oOo.
They wound their way between the tents and up the steep incline to the top of the ridge without an incident. The fact that they had left the camp without so much as a nod from one of the numerous sentries had irked the king considerably, and Elrond made a mental note to chastise them upon their return.
The wind picked up around them, clawing at the edges of Elrond's collar as they stood atop the bluff. He shivered, pulling his cloak tighter. From this height, the camp seemed little more than a uniform sea of grey waves, cresting in even lines and stretching out further than the dim half-light allowed him to see. Small campfires dotted about here and there were the only indication that the two of them were the only living souls in the dreary landscape.
"Are you ever going to pluck up the courage to marry her?"
It had been so long since the king had spoken that Elrond had long since ceased expecting it.
"I- what?"
"Celebrían, Elrond. You need something – someone - to return to."
Elrond spluttered. "This is not the time – nor the place - to discuss this, Ereinion! This is-"
"This is the perfect place, my friend."
Elrond hesitated, his brain catching up with his ears and he looked at his king sharply, choosing his next words with care. "Perhaps." Elrond's tone shifted, and he turned to face Gil-galad. "I suppose you'll just have to wait and see. We all have something to return home for, Ereinion."
There was a sudden gust of harsh wind, the air about them snapping and whipping at their hair and tattered cloaks. It near toppled the half-elf, who threw his arm protectively over his eyes, blinking away the onslaught of ash and dust. He grimaced, peering around his arm to look at his king.
"Maybe we should m-" Elrond froze. "Ereinion...?"
Gil-galad stood close to the precipice, seemingly unaffected by the buffeting gusts, his right fist clenched tightly as he glared at the red gleam in the distance. Shadows cast by the eternal half-light flickered across his face and seemed almost to vanish as he drew himself up, every inch the regal High King of the Noldor – seven feet of wild fury lit with wrath against the darkness.
"'Tis a shame," he said, his voice rumbling in his chest, "I had hoped to see your children before my father."
Elrond moved towards him, staggering slightly against the still-rising wind battering at the ridge, reaching forwards to grab his arm. "My king, what are you saying?"
"You have already said it yourself, Elrond. We win, or we die. Those are the only options left to us. There is no choice."
Elrond gripped his arm tightly, raising his voice to be heard above the gale, struggling to keep his feet against the bitter wind. "There is a choice, Ereinion! There's always a choice! You know that as well as I do."
The wind dropped sharply, and Elrond slipped against the sudden lack of resistance, almost tumbling over the edge. Gil-galad caught him easily, seemingly unaffected by the fickle winds.
"Aye, I know that well enough; as did my father, and every king before him. This is the choice given to us, Elrond." Gil-galad released Elrond, pressing something cold and hard into his grubby palm. His herald didn't need to look to know what it was. "Sauron will fight tomorrow, this I know. He has to, else he will be forced to forfeit before our massed armies."
Vilya.
"You cannot let him have it. No matter what happens tomorrow, whether I live or die." Gil-galad's eyes glinted in the half-light, steely and hard as ice.
"Your people need you, Ereinion! You can't just-"
Gil-galad smiled brightly, though the light of it fell far short of reaching his eyes. "They do not need me, Elrond. They need a king." And I know of none better.
.oOo.
Vilya.
The orders to fire, to brace, to charge - they fell from Elrond's lips with little thought.
He'd given away Vilya – as easily as he was prepared to give away his life?
.oOo.
Glorfindel lightly rested his fingertips on Elrond's shoulder, trying to ease the peredhel's gaze up and away from the burned husk he knelt in front of. "Elrond... We need to go. We can return for him later, but..."
"But what, Glorfindel?" Elrond spat out the words, barely looking away from the cracked and charred face of his king.
"There's an entire army out there, Elrond! Do you want his death to mean nothing? Our warriors need a leader. They need you." He looked over to see Cirdan directing Isildur to do the same, though he'd managed to pry Isildur away from the body of his father.
"I'm not the king," Elrond hissed, "I never will be."