Lost Youth
Disclaimer: None of these characters and places belongs to me. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. Only the plot is mine. I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money.
Rating: PG – may go up.
Summary: One small twist of fate, one cruel chance and young Elrond is propelled into a position he never wanted. AU. Gil-galad is killed when Elrond is a small child. Unwilling, he must take up the High Kingship of the Noldor in Middle-earth.
A/N: This begins some time after Maglor lets the Peredhil go and Gil-galad finds them, but before the battle between Morgoth and the Valar. Elrond and Elros are the equivalent of 7-8.
A/N2: This will be based primarily on the Silmarillion and the Unfinished Tales. Hence, Gil-galad is the son of Fingon.
A/N3: This is the Lord of the Rings category because it will hopefully span all three Ages.
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Gil-galad awoke to two small elflings bouncing up and down on the end of his bed.
"Ada!" they yelled in unison, pouncing upon him once they realised that he was no longer asleep. "Ada, take us with you."
"Nay, little ones."
Elros pouted.
"Why not?"
"I fear it will be terribly boring, and you will run amok."
"We will not." Elrond cast a warning glance at his twin. "We promise to be good."
Ereinion propped himself up on his elbows. It had been some years since he had found the boys wandering alone in the wilderness, and although they had grown and could be serious for their age, they tended to cling to him.
*I suppose 'tis because they have never known security. I pray that I can give it to them*
"I cannot take you with me. Do you not have lessons with Círdan today?" he said gently. The younger twin's face lit up immediately at the prospect of a day spent learning sea-lore, but Elrond looked less convinced.
"I would rather come with you."
"Ah, pen tithen nîn, that may be so, but there is a great difference between what we would like to do and what we must do."
"Maglor used to say that a lot."
"He would," Gil-galad growled. "But you will not find your lessons so disagreeable as Maglor found his oath-bound duties, and I shall be back soon."
He heaved himself out of bed, and, followed by the pair, made his way to the bathing chamber. Having washed and dressed, he watched in amusement as the elflings hurled handfuls of soapsuds at one another.
"Come now, gwanûn, or you shall miss breakfast."
~*~
The High King sat upon his horse, soothing the nervous beast with a firm hand on her neck. She seemed to be unusually ill at ease that day, cavorting around the courtyard, throwing her head in the air. As she finally settled, he gazed down at Elrond and Elros, their tunics already tousled and braids unravelling.
"Farewell, children. Do not be too unkind to Círdan," he laughed, at the expression on the Shipwright's face. He lifted his hand, and as one his escort wheeled and filed through the archway, towards the waiting ship which would take them to the mainland where they would inspect the new fortresses.
~*~
They had come upon them all of a sudden in the dead of night: maybe three dozen orcs, their foul arrows hissing through the air. Gil-galad hefted Aeglos aloft, its point glinting in the moonlight.
"To me! For the West! Fly foes of the light!"
He wielded the weapon with expert precision, feeling it sing in his hand as he stabbed at their assailants. The air around him was thick with blood and dust and the dying screams of both orcs and Elves. He turned to see Aelingalen, his lieutenant, backed against a tree. Without a second thought, he hurled himself on the creature, twisting his hand into its rank hair and jerking its head back until he heard its neck snap.
Tossing the carcass aside, he nodded briefly to the shaken Elf before turning back to the battle. He thumped the butt of the great spear into one hefty body, then plunged the point forward into the orc who rushed at him.
Turning to meet the next, he was shaken by the bodies of his faithful escort which now littered the ground.
*We are not enough*
In that instant, a terrible hush seemed to fall, as if time itself had come to a halt. Dimly, he saw the most terrible of all the orcs raise its bow with a hideous grin. Then something hit him, full in the chest, and he saw little else except a melee of blades and bright steel.
Gil-galad was vaguely aware of being lifted onto the back of a horse and of the rhythmic thud of its hooves on the hard earth.
"Thank the Valar that we are so near to the ship," the voice came as if from a great distance, and he recognised it as that of a youth on his first trip, although it was now hoarse with rage and despair.
~*~
The ship had slipped across the bay, each day seeming an Age to those on board as the High King lay below deck, drenched in a fearsome sweat. He was wracked with bitter chills, then burned as if terrible flame was consuming him.
Now, Aelingalen ran up the wharf to deposit the body of his liege in the waiting arms of the Shipwright. He was carried with all haste to the Houses of Healing, where his befouled garments were stripped from him and the healers set to with a vengeance.
Finally, one emerged to greet the silver-haired Elf who paced restlessly in the corridor, his face a mask of worry.
"What news, Master Healer?"
"We cannot heal him. This is some new poison of Morgoth's which we have no cure for."
