Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of Luinel and Moebeth.
Midsummer, SA 40
His belongings hardly fill a sea-chest; even if he had possessed great riches on Balar, the hurried flight from the isle would not have permitted him to carry them away.
Bare feet dangle over the edge of the fishing dock as he shares a simple breakfast of bread and berries with Círdan. Birds call to one another as the first blinding rays of Anor mount the Ered Luin, casting the elves' shadows seaward.
"It is not an end but a beginning, Ereinion."
Gil-galad can see the shine of tears in his foster-father's eyes and his throat constricts in a similar fashion. "I know, and I am not unwilling - I know my duty. Yet, I feel that once again I leave behind everything I have known, and I cannot fail, Círdan." He turns anxious eyes upon the other elf. "I have not your foresight and I have relied much upon your wisdom since Turgon fell."
"You will lead them well - my heart is certain of this. You have chosen wisely for your people thus far, and I see no reason you should not continue to do so." Círdan stands. "But, the day is wasting, and you have far to go."
Gil-galad shakes the crumbs from his napkin into the sea. A family of sea birds descends upon the bread as he rises to follow Círdan to the boat. While Gil-galad makes final adjustments, Círdan walks back to the beach, returning as the younger elf settles himself on the thwart.
"You might be needing these."
Gil-galad takes his boots with a grin.
Círdan crouches on the dock, unwinding the ropes that hold the boat fast. "Do not be led astray by the appearance of peace on the lands. Many foul servants of Morgoth did not share in his defeat." He stands; his last words are not meant for Gil-galad's ears, but they carry nonetheless above the splash of oars: "The peril is nearer than you realise."
"The Hadhodrim make doors that none can breach." (1)
Gil-galad thinks of Círdan's warning, and he wonders if Celebrimbor, too, senses a shadow lurking beneath the horizon. He has no time to question him further, however. A crew has come to hang the great doors and Celebrimbor is eager to study the dwarves' methods.
Though the fashioning of the doors is Dwarven, the embellishments are Celebrimbor's work. Encased in white steel of Curufin's invention, a weave of delicate flowers and slender vines decorates the margins, soldered so perfectly that the ornamentation has become a seamless extension of the metal underneath it. Gil-galad does not share his grandfather's talent for smithery, yet he understands beauty.
In the work area, Celebrimbor speaks to a dwarf in a low voice - discussing the doors, Gil-galad guesses from Celebrimbor's gestures. He cannot understand the words that reach him; their harsh sound is not of Eldarin origin. The elf moves fluidly, his loosely-bound hair tumbling over his shoulder as he speaks. Gil-galad has a sudden urge to catch the silken tresses in his hands, to feel them slide over his skin. (2)
He only half-listens to Luinel as she rattles off details regarding work yet to be done. Lalwen's daughter is as immovable as her cousins Aredhel and Galadriel, and she will do as she sees fit - he has only to nod in the right places.
"I think it best that you address the people formally at Midsummer," Luinel says, startling him. He grants her his full attention, but she speaks now of other matters. He cannot argue with her instincts - a formal address of the High King is expected, but in the mirror of his mind, he sees a young and untried elf who can hardly pretend to stand in the shoes of his storied predecessors. He wonders if his people will see the same image. Certainly, his advisors would agree with the mirror - their eyes cannot entirely hide their frustration with the young king: he is not Fingolfin or Fingon.
The last hours before Midsummer find him pacing the gallery of the first floor, fruitlessly trying to pull his hair out of the silver cord that secures his braid. He has changed robes three times and summoned Luinel twice to rehearse the schedule. (3)
"I have been sent to occupy you. You are driving Luinel to distraction, and she has threatened to ask Arien to delay her appointed time of rising if you do not leave her in peace."
Just as his mother once relied on Celebrimbor to keep an energetic elf-child out of her hair during festivals, Luinel has now asked Celebrimbor to do the same with a nervous King. "It is like old times, then," Gil-galad says, amused in spite of himself.
A look he cannot read passes over his kinsman's face.
