Chapter Thirty-One
SUMMARY: Rôgon goes to Bard with some concerns over Turamarth's protégée, Bowen, who feels abandoned by his Elven friend.
He runs into Galion again, but things don't turn out the way he expected.
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And how can you mend this broken man?
How can a loser ever win?
Please help me mend my broken heart
And let me live again...
What Makes the World Go Round, by The BeeGees
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City of Dale, 25th of July 2944 T.A.
Rôgon studied the drawings on his drafting table, and after a few more minor adjustments, set his pencil down with satisfaction. After rolling the papers up, he took off his apron and walked to the Castle.
"Suilad, Ivran; I see you are back to work!" He saluted the Lieutenant with a grin. "How is Cwën settling in?"
"She is well." The Guardian answered with a smile. "After the events in Lothlórien, it helps to get back into a routine."
The blacksmith's mouth formed a grim line. "I am sorry your wedding was ruined, Mellon."
"Nay; the wedding itself is of no consequence," the Elf shrugged his shoulders. "Cwën and I lost little compared to the families of the fallen. All that matters is that we are together."
"Wise words. Do your parents live here?"
"Adar and Naneth raise wheat, rye and barley, and operate a large mill just south of the Palace."
"If they come to visit, I would enjoy meeting them. Where will Cwën be stationed?"
"The same duties as during her exchange year: two weeks on the Parapets and two weeks guarding the Royal Family. It is work she enjoys."
"I will keep you no longer," Rogon offered his wrist to clasp. "Do you know if King Bard is available?"
"I believe so; check with Lord Percy to be sure."
"Ci athae, Mellon nîn; give my best to your wife."
"I 'ell nîn."
Rôg went to Percy's study and knocked on the open doorway.
"Come!" Percy was bent over his desk enthralled in a ledger.
"Good afternoon, My Lord; are you and Lord Bard busy?"
"Lucky you; you caught us between meetings. What's up?"
"I've finished the design for the gate for his private gardens, but I need his approval before I make the mold."
"I heard that," Bard came through the open doorway. "How are you, Rôg?"
"I am well, Hír nîn."
"Why don't we take them in the conference room? Percy, could you find Hilda? This is something she should see, too."
"You bet," the Steward excused himself.
Bard and Rôgon walked down the dark blue carpets in wide hall and into the room with the large, polished table surrounded by chairs. "I caught up with Daeron two days ago and asked after Turamarth. He does not reveal much, but they are clearly concerned."
"They are," Bard sighed, "but I think it best not to ask.."
"I understand. I only broach the subject, because the Lieutenant serves as a mentor to the boy Bowen, and he's quite upset."
"Oh, gods…" Bard's eyes closed in consternation. "I forgot all about him. Did he say anything?"
"Yesterday I was shoeing the boy's mare, and he seems…" Rôg grasped for the right word, "despondent. Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn, but I know Bowen's circumstances, and am fond of the child."
"No; you were right to say something." Bard nodded. "I'll see if Daeron or I can take him aside and explain."
Just then Hilda came in, so Rôgon spread out his plans, and they spent the next several minutes studying them, and gave their approval. "It would be a nice surprise for Thranduil when he gets back. How soon can you get this up?"
"I should have this ready to hang in a few weeks." The Blacksmith rolled up the drawings, and made ready to leave, while the others went back to work.
He smiled to the guards, and was making his way to the main doors, when up ahead he saw Galion facing Mithrandir and Lord Elrond. The Aide glanced over Elrond's shoulder at him, and Rôgon saluted him with a huge grin…
Galion paused mid-sentence, when their eyes met, and his cheeks grew bright red. He did not acknowledge his greeting, but instead ducked behind the Wizard's silhouette and continued his conversation.
Rôg's head jerked back, and he blinked several times. Eithad! He clenched his fists and shook his head as he walked briskly out of the Castle. It wasn't until he reached his house that he realized he had creased the diagrams in his hands.
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Bard scrubbed his hand over his mouth and sent a guard to fetch Daeron.
A short while later, the Healer appeared in the doorway to his study. "Is there something I can do for you, My Lord?"
"You can, as a matter of fact." Bard waved them in. "Shut the door, please."
