Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien, with the exception of Elwandor and Arphenion.
Rhîw, SA 200
Elwandor will be in at any moment with his tea, signalling the start of his day and casting him into a whirlwind of noise and endless petitions for his attention. He stretches lazily and rolls over to perch on his elbow. He likes to watch Celebrimbor when his defences are down - to watch the flicker of his eyes, bright even in the unfocused glaze of sleep, as he walks through his dreamscape. He resists the urge to curl a stray lock of hair around his fingers - Celebrimbor is cross when waked too early. He lingers over sharp relief of bone and hollow shadow, line of lip and proud jaw; over defined biceps won in the forge and the long hands and graceful fingers of a craftsman. A burn - the trail of some molten metal - snakes across the back of one hand. Nearly healed, the burn ends just above the ring on his fourth finger. Gil-galad draws a sharp breath without thinking; the device shocks him no matter how often he sees it. To so many, it is a symbol of hate, but to Celebrimbor , it means so much more - it could be so much more.
'Of what do you dream?' he asks silently. Does he dream of the Undying Lands, of a time before his family fell into madness, before he took the lives of innocents? Or do dreams of Alqualondë haunt him? Yet, one cannot be separated from the other, as Finrod had learnt to his undoing. Perhaps Celebrimbor dreams not of days long ago, but of now. Gil-galad hopes that this is so.
"Ai! If you have something to say, I would rather you say it than take it out on my hair."
"I am sure I do not know what you mean," Elwandor says blandly, though Gil-galad can feel the ancient elf's disapproval in every tug of the comb.
Such disapproval would no doubt be shared by others, if they knew. He ticks them off in an effort to distract himself from the vicious ministrations to his hair: a good part of the council, especially the Gondolindrim, who regard Celebrimbor with suspicion and feel he already has too much the King's ear; his courtiers, or at least their mothers, who would not be pleased that the King is setting such a standard for his court; their Sindarin neighbours to the south, who would be alarmed at the thought of the Golodh king in bed with the Fëanorians, literally or figuratively. (1)
His father had revered the Laws of the Eldar, as if they were the last constant to which he could cling in the madness of Beleriand in ruin. Arothir remained impractical to the last, unable to reconcile good intentions with the world as it presented itself. Gil-galad winces at the manner in which his father has become more theory than substance to him, a memory that persists but seems to belong to someone else.
Still, none could say that Arothir was not righteous - for his son to be less so dishonours him. A king is duty-bound to uphold the Laws, not prevaricate them. Moreover, Gil-galad knows that he is foolish to squander the good will of his people and guilty outright for fuelling division among them.
He turns away from the mirror. "I have changed my mind. I am going out."
Elwandor sighs and takes the formal robes back to the wardrobe, returning with clothing more appropriate for a winter day's walk. "Híren?"
Gil-galad looks at him distractedly, already unwinding the moorage in his mind. "You may go."
This is no season for sailing - even the most experienced mariners remain close to shore, lest they be caught in the gales that come without warning out of the north. A frigid rain begins to fall as he draws in sight of Mithlond, and he mutters a prayer of gratitude to Uinen that the wind chooses to drive him toward the harbour. Círdan waits on the beach, as if expecting him. Gil-galad supposes that he does expect him.
"You are foolish to take such chances, Ereinion. Have you no sense?" Círdan frowns at him as they hurry to tie up the boat and take down the sails in anticipation of the storm.
The stars will not open tonight; the clouds hang low and bring an early gloom. Gil-galad changes into dry clothes and comes to sit with Círdan in the kitchen, marvelling at the simplicity of fetching sugar from the sideboard when they realise they have forgotten it.
Círdan stirs his coffee and talks idly of the shipyard. Gil-galad stares into his own cup and tries to think how he might begin.
"You are foolish to take such chances, Ereinion. Have you no sense?"
Perhaps Círdan knows already.
The other elf drains his coffee and sets the cup firmly on the table.
"Well, then, speak, child."
He resists the urge to squirm under Círdan's penetrating eyes. "I have been...this is about Celebrimbor." He takes his mug to the stove and fills it again, as much to warm his still-frozen hands as to avoid looking at Círdan while he speaks. "I know the Laws, that we are not meant to act in lust. That such trespasses are not viewed lightly. I know that my first thought should be stewardship of my people. And yet -." He pauses, searching for words, but every excuse for his behaviour fails.
