I hope no one minds this one. No Gondolin, but a bit of Elrond and Gil-
Galad. Setting is the end of the Siege of Barad-Dur. See what you think.
Last High King
The battle was over. Across the barren field, many bodies lay, man, elf, orc, and other creatures of the Enemy.
The Enemy. Ha, yes, that was the point, wasn't it? There was no enemy any more, was there? They'd won.
ISome victory/I, thought Elrond as he picked his way amongst the corpses. Yes, the Enemy was overthrown . . . but at such great cost. Elendil, leader of the Men of Numenor, was dead. With his sharp elven sight, Elrond could see the king's son, Isildur, knelt by his father's side, broken sword in hand. His younger brother Anarion was around somewhere, dead, like all the rest.
Yes, all dead. Including one to whom all the elves had looked up to, one who Elrond himself had served. And there he was now, shards of his great spear lying around him. Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor, and by extension of all the elves in Middle Earth.
Elrond had served as the Herald of the King during the Siege. Now he was the one to find the body, to see to it that nothing befell it. Kneeling down beside his king, he lifted the crown from the fallen Elf's head.
"So," whispered Elrond, "the choice has come at last." The King was dead, and he, Elrond, was the only descendant of any of the High Kings who still remained in Middle Earth. His father, Earendil, had been the son of the sister of Turgon, High King before Gil-Galad. Now there was a choice before him: Take the crown, or let the post fall into history.
Long he sat there beside his master, watching the skies for a sign. The sun fell below the horizon, casting the ash fields into darkness. Darkness . . . save that one bright star glimmered in the west. Elrond had always felt drawn to that star, even before he knew what it was. And then, when he found out . . .
"Father," he whispered, and then again, louder, "Father, help me. What must I do?"
Although he knew no voice of his could reach the silent watcher, it seemed to Elrond that the light of the Silmaril, mounted on his father's brow, grew brighter for a second. Still he watched, and then he knew.
Lowering the crown again to the King's brow, Elrond Peredhil shook his head. "No," he whispered, "the time for kings is past. Sauron is fallen, and with luck, no alliance such as this shall ever again be needed. I shall settle for rule of Imladris, and leave you your title."
So saying, Elrond Half-Elven rose, and on unsteady feet went to meet those who came to tend the King's body.
* * * *
Thank you.
hS
Last High King
The battle was over. Across the barren field, many bodies lay, man, elf, orc, and other creatures of the Enemy.
The Enemy. Ha, yes, that was the point, wasn't it? There was no enemy any more, was there? They'd won.
ISome victory/I, thought Elrond as he picked his way amongst the corpses. Yes, the Enemy was overthrown . . . but at such great cost. Elendil, leader of the Men of Numenor, was dead. With his sharp elven sight, Elrond could see the king's son, Isildur, knelt by his father's side, broken sword in hand. His younger brother Anarion was around somewhere, dead, like all the rest.
Yes, all dead. Including one to whom all the elves had looked up to, one who Elrond himself had served. And there he was now, shards of his great spear lying around him. Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor, and by extension of all the elves in Middle Earth.
Elrond had served as the Herald of the King during the Siege. Now he was the one to find the body, to see to it that nothing befell it. Kneeling down beside his king, he lifted the crown from the fallen Elf's head.
"So," whispered Elrond, "the choice has come at last." The King was dead, and he, Elrond, was the only descendant of any of the High Kings who still remained in Middle Earth. His father, Earendil, had been the son of the sister of Turgon, High King before Gil-Galad. Now there was a choice before him: Take the crown, or let the post fall into history.
Long he sat there beside his master, watching the skies for a sign. The sun fell below the horizon, casting the ash fields into darkness. Darkness . . . save that one bright star glimmered in the west. Elrond had always felt drawn to that star, even before he knew what it was. And then, when he found out . . .
"Father," he whispered, and then again, louder, "Father, help me. What must I do?"
Although he knew no voice of his could reach the silent watcher, it seemed to Elrond that the light of the Silmaril, mounted on his father's brow, grew brighter for a second. Still he watched, and then he knew.
Lowering the crown again to the King's brow, Elrond Peredhil shook his head. "No," he whispered, "the time for kings is past. Sauron is fallen, and with luck, no alliance such as this shall ever again be needed. I shall settle for rule of Imladris, and leave you your title."
So saying, Elrond Half-Elven rose, and on unsteady feet went to meet those who came to tend the King's body.
* * * *
Thank you.
hS