As Daeron took a seat, he said. "We've screwed up, Mellon. We have a good excuse, but there you have it."
"What is wrong?"
"Rôg was just here and told me Bowen might be showing signs of depression again. Did you have a chance to speak to the boy since you've been back?"
"Ai naergon…" Daeron's head drooped, and he covered his eyes. "I am ashamed to say I have not. I did not even think of it."
"You've had a lot on your mind, and to be honest, I'm surprised Bain hasn't said anything, either. Regardless, we need to get with the boy and fix this right quick. Bowen probably feels like he's being abandoned again, and I don't want to see him sink, do you?"
"He has a stable home, plenty of support, and he good friends in Bain and Rhys, so he is not lonely…" The Elf was distraught. "Still, there is no excuse for my neglect…"
"I've sent for Bowen, and he should be here any minute. Since I don't know the particulars about your cousin, I'm going to let you take the lead here."
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Shortly thereafter, the boy in question nervously appeared with his dog. Bowen was fourteen, now; a few inches taller since they all met two years ago in the park. 1 His face was tanned, and his hair was bleached nearly white from the summer sun, a sharp contrast to his large, light blue eyes. He had the typical awkwardness of a child who had yet to grow into his longer limbs, but hints of a graceful, powerful soldier were just beginning to show.
Thangon was on his feet in an instant, wagging his tail, in welcome.
"My Lord, am I in trouble?"
"Not at all, lad." Bard ordered the dogs to lie down and motioned for him to take a seat. "We brought you here because we owe you an apology."
"I don't understand," the boy was puzzled. "You haven't done anything to apologize for."
"But we have, Bowen." Daeron shifted in his chair toward him. "I do, especially. Things have been busy since we returned from Lothlórien. I know you've missed Turamarth, and you must be frantic with worry. We should have come to you sooner, and for that I am sorry."
Bowen's shrug was a poor attempt at nonchalance. "It's okay."
"No; it is not. You have been a good friend to Tur, and you deserve to know how he is doing."
"But no one would say, when I asked!" he cried. And I did ask, a couple times! Ermon said he couldn't talk about it, and I hadn't seen you, so…"
"They were under orders to speak to no one, Bowen," Bard folded his hands and leaned his elbows on his desk. "It wasn't just you, so don't take it personally."
"He's going to die, too, isn't he?" the boy's voice broke, and he blinked back tears. "That's why no one will say anything, right? Because he's dying?"
Oh no… Bard's heart sank, and he felt two inches tall. How could they forget what this boy went through?
"Ai naergon!" Daeron put his arm around the boy's shoulder. "No wonder you are upset, Bowen! Please, forgive me. I promise you, Turamarth is physically healthy."
"So, he's all right?" The boy quickly swiped his eye, and they wisely pretended not to notice.
"He is, yet he is not." Daeron's eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. "Bowen, I think you might be one of the few people in Dale who would truly understand Tur's struggles."
"What do you mean?"
"Hênig, when the three of us first met, and after the news about your poor mother, you needed some help, did you not?"
Bowen studied the hands in his lap. "I… try not to think about it."
"I am sure you do not, but I ask you to be brave, for a moment. Can you remember what that was like when your mother became so ill?"
"I felt like I was… here, but not really here, you know? Everything felt…heavy and far away, and I was so tired, I just wanted to sleep."
"Anything else?"
Bowen paused, as he tried to come up with words. "I felt like I'd never feel good again, like, I don't know… Like, all the happiness in the world was gone forever."
"Exactly." Daeron nodded. "Very good. What would you say if I told you that Tur is going through the same thing? Turamarth is an Elf, and there are some differences, but what you described is much the same, as what he struggles with now."
The boy's face froze in shock. "What happened to him?"
"Bowen, I cannot tell you, and you must promise never to ask him. Can you do this?"
"Sure," he shrugged. "It's not that important what happened, anyway; it's how he feels about it that counts."
After a moment of stunned silence, the Elf and the King exchanged a glance. Bard murmured, "Out of the mouths of babes… You hit the nail right on the head, son."
"The King is right, hênig; most people lack the wisdom to perceive this. And you are correct; Tur's spirit, his fëa has been hurt, much like yours was." A smile slowly grew on the Elf's face. "I should have thought of this sooner."
