I own nothing.
Once, when Gil-Galad was very small, Círdan took him out into the marshes beyond Eglarest; he couldn't remember why anymore, just that he had. At one point, they had begun wading in water too deep for Gil-Galad, and Círdan had taken him up on his shoulders.
There they stood, Círdan up to his knees in the brackish waters and Gil-Galad sitting on his shoulders, small hands latched around his neck. "There is the sea, Gil-Galad. The sea gives life, and protects it. If all of the land falls under the dominion of the Enemy, the sea will always be barred to him."
That was what Gil-Galad was told all his life by the Falathrim. The sea was the life-giver, yielding up fish and mollusks. It was a safe haven against the Enemy, who feared the power of the sea and the ones who dwelled within it. It was the nature of the Teleri to love the sea, and Gil-Galad was a Teler through his Sindarin mother. The Falathrim would ever dwell by the seaside, no matter what befell them.
Young as he still was years later, Gil-Galad supposed that this was the reason that Círdan would take them all to the sea, when the Havens of the Falas fell.
Eglarest had been put to the sword; Eglarest had been put to the flames. The surviving Falathrim and the Noldorin refugees who had been living there fled the city in ships or on land. Círdan had come and hefted Gil-Galad up into his arms, carrying him to his ship because he didn't think he could run fast enough to the quays. Gil-Galad stood at the rails, and watched his home burn. The smoke stung his eyes. His heart throbbed in his throat.
There were so many screaming and wailing on the ships that Gil-Galad himself was silent, at least at first. They wept for their lost home, or the loved ones they had watched die. They wept in fear and uncertainty for the loved ones they had been separated from, either on other ships or making a perilous journey south down the shore.
Everyone wept, from the sailors to the passengers, from the adults down to the smallest children. Gil-Galad even caught Círdan wiping a few tears from his face, as he turned to take one last glance at Eglarest on the distant horizon. All they could see, really, was a pillar of black smoke marring the blue sky. Gil-Galad knew history; he knew that Eglarest was the place that Círdan had built, the home he had built for himself and his people. And… It had been home for him as well. It had been the only home Gil-Galad had ever known.
But Gil-Galad himself did not weep, at least not at first. He sat in the shade behind Círdan once ruined Eglarest passed out of sight, who was ever at the helm during day-lit hours. Gil-Galad made not a sound. Círdan seemed to think it brave, that he did not weep. Gil-Galad just felt empty. The pillar of smoke seemed like nothing more than the smoke that would rise from a burning candle, and yet, it heralded the end of all that Gil-Galad had known. Círdan had said it. Everyone else had said it. They could not go back.
When night fell, Gil-Galad wept.
-0-0-0-
Gil-Galad never met his mother. He was told that she was dead. He was told that he resembled her in appearance and manner, though, to hear certain people talk, he was not as "sharp" as she was, whatever that was supposed to mean.
He had met his father once. Orodreth had paid a visit to Eglarest after the fall of Minas Tirith; it was on the same occasion that Gil-Galad learned that his mother, she who had given him the name that he used on a daily basis, was dead.
"Artanáro," Orodreth said, as he was going to leave. Gil-Galad frowned a bit at that; he wasn't used to being called that, and if anyone did use the name Orodreth had given him, it was usually Rodnor, the Sindarin version of that name. "I…" He paused, his pale eyes weary and anxious. "…I do not know when we will see each other, my son. I do not know when you will have the opportunity to meet your sister, either; Finduilas insists on remaining in Nargothrond."
Orodreth had pulled him into his arms, then. Gil-Galad remembered, years later, that he smelled of cedar and the faint, stale odor of wine. He could feel Orodreth's heart hammering in his chest, abrupt and staccato. His long, pale hair was soft as it brushed against Gil-Galad's cheek.
Gil-Galad was not like many other boys his age, who grew up admiring their fathers and wanting to be like them. He barely knew his father. He had been given to Círdan to care for as a baby; Orodreth had had some premonition of danger in the near-future. Círdan had cared for him since he was a baby, and Círdan was the only father Gil-Galad really knew. But he got to thinking on the ship, as they sailed south, away from Eglarest.
His father was still living. So was his older sister. They dwelled in Nargothrond, King and Princess, and Nargothrond still stood, even if the Havens of the Falas had fallen.
What was his sister like? Gil-Galad had met his father, but he had never met Finduilas. He was told that she was fair-haired and beautiful, that she was very kind. He would have liked to meet her, based on this description. At the very least, he was curious to meet a sister he had never known.
Perhaps they would make their way to Nargothrond and dwell there, now that the Havens had fallen. It was the only place of strength left in Beleriand, barring Doriath, and no Noldor could dwell in Doriath. That was common knowledge; even Gil-Galad knew that.
But they did not journey to Nargothrond.
-0-0-0-
Círdan had the ships sail south and south and further south. They were joined as they sailed by swift ships from Brithombar, Eglarest's twin city; it was revealed that Brithombar had also been attacked, that Brithombar had also fallen. There were some who chose to dwell at the mouths of the river Sirion, and there they built a city, the Havens of Sirion. But Círdan sailed his ship to the Isle of Balar, off the western coast of Beleriand, and many of the other ships followed.
That was two months ago.
This was a squalid city of tents and filth and shallow graves. The reek of the latrine trenches, though they had been positioned far outside the settlement, hovered in a thick, choking miasma over the entirety of the island. The odor of rotting flesh, reaching up from graves dug in poor, rocky soil, only a few feet deep, insinuated its way into every tent, every linen bandage, every scrap of clothing, every strand of hair and inch of skin. The only way anyone could escape the stench was to go to the easternmost tip of Balar, stand at the sea, and let the salt-smell fill up their nostrils and their lungs.
Gil-Galad often went to that easternmost tip. He had no lessons anymore; who had time for lessons and tutors in a world like this? Círdan was always busy, always making arrangements, always trying to do something, so he had very little time for his fosterling. Gil-Galad had no lessons; he was often left to his own devices. There was very little to do but come here, and try to fill the time.
He waded in the shallows, smiling to himself when, on occasion, he would find a glistening pearl nestled in the sand. The sight of silver fish, their scales flashing in Anor's light, delighted him. At least there was still something that had not fallen to ash, still something that was possessed of splendor intact.
He sat on the damp sand, the waves lapping against his legs. Gil-Galad thought about the home he had lost, the image of a pillar of smoke burned into his mind. He thought about the mother he had never known, the father he barely knew, the sister he did not know.
Everything he had ever heard about the sea rang in his mind. The sea was the life-giver, the protector. The Enemy feared the sea, and would not assail it. He sat on what felt to him like the edge of the world, and wondered if the sea would be enough to protect this last piece of free land, when all else in the world fell to ash in the fires of Angband.