A young elf of the palace guard - Moebeth, Gil-galad thinks- enters the gallery. "Tauren, it is time." (4)
In the gardens before the palace a great crowd has gathered. Velvet and silk banners festoon the balcony in Finwë's silver and blue; again, Gil-galad thinks of Nargothrond and the white and gold of Finarfin's House. The crowd quiets, their ears straining, for he speaks with the soft voice of his father - and Finarfin before him. His worries melt away; language is the gift of all elves and his tongue finds the words almost effortlessly. He touches briefly upon the sorrows of Beleriand and the War of Wrath - this is a day of celebration, and he would not shroud it in grief. He speaks of the pardon he has granted to the people of Maedhros and Maglor - another thorny subject, and moves quickly on to the unveiling of the great doors and dedication of the palace. (5,6)
"...Today, I name this great edifice Minas Silivren, and dedicate it to you, the people whose arts and unwavering service have made it grand. For it is more than a King's residence - it is a monument to the great works of the Noldor. We are no longer Exiles - we who remain have chosen this land, and we look upon a new day of peace and creation. May the Valar's protection and guidance be upon us in all we do." (7)
As he finishes his speech, he sees respect and pride in the faces of his people and he knows that he has won their hearts. He basks in the glow of their love as the celebration begins in earnest, with dancing on the lawns behind the palace and great trestles laden with food in the gardens. The merrymakers wear happy, unworried expressions; most of these elves are Beleriand-born, driven in the Elder days not by oath or revenge but dreams of peace and prosperity. This, the High King has offered to them, and they look forward to endeavours other than the making of war and weapons.
By custom, he stands with his honour guard after his speech, formally greeting a long queue of well-wishers. He begins to suspect that his smile has permanently frozen in place and wonders just how many elves could possibly inhabit Forlond. To his everlasting gratitude, Luinel rescues him, shooing away the crowd that he might eat and dance.
Neither hungry nor inclined to dance, he wants a moment of solitude. The gardens before the tower are deserted, as he had hoped. No light but Ithil shines upon them, and the great doors glow the more brightly in the darkness. He has not had the opportunity to study the doors in all their moonlit splendour, and he sees now that his rough sketch of the design could not anticipate Celebrimbor's work. Each emblem is drawn in exquisite detail; ithildin lends shadow and highlight to the interlaced ornamentation at the edges of the doors. The sight is breathtaking.
"You did well." Celebrimbor squeezes his shoulders in congratulation and lets his arm relax into a comfortable embrace, hand falling to rest at his hip.
"As did you. The doors are beautiful."
Celebrimbor shrugs. "This is simple work, such as any smith or artist could do. My grandfather created wondrous things before he made the Silmarilli, but neither my father nor I have done his memory justice. My father spent more time hunting with Celegorm than working in the forge, and in Beleriand, he did nothing but destroy beautiful things. And I -"
"You spent the last Age making weapons. You hardly had time for great works."
"Nay, it is not that. I lack the knowledge. I was not so old when we left Aman, hardly six hundred as we now reckon time, and only beginning to learn all that Aulë could teach me. And there is no teacher like him in Ennor."
"Why did you not return to Aman?"
"I did not fear the judgment of the Valar," Celebrimbor answers quickly. He is silent for a moment. "I cannot avoid their judgment. Even if I can bring some measure of honour back to my House, and give where we have taken, such efforts cannot erase what I have done - but it brings me some solace to serve my King and people. This, I would not find in Aman."
"I hope that such redemption as you seek may come to you, Tyelpë, though it will be a grief to see your work finished and your heart set upon Aman. Just now, though, I am glad enough that you remain."
His speech is careful, no more than a king should say to a valued counsellor, though perhaps 'Tyelpë' presumes too much. It matters not; his body has no such cares. He leans into the arm thrown across his back, into Celebrimbor's cinnamon warmth and inclines his head toward breath that does not quite tickle his ear but sends gentle shocks through his body.
Celebrimbor moves away abruptly. "They will be missing you."
As they return to the crowded gardens , Gil-galad is grateful for the darkness that hides the flush in his cheeks. Without another word, he accepts an elf-maid's invitation to dance. His shame mingles with regret for something he has not yet found but has nonetheless lost.