"What do you mean?"
"Bowen, your observation is correct. So much so, in fact, that I think you are in a unique position to help him. That is, with your foster-parents' permission and only if you want to."
"Aye!" the boy's back straightened. "Tur really helped me, so I feel like I want to do something to pay him back. I want to help!"
"Excellent. If Anna and Daffyd agree, you can come home with me after my shift at the Healing Hall tomorrow and stay for a short visit. If all goes well, we can proceed from there."
"What do I say to him?"
"Think back to when you were hurting; what did Tur say to you?"
"Not much; he didn't tell me how to think or anything, which I liked. He just was…my friend."
"Exactly! Come to our house, sit with him and talk about the things the two of you did together. Talk about the lessons he gave you, about the horse he bought you, and such. You can play draughts or cards or something simple, though I warn you, he may not be able to concentrate that well. But even if he can't it does not hurt to try."
"I can do that!" Bowen sat forward in his chair.
Daeron's face became serious. "I must ask again for your promise, Bowen: never ask him for details of what happened."
"I won't. But what if he says something, or what if he gets mad?"
"That is a good question. An adult will always be around, but if he says anything, anything at all that makes you uncomfortable, you must tell me, or Lady Rhian, or Hannah."
"Could you… I mean, it would be easier if you came home with me to explain to Anna what all this is about. I don't want her to worry about me or anything."
"I would be glad to."
"How are things with Daffyd and Anna, Bowen?" Bard asked. "You seem good with them."
"Aye, My Lord. I miss my parents; I suppose I always will, but they're both really good to us. Mad and Owena call them Mam and Da, but I'm just not… they understand why I don't, and they don't make me feel bad about it."
"They're good people, son." Bard stood, and the others rose from their seats. "I'd love to chat some more, but I've got a meeting in fifteen minutes. Daeron, keep me posted on how all this goes, and," he tousled the boy's hair, "good luck to you, Bowen. I'm glad you feel better."
"Thanks, My Lord!"
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City of Dale, 2nd of August 2944 T.A.
Galion and Mithrandir were enjoying a game of Stratagem in Bard's private sitting room, as the rest of the family relaxed or worked on personal projects. Elrond and Bard sat in comfortable chairs chatting casually over an evening drink.
"Mmmm…" Elrond took another sip. "Long has it been since I enjoyed Dorwinian."
"It's a bit strong for me," Bard raised his mug of ale to his lips. "I've always enjoyed a pint or two at the end of an evening, so Percy and Cook make sure to keep a cask handy."
"Where is Uncle Percy?" Tilda looked up from the floor, where she was laying on her stomach and drawing a picture of Meryl.
"He's at the Tavern tonight, Beanie. There's a card tournament, and he and Rôg are partners in the finals."
"Oh. I hope they win," she said mildly, before she picked up one of her colored pencils and resumed her sketch of her pug.
At the sound of that name, Galion's fingers froze in mid-air and the grip on his Rook tightened.
"Do you speak of Rôgon?" The Elf-Lord queried.
"Galion? Are you going to take your turn?"
He shook himself and placed the Tower-shaped piece. "I am sorry."
"Would you like to try again?" Mithrandir's eyes were amused. "Rooks can't move diagonally."
The Aide sighed inwardly and adjusted his move.
"Why does everybody seem to know Rôgon?" Bain looked up from the arrows he was fletching. "I mean, I like him a lot, but he's just a Blacksmith, but everybody knows him!"
"Don't be a snob!" Sigrid scowled at him.
"I'm not! I only meant—"
"That's enough, kids." Bard gave them a look. "In a way, you're both right. Bain, you could've been more diplomatic with your question, but yes, Rôg's no ordinary Smith, nor is he even a typical Elf."
Galion gave up all pretense of playing the game and turned to listen.
"What do you mean, Da?"
"He came to see me when he first arrived with Galadriel and Celeborn and told me of his family. It isn't well known," he skewered his children with a look, "so I expect you to keep this to yourself."
"Yes, Da," each one agreed.
"It's not well-known," Bard clarified, "but it isn't exactly a secret either. I suppose Rôg just wants to be seen as a regular Elf, and for people to like him for himself, not for who he is."