"But he will live?"
"Nay, my lord," the healer shook his head sadly. "'Tis merely a matter of time … perhaps hours."
A single tear slipped down Círdan's ancient face at the fate of his fosterling.
"Should I send someone to fetch the children?" the other inquired.
"Nay. He would not want it. They saw enough of death at Sirion. Spare them this."
And so he went into the chamber, braving the stench of death which hung heavy in the air despite the steaming basins of water in which athelas leaves floated.
Bending his head, Círdan wept freely until a weak hand reached out to grasp his own.
"Mellon-nîn," Gil-galad whispered. "There is much yet to be done. You must send for Galadriel. She will be Regent until Elrond reaches his maturity. He will take up the High Kingship and lead my people. It grieves me that I must leave them in this time of need. But after all, perhaps I was not meant to bear this crown."
His head fell back on the pillows and he gasped for air.
"Speak not so. This bauble matters not and the Peredhil will grieve…"
"I wish I could have seen them grow. I wish I did not leave them as all have … There is a book which Elrond has always coveted, and a map of the seas which Elros wants for his own…" he trailed off, coughing, his face as pale as the sheets. "Give them these things, for they will not understand this, nor will they desire the few things of value which are left to the House of Finwë in Middle-earth. When the time comes, give them such things of those which are appropriate."
His eyes flickered closed, and his breathing became shallower still.
Círdan watched through the night until the next day the last of that noble strength was sped, and Ereinion Gil-galad passed to the Halls of Mandos.
~*~
With a grief-stricken face Círdan paced down the corridor, holding the mithril circlet between trembling hands. Pushing the door open, he found Elrond and Elros sitting up in their beds, plotting some new mischief. He sank down beside them, not knowing how to find the words.
"What is it?" Elros asked. "Can we go out on the sea today?"
"Nay." He put an arm round both sets of small shoulders. "I bring grievous tidings. I … There was … Ereinion was … There was an attack and he was poisoned by orcs. He died in his sleep," he finished bluntly.
"No."
"You lie," Elrond said, shaking his head vigorously and pulling away from the Shipwright's arm. "Ada is not dead. He cannot be."
"But he is little one. I was there. Now you are High King." Círdan winced at the insensitive words as soon as they left his mouth.
*This is why they see … saw Ereinion as more of a father*
But the proclamation of his new title seemed to have brought the reality of the situation home to Elrond. With a whimper of misery, he tugged at Elros' hand and fled into the depths of the palace, leaving the Lord of the Falathrim to his own grief.
~*~
Círdan had abandoned his search for the children hours before. It was useless to seek them if they did not wish to be found, for they seemed to melt into the shadows. Now he sat on the deck of the small boat, still moored at the dock, his feet dangling in the water. From time to time he took deep swigs from the wineskin at his side, gazing out at the calm sea.
Just as he was about to cast off, and attempted to find some solace in the lonely tossing of the waves, he heard small feet flying across the stone. The Peredhil jumped into the boat, causing it to rock frantically, and turned bleary red eyes to him.
"Take us out to sea with you, Master Shipwright," Elrond demanded.
"We want to hear the horns of Ulmo," Elros finished.
And so the three passed the night, floating in the midst of the waters, hoping for counsel which never came. The two boys huddled close to one another, their fingers interlocked, strands of their dark hair intermingling. When he thought they had fallen asleep, Círdan began to sing in a low voice, a lament which he had learnt on the shores of Cuiviénen so many long years before.
He started at the touch of a warm hand on his shoulder. As he turned, he thought for a moment that he looked upon Ereinion as he had been when he first saw him, the grave heir to the kingship of the Noldor in Middle-earth, and his heart leapt. But of course it was not so. As the moon moved out from behind a cloud, Elrond's half-elven features were clearly illuminated.
"What can I do for you?" Círdan asked, breaking off his song.
"This is real, is it not? Ada is really dead; the healers could not save him."
"He is."
"And I am really High King?"
"You are, for you are his nearest blood-kin that lives yet." Círdan brushed a tear from the Peredhel's cheek.
"I would rather be a healer," Elrond said fiercely. "Then I might stop others dying as he did."
"Perhaps you can be both, little one," the Shipwright reassured him. "For this is yours, whether you will it or not." He drew the crown from under his cloak and handed it to the quaking child.
Solemnly, Elrond placed it on his head. It slipped down to cover one of his eyes, tangling in his braids. He removed it, turning it round and round in his hands.
"I do not think I am ready to wear it yet. Perhaps I never will be."
TBC
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Ada – father, daddy.
Gwanûn – twins.
Mellon-nîn – my friend.
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