He has not occupied such lavishly-appointed rooms since he was a child at Nargothrond. The bed is magnificent - high and broad, its heavy curtains embrace a nest of fine linen and down. On this summer's eve, the chambermaid has tied back the bed-curtains and thrown open the windows to a cooling draught from the sea.
Restless, Gil-galad turns over to lie on his back; he is tired, but his dreams will not still his agitation. The scent of cinnamon lingers in his memory; his ear tingles where warm breath caressed it. A pleasant shudder courses through his body and almost unconsciously, he begins to stroke himself, feeding physical sensation with images of a prominent jaw, of raven hair tied loosely back, of shoulders and biceps well defined by a millennium in the forge. Thoughts of bare skin pressed to his aroused flesh come unbidden and he is boneless, unable to command the shame and horror he knew he should be feeling. Nothing but his need matters until he stiffens, his heart racing, joyous release flooding every nerve ending.
The chambermaid will give him knowing looks tomorrow. He turns on his side, away from the sticky evidence, and sighs as his rational mind reasserts itself. He will not sleep this night.
He is young according to the measure of the Eldar, but he understands the difference between friendship and love, the boundary between kinship and lust. His newfound awareness of Celebrimbor would horrify the older elf. In any case, he understands that he is meant to take a wife and produce an heir; he is the last of the male line, and his penchant for sailing alone at sea twists his counsellors into nervous fits.
They have reason to be nervous. Only loyalty to the High King persuades former residents of Arvernien to exist side by side with those who slew their loved ones. Should anything happen to him, the fragile peace might splinter into a dozen factions; another Kinslaying is not impossible. He needs an heir, not a lover.
To the throb of his sated member, his heart gives an answering ache.
(1) Hadhodrim
Dwarves. Celebrimbor would undoubtedly use this particular term, as it is the term the dwarves themselves preferred (it is actually a Sindarin rendering of the Khuzdûl cognate, Khazâd).
(2) their harsh sound is not of Eldarin origin
'Curufin was most interested in the alien language of the Dwarves, being the only one of the Noldor to win their friendship. It was from him that the loremasters obtained such knowledge as they could of Khuzdûl.' (The Peoples of Middle-earth, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' p 358 pub Houghton Mifflin) It seems reasonable that Curufin's son might also have learnt the language, especially given his friendship with the dwarves in Eregion.
(3) The last hours before Midsummer
The Elvish day begins at sundown, so the last hours before Midsummer 'Day' would coincide with the evening before the Solstice.
(4) Tauren
my king. From taur, 'king' and -(e)n, first person possessive suffix. We have this form of address attested in Quenya (aranya) in Erendis' message to her father-in-law. (Unfinished Tales, 'Aldarion and Erendis' p 186 pub Houghton Mifflin, Kindle Edition). There is also a Quenya phrase for 'your majesty', Aran Meletyalda, lit 'king your mighty' (The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar' p 369 pub Houghton Mifflin), but Sindarin blends the words for 'mighty' and 'high king' into one word, taur. So, I've gone with Tauren as the nearest thing to 'Sire' in Sindarin.
(5) white and gold of Finarfin's House
I'm attempting to resolve the blue and silver of Gil-galad's emblem with his eventual placement in the House of Finarfin. Obviously, Tolkien had Fingon and the House of Fingolfin in mind when he drew Gil-galad's emblem. Blue and silver are very definitely associated with Fingolfin (The Silmarillion, 'Of the Return of the Noldor' p 123 pub Ballantine/Del Rey). I've waffled with the canon a bit in imagining that such colours are associated with the High King rather than with any one House, and hence, would be taken up by Gil-galad upon Turgon's death. The 'white and gold' comes from Finarfin's emblem. (Wayne G. Hammond and Christina Scull, J.R.R. Tolkien: Artist & Illustrator, 'Patterns and Devices' pp 193-5 pub Houghton Mifflin)
(6) the soft voice of his father - and Finarfin before him
But Finarfin spoke softly, as was his wont... . (The Silmarillion, 'Of the Flight of the Noldor' p 74) pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition)
(7) Minas Silivren
The details of Gil-galad's palace are entirely fabricated. The name means 'Tower of White-Shining'.