"That is true," Elrond agreed. "He is modest, to be sure, but one cannot help but notice his natural nobility."
"Rôgon has never been one to stand on ceremony, though he doesn't disrespect it." Mithrandir added. "Outside of Mithlond, he prefers not to use his title."
"'Title?'" Sigrid's brows drew together in confusion.
Elrond took another drink and picked up a piece of sliced apple and took a small bite. "You have heard of Lord Círdan, the Shipwright?"
"Aye!" she brightened. "He's the oldest and wisest Elf in Middle Earth, according to my history teacher."
"This is true. He is over ten thousand years old, but what has been lost to history is that he had a much younger sister named Eréniel. She and most of her family were killed in the War of Wrath, but a child survived. Círdan made his nephew his ward and raised him to adulthood. Rôgon's father, Erellont, is Círdan's third great-nephew, and he and his wife had another young child. When Erellont's wife was killed in an accident, he sailed West with their young daughter, but Rôgon chose to remain."
"And he was all by himself?" Tilda frowned. "That's sad."
"It is, yes." Elrond told her. "Since the chances of inheriting his Great-Uncle's title and lands, are very small, Rôgon decided to travel and make a new life for himself. He was always excellent at his craft, so his services would be welcome anywhere."
"You mean…" Sigrid gasped.
"Yes, Sigrid." Elrond's eyes were merry. "Círdan has no wife or children, and he will remain Lord of Mithlond until the last Ship leaves for Aman, and Rôgon, son of Erellont is his only living relative."
"So Rôg is Círdan's heir…" Sigrid said in a quiet voice.
At this revelation, Galion jostled the table and send the chessboard and Stratagem pieces flying off the small table. "Oh! I am terribly sorry!"
"I take it you didn't know?" the Wizard asked him.
"I… knew of Erellont, but not the name of the son…" Galion bent down and tried to pick up the game pieces, with trembling fingers.
"Here, Uncle Galion; I'll help." Tilda crawled over on her hands and knees and gathered them.
"Thank you, Tithen Pen." The Aide's voice shook as he quickly stood and saluted. "If you would excuse me, I will bid you good night."
He fled from the room before he finished the sentence. He hurried to his bedroom, shut the door, and leaned his forehead on it. Galion tried to calm himself, but the tidal wave of anxiety and shame threatened to drown him.
Since he and Rôgon last spoke, the image of the dark-haired blacksmith floated through his mind more often than he wanted to admit, but it was only when Elrond spoke of him that he understood the truth.
For the past month, the Aide had been measuring everything he saw, and everything he did against what Rôgon might think about it. Galion had smiled when he pictured the Elf's wide grin, and he frowned when the image of his scowl appeared.
The Aide slammed his hand against the door and groaned. All these years… how many centuries, had it been since he'd thought of another Elf this way?
Oropher was his first and only love, and the King had been devastated at the idea of hurting his childhood friend, but it just wasn't possible. 2
Since then, Galion learned to live without love, by hanging a thick curtain around his heart, and lived for others. For over five thousand years, he served, without a thought for his own needs and desires.
And it was enough.
But not anymore, and Galion didn't know what to do with that. He sighed, pushed away from the door, and sank down on his bed. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was a coward, he had behaved badly toward Rôg last week, and he needed to apologize.
Tomorrow. First thing.
Yet there he was; knocking on Rôgon's door an hour after midnight.
Eventually, light footsteps came down the steps and the door opened. Rôg was still tying his robe, and when he saw who stood on his doorstep, the Elf's mouth pursed. "I was certainly not expecting to see you on my doorstep. Do you know what time it is?"
"I…" Galion licked his lips. "Might I come in?"
Rôgon said nothing but opened the door wider to admit him. The Living Area was sparsely furnished, with no thought to décor. There were a few pieces of stuffed furniture, a low table and a desk and drawing table in the corner.
"Do you want something to drink?" Rôg walked to the kitchen and the Aide followed.
"Perhaps just a glass of water, if you would." Galion's throat went dry, as he took a seat at the round table, which was covered with stacks of paper and drawings.
