The scents of the feast reached Elrond in his room, meat and fruit and warm breads. Unconsciously, he leant towards his fire, trying to find some of the warmth of friendship that would be in the Great Hall now. The flames lept and crackled around his hands, as different from the flames of Mount Doom as could be.
Dimly, he heard the sounds of feasting and then glasses clinking, Glorfindel's voice 'To Gil-Galad the High King!' and then a brief silence. After he arrived, he asked me who Erenion was... Gil-Galad, I told him. Gil-Galad was the high king... a melody formed in his mind, unbearably sad and full of longing for someone who had passed away. Elrond's breath caught as he began to write the words down, taking some of them from an Ages old lay that Ereinion had taught him, and changing them for his king.
Eventually, he looked over at the words of his lament, at his own neat Tengwar script marked with tears. Ereinion looked odd written down; Elrond could not remember when, or indeed if, he'd ever seen that name inscribed. 'Ereinion was an Elven king,' he recited softly and his voice wavered on the name so that he knew he would never be able to sing it.
'Gil-Galad' was less painful, less intimatly bound up with the person Elrond had known and more a name for the brightly robed and smiling king of Mithlond standing before his people. The words looked blander once he'd read them through aloud, an insuffiecient attempt to express what he felt but the truth was that he had no more to give. He would want me to live. And living means laughing, even though I can't remember doing so since his death. Actually, I cannot remember anything since then. All my time has been spent in grief and mourning, hasn't it?
Alone in his room, Elrond finally thought for a moment that he would be able to weep but stubborness overcame that. Glorfindel said that they expected me; I cannot fail them. Ereinion never failed his people. A treacherous thought said 'Until he died,' and that sheer physical pain of realisation almost drove him to his knees. Gil-Galad, his king, his leader, his friend, had failed his people by not coming home; he, Elrond, Lord of Imladris, would not repeat that mistake.
A dark shape moving around a pitch black room, Elrond garbed himself in a black robe and pulled a beaten silver circlet onto his raven hair. There was no colour in him except for a spark in his blue eyes, a gathering of defiance and courage.
Glorfindel half smiled as his Lord entered; the blonde haired elf easy to see at one end of the long table amongst the darker featured elves of Rivendell and the local area. The meal was just over; wine and miroveur were being served, and soon the music would begin. With firelight and candlelight reflecting off of silver and dark polished wood, and the silver moonlight flooding through the windows, the place was a refuge, a blessed haven from the outside world. The last echoes of mirth died away as the elves became aware of the grief etched on Elrond's face.
Erestor stood, ushering Elrond to his seat at the head of the table but did not speak to him. Instead, it was Glorfindel who asked Elrond if he wanted to eat and grasped his hand for support as the half-elf winced at the curious faces turning to look at him.
In silence, like the personification of sorrow, Elrond listened to the first few songs - stories of the glory of Numenor, the ancient hymn to Elbereth and the tale of Beren and Luthien that made him wonder if he would ever know a love like that. That thought was a spur to him and he stood after the lay had come to an end. 'I appreciate that this is a joyful occasion, a time for celebration and yet I would beg leave to sing of a tradegy. For some of you, those who have lost brothers and fathers and sons that night, it is not such a tradegy. For Glorfindel, it is merely a tale of people he never knew. It is my tradegy.'
They were attentive now. Elrond rarely sung and even more rarely spoke of his grief. In the firelight and the black robe, he looked like a wraith; an image that was only belied by his face and the raw pain there.
'Do you have a tune, Lord Elrond?' That was Landir, the harper.
'No.'
'Very well.' Landir inclined his head and laid his instrument down.
Elrond looked around, catching Glorfindel's sapphire gaze and then staring blankly ahead. He began to sing, his voice a deep, throbbing baritone that spoke of pain and loss, his only accompiament the crackling fire. Eru's creation seemed to pause to listen to him.
'Gil-Galad was an Elven king,
Of him the harpers sadly sing.
The last whose realm was fair and free,
Between the mountains and the sea.'
My king, my friend. His eyes stung.
'His spear was strong,
His lance was keen.
The shining stars of midnight's field
Were mirrored in his silver shield.'
Tears were streaming down his face now, choking him, but he faced them and still sung.
'But to war, he rode away,
And where he dwelleth, none can say;
For in battle's midst, Starlight fell
In Mordor, where shadows are.'
His voice wavered on the name and he shook his head. 'There is more,' and he spread the parchment sheaf in his hand, 'but I cannot sing the rest.'
It was Glorfindel who stood first, his golden hair catching the firelight as he moved, and then Erestor. Then all the Elves of Rivendell were standing in a silent tribute to their Lord and his King.
Elrond's eyes shone, but his love for his people rather than tears now. He raised his goblet, echoed Glorfindel's toast that he had heard from his chambers. 'To Gil-Galad, the Elven King!'
'Gil-Galad!' the massed voices responded, an echo of Elrond's tune in the words.
A/N - Obviously, the words to the song would have changed slightly over time, before Aragorn leant it.