"You are hardly in need of my permission, Ereinion. You have others to whom you must answer, or at least justify yourself."
"And I cannot do as I like, that is what you are saying?"
"Would that it were so simple. You cannot change your heart."
He wants Círdan's blessing, but he is grateful no less for his understanding. Still, when he turns from the stove, he sees trouble in the other elf's eyes.
"Forget not that he is his father's son. What Eru has woven, we cannot escape."
He knows not to ask more; he will get no answers. Círdan's warning does not make for pleasant dreamscapes, however. He has no fear of treachery - Celebrimbor has proven his loyalty. His sleep is disturbed more by frustration. He cannot heal the guilt and shame, and those twin fires burn deeper within Celebrimbor than love.
He sends a messenger dove to Forlond to assure the council that the High King has not finally drowned himself, but feels no urgency to return. He dresses in old, worn-soft leggings, pours over the latest books on shipbuilding and enjoys Círdan's quiet company.
"I think Ossë has done with us," Círdan announces on the third night of the storm. "The gulls have returned."
He listens for the wind and finds that its fury has lessened. He will be able to return to Forlond tomorrow. Suddenly, he misses Celebrimbor fiercely.
Círdan shakes out the net he is mending and glances sideways at him. "I think you will find that none but your heart may say if you live by the Laws or no."
"The council has been in a dither since you left." Elrond, his arms full of scrolls, falls into step with him on the way to his chambers.
"Did you not receive word that I had arrived in Mithlond?" He cannot imagine that anything would gainsay Thilia's doves.
"We did. But I fear your determination to sail has provoked another discussion of your need to take a wife."
He rolls his eyes and opens the door to his study. "I do not suppose that any matters of substance were discussed in my absence?"
"Only if by 'discussed', you mean, 'quarrelled'," Elrond says, looking around with a grin as he arranges the scrolls on the desk.
He has enough time to visit the forge before supper. "Must I see to these petitions now?"
"No, they will wait." Elrond hesitates, clearly torn between his King's hurry and his need to speak. "Is it your friendship with Celebrimbor that prevents you from taking a wife?"
Caught off-guard, his silence is as revealing as outright admission.
"It is as I thought. By your leave?"
Gil-galad raises his hand in dismissal. He knows not what to make of Elrond's curiosity; he keeps his own counsel and is more inclined to think than speak. Nenath dhínin siriar nûr, Tuor had once said of his son. Still waters run deep with his grandson, also. (2)
"I think your Elwandor does not care for me."
He rouses himself from a sleepy daze induced by the hand stroking his hair and the damp but warm nest of heavy bedclothes. "He has been with me since I was a child and served Círdan before you and I were born. He feels protective."
"I have noticed," Celebrimbor says dryly, "that he is not the only one who thinks you in need of protection."
Gil-galad is not sure of his meaning. In truth, he feels exposed; he is not used to disapproval, for he has never warranted it before now. They have been discreet and he trusts his chambermaid and valet, but still, rumours have begun to surface and he cannot fail to notice the hard looks cast at him by Elemmakil.
He turns over on his back, unconscious of Celebrimbor's questioning look.
He knows the source of the rumours, but Arphenion is crafty, not one to leave a trail behind him. He knows not how he might gain the upper hand, and he is too aware that inaction only reinforces the expectation that the son will prove as weak as the father.
Celebrimbor nips at his ear, sending a flood of feeling to his groin that tangles his mind and puts welcome end to thoughts destined to bring another sleepless night. He turns his head to kiss him and senses a swell of love in Celebrimbor: he is wanted, not only desired, but wanted, as a body wants its limbs. 'Círdan is right,' he thinks hazily. Whatever Celebrimbor might believe, their hearts are bound one to the other. So, then, are their fates, for better or worse.
(1) Golodh (S)
'Noldorin' - this is not the polite version of the word
(2) Nenath dhínin siriar nûr (S)
'Still waters run deep'. nen, 'water' + -ath, collective plural suffix; dínin, 'silent' (sing. dínen), lenited to dhínin as an adjective following noun; siriar, flow (3rd pers. pl siria-); nûr, 'deep'