The Elf said nothing, but rearranged the stuff to make room, poured out two cups and sat down opposite him. "So tell me: What brings you out slumming in the middle of the night?"
"'Slumming?'" Galion blinked. "I do not understand."
Rôgon huffed a sardonic laugh and shook his head. "So you insult me further by pretending you do not know how you behaved at the Castle last week?"
"No! I mean… yes," he swallowed. "I am sorry about that, truly. I did not mean to…" his mouth moved wordlessly.
"You did not mean what?"
"I know I was rude, and I apologize." He managed, as his heart began to pound.
"Why? Because you were in such exalted company and could not be seen consorting with a lowly Blacksmith?"
"No! Not at all—"
"You were embarrassed by me, Galion; you and I both know it!"
"That was not what I was thinking!" the Aide was up on his feet. "You do not understand…"
Rôgon rose and stepped around the table. "What do I not understand?" he asked, as he took slow steps toward him.
"I was…" Galion pursed his lips and slowly blew out a shaky breath as he backed up. "I came to apologize for that."
"Why?" Rôg's right eyebrow quirked up, his tone lost its angry edge. "Why are you sorry?"
"B-because I was not embarrassed." He winced at the squeaky tone to his voice.
A glint appeared in the blacksmith's eye. "You were not? What were you then, Galion?"
The sound of his name spoken so softly stirred things in him he'd forgotten was there. His lips moved, but nothing came out.
Rôg took another step closer. "Do you want to know what I think?"
"What?" he managed, as his back found the wall. He pressed his hands against it to keep himself upright.
"I think," the Elf lifted a finger, and slowly traced a line along his jaw, down his throat to rest on his chest, "you find me attractive…"
Galion closed his eyes. "Yes," his voice was faint.
"And you were not sure I felt the same way?"
"N—" he swallowed again. "No. I mean… I was thinking about you, but I do not know…"
Rôgon bit his lower lip. "What do you want to know, Galion?" his voice was husky, seductive.
"I want to know if you think…about me…" he murmured. The blood pounded in his ears as his eyes rested on the Elf's mouth.
"Galion?" Rôg's hands rested on the wall on either side of his face, and he leaned in so close his breath tickled. "What do you want? Tell me."
"You…" he whispered, and he knew it was true.
"Good." The Elf captured the Aide's lips with his own.
And for the first time in Galion's long, long life, he understood how magical a kiss could be.
And what a kiss!
If he had any ability for coherent thought, he might be able to describe it, but for now, he was too busy discovering what a joy it was.
He was also trying to stop his knees from collapsing, because if he slumped to the ground, Rôgon might stop kissing him, and this kiss had to go on forever.
Air in their lungs was important, too, as they both eventually remembered. When Rôg broke the kiss, Galion's lips followed him for a short distance.
"Elo…" he sighed. Other parts of him had sprung to life, and from what he could tell Rôgon was as hard as he was.
"I hope that means you liked it," the Elf chuckled, as he rested their foreheads together.
"Very much." His smile was shy.
"You are blushing again." Rôg smirked. "Was this why you came?"
"No," Galion shook his head and finally opened his eyes. "I came because I could not sleep and I… I felt badly for being so rude last week. I knew you were angry; I just did not know what to say."
"I do not understand," Rôgon's forehead wrinkled. "Why did you not just tell me the truth?"
"Because…" Galion wracked his brains to find the right words. "Perhaps I did not know what the truth was. I was confused about things, about you, and did not know what to do."
"And are you still confused?" Rôgon rubbed their noses together briefly.
"I do not know," Galion admitted. "I have never done this, and I do not know what happens next."
The blacksmith laughed. "Why does that bother you? It might be fun to be surprised."
"'Surprises' are something I am conditioned to prevent, Rôgon," Galion sighed. "Planning and preparation is what I am best at; I have scheduled the lives of the Royal family for five thousand years!"
"If that is the case, what happened tonight to bring you to my doorstep?"
"I had felt badly because I saw you last week, as I said. But this evening, we were in Lord Bard's sitting room and your name came up."
"Really?" he smiled. "Good things, I hope."
"Of course!" he made a sour face. "But when Lord Elrond told me about your family—"
"What do you mean, my family?" Rôg's brows drew together. "I thought you knew."
"I knew some of it, of course," the Aide explained, "but I had no idea your father was a nephew of the great Círdan, and that you are his heir…"
As soon as the words escaped his mouth, Galion knew he'd said the exact wrong thing. The blacksmith's face fell, and the shine of happiness left his eyes, replaced with hurt and anger.
Oh no… "Rôgon, I did not mean it the way—"
"What did you mean?" Rôg's lip curled and his nostrils flared. "Have you decided that I am good enough for you, now? Galion, Chief Aide to King Thranduil Oropherion, who rubs elbows with rulers all over Middle Earth, could not possibly be attracted to some lowly, ordinary—"
"No! That is not true! I just…"
"Galion, the day we met, you treated me like some lowly…dirty… beggar who dared to show my face at the Castle, but I laughed it off, because everyone told me how much they loved you." 3 Rôgon backed away. "Then you yelled at me again when I was in the Garden, measuring for the Gates—" 4
"I did not know you were there on business, Rôg! It is a private Garden, and no one is supposed to be there without the King's permission; it is the rule!"
"You could have just asked me, but you did not; you stuck your nose up in the air and acted imperious—""
"N-no…" Galion hung his head. "I was flustered."
"I thought so, and I made excuses for you, but that is not the entire truth, is it?"
"You do not understand...Rôgon—"
"Galion, I know my work is full of fire and soot and sweat - the opposite of everything you like, and everything you are, but I am proud to be a craftsman. I am happy with myself and what I have done with my life!"
"I know you are; it is what I—"
But Rôg was furious. "Admit it; it never occurred to you to come here until you found out my Uncle was the great Shipwright, am I right? Even then, you wait until the middle of the night, because the 'High and Mighty' Aide to the Elvenking does not dare to be seen consorting with some grubby tradesman! You are an elitist, Galion, a snob, you do not even realize it!"
Galion's hand covered his mouth and shook his head as his vision swam with unshed tears.
He wanted to say he was sorry for making Rôgon believe he wasn't worthy, because he was. He wanted to tell him his dark eyes looked like brown velvet, and when he smiled, they lit up in a way that made his chest ache. He wanted to say Rôg was utterly beautiful when he was concentrating on his work, shaping ugly lumps of metal into something miraculous. That he didn't understand how much he needed someone like him in his life until just now, and he was scared. He was just so scared.
Galion had never been a creative person. He admired Thranduil's ability to draw and paint. He envied Percy's talent for carving animals out of wood. He even admired Hilda and Sigrid for their knitting talents.
And what did he have? What did Galion ever have that was for himself alone?
Only this. This friendship with Rôgon that was so special, he wanted to keep it to himself, for only a little while.
Galion planned. Everything. And that is what he should have done before he came. How long would it have taken him to sit down and work out exactly what he wanted to say, to prepare himself to prevent misunderstandings?
But he didn't, because for once, for just this once, Galion wanted to know what it was like to be impetuous…
…and he'd ruined everything. He'd become shy and tongue-tied and rattled and ended up hurting someone he knew he could deeply care about.
"I am sorry," he finally managed, and started to say all the things he'd wanted this Elf to know. "I should not have come—"
"No, you should not have." Rôgon left the kitchen and went through to the front door and opened it. "I want you to leave, My Lord."
Galion could hardly see, as he walked through the streets back to the Castle. He lowered his head to avoid meeting the eyes of the Guards on duty, and when he finally made it to his room, he couldn't stop shaking.
After pacing for hours, he grabbed a bag, and tossed some things inside.
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ELVEN TRANSLATIONS:
Ai naergon! – Oh lament!
Ci athae, Mellon nîn – Thank you, my friend
Eithad! – Insulting!
Elo… - Wow…
I 'ell nîn – It was my pleasure
Suilad, Ivran – Hello, Ivran
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NOTES:
[1] From An Invincible Summer, Ch. 1: /works/14127870/chapters/32556594
[2] From And Winter Came…, Ch. 13: /works/12026709/chapters/28745932
[3] From Legolas, Ion nîn, Ch. 12: /works/12026709/chapters/28745932
[4] From Legolas, Ion nîn, Ch. 20: /works/17088320/chapters/43700078
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