Author's Note: Update 08-13-06 - a few minor changes made at Tehta's suggestion. Constructive criticism very much appreciated. 01-05-14 - minor revisions.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien, with the exception of Arphenion and Luinel.
Echuir, SA 380
"Much damage was done. The tavern owner is furious, and rightly so."
"And he will be made whole."
"By whom? These are not men of means."
"They have strong backs and no doubt can wield a broom, and at the moment, they are idling in gaol." Gil-galad sits forward. "Arminas, what is it that you want?"
"I think it is a mistake to trade with these folk. They are rough, long separated from their kin who sailed to Númenor. This is not the first trouble we have had from them."
"Is anyone else of a mind?"
"How badly do we need their trade?" Pengolodh asks.
"It depends on whether you wish to have fresh food at your table. We cannot get potatoes and greens from Harlindon," Luinel explains.
"Though I, for one, would happily see to the end of Arda without meeting another potato," Gil-galad says. This gets a smile from the members of the council. Near the end of the First Age, Morgoth's shadow had lengthened to the extent that they could make nothing but potatoes grow on Balar.
"I fear you do not understand the gravity of this matter," Arminas says.
"Do I not?"
Celebrimbor hides a grin; Arminas will not win this argument. Gil-galad reminds him a great deal of Maedhros. Cautious and thorough, Maedhros never made decisions until he felt he had all the information he needed. Once made, however, he did not waver.
The council is finally learning that its young king needs no regent. He only wishes that Gil-galad knew it.
"Arphenion, see to it that we have a company on duty on market days." The King looks over the council. "We will not make enemies of our neighbours."
He finds Gil-galad with Elrond, their dark heads bent together over their work, and chastises himself for a sudden stab of jealousy. He certainly would not wish to be in Elrond's chair at the moment - a few minutes of paperwork and he would be half-asleep. Moreover, he has often felt that Gil-galad needs companions of his own age.
Still, he wonders at their attraction to one another. In the past, he has lain with others out of loneliness, but he is habitually solitary. Gil-galad is a social elf; he seeks solitude only when strained. Celebrimbor might find his lover too needy, except that Gil-galad is careful to respect his need for distance.
"May I interrupt?"
"Please do," Gil-galad says, sitting back in his chair.
He leans down to kiss him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Elrond picking up his quill hurriedly. "Shall we get some supper?"
"Is it that late already?"
"Indeed. I feared you would miss supper if I did not come to fetch you."
"Well, let us make haste, then."
The dining hall is nearly empty, Celebrimbor is glad to see. Perhaps they might be left in peace. He takes his accustomed place at the King's left. This had been the subject of many arguments in the past; Celebrimbor would not take the right-hand seat. "I am a smith, not one of your advisors." At last, Gil-galad had given up the argument, as one does after decades together - one learns to choose battles wisely.
"Pengolodh wishes to re-establish the guilds," Gil-galad says, stirring his soup.
"Oh?"
"That is what Elrond and I were working on. If we leave it up to the council or the guilds themselves, we will end up with endless in-fighting between various would-be leaders and their champions. I want to establish them as royal guilds, led by the right people - those with knowledge and the skill to lead."
"Pengolodh for the Lambengolmor." (1)
"Obviously. Elemmakil for the ironsmiths." They go on in this manner, finding that they agree on all but one. "You will take the jewel-smiths?" (2)
"Enerdhil would be a more diplomatic choice."
"And I told you that I am not interested in diplomacy. This is about integrity of the guilds."
"Enerdhil is an excellent jewel-smith." (3)
"And he will make an excellent member of the guild." Gil-galad folds his napkin. "I have letters to answer. And yes," he grins, "I am avoiding further discussion."
"May I speak with you?"
He does not wish for company, but the smith - a one-time apprentice of his grandfather, though he cannot recall the elf's name - appears to be here for business, not a social call. He catches the eye of the serving girl and holds up two fingers.
"Is it true that they plan to re-establish the guilds?"
Celebrimbor hesitates, unsure that Gil-galad intends for this to be public knowledge just yet.
"No matter, you need not answer. But our people are worried."
He tries not to flinch at 'our people'; he does not know that he wants to be their champion. He had turned from that path, and though he knows they acted in obedience of their lords, he cannot entirely absolve them of guilt, any more than he can excuse his own part in Alqualondë. On the other hand, they have no one else and nowhere else to go, and someone must speak for them.
"We fear it shall be yet another excuse to exclude us."
"The King will not let that happen."
"The King should tread more carefully."
Gil-galad has little patience for quarrels between the Houses, but Celebrimbor begins to see that the guilds could easily become a source of great tension. The Gondolindrim and Finrod's people might refuse to share their work with the followers of Fëanor and his sons. The latter would make up a disproportionate part of the smiths' guilds, sparking jealousy from those rejected. Nothing but the King's will might hold it all together, and though the Noldor are fond of Gil-galad, Celebrimbor wonders if this time, he might have chosen the wrong battle.
The next afternoon, he makes certain to catch Gil-galad in between meetings. "If my King would grant this humble subject an audience after supper," he says.
Gil-galad laughs. "Are you telling me that you feel neglected of late?"
"No, that you are too busy of late. I thought we might take a ride this evening."
"After supper, then."
"I shall hold you to it."
When they set out that evening, the sky is still tinged with pink while Arien lingers in the far West. It will be dark ere they return, but Echuir is a calm season. The night will be clear and lit well enough for elven eyes.
Gil-galad brushes off the need for guards. "If there is danger within a few leagues of the palace, then your Captain has much to answer for," he tells them.
Celebrimbor remembers when no ruler might have ventured out without a full escort, and certainly not at night. The threat of Morgoth's creatures only ranked slightly ahead of the threat of one's own kin. "It is good to live at peace again," he says.
"Indeed. It must have been something like this in Aman, to have no enemies or threats."
"It is more peaceful, now, than it was then, for Melkor had been unchained some time already when I was born." He stops, realising that he has lapsed into Quenya.
"I do remember my lessons," Gil-galad laughs. "Though, admittedly, not well."
They amble across a treeless heath, untroubled by the light wind from the east. At one time, they had established a regular habit of these rides, and the horses are evidently sorry that they have lost that habit, for they want to run, and snort at the elves' admonishments that it is far too dark for anything faster than a trot.
"You have not forgot that Eönwë pressed you to sail West?"
Celebrimbor glances sideways. "Is that a rhetorical question or a suggestion?"
"At the moment, it might be either," Gil-galad says dryly. "I merely say this to point out that there is no ban on your return, as there is on others such as Galadriel and Arphenion. If the Valar do not hold you responsible, what right have others to do so? What right have you to do so?"
"Oh, I will be held to account for what I have done - I am allowed to return because I am not considered an agitator. However, that is irrelevant here in Ennor - the Eldar do hold me responsible, if only because no one else remains to carry the blame." He holds up his hand. "It matters not whether that is fair or right. It simply is. And if I take the lead in your guild - for I know that is where you are going with this - it will be said-."
"Many things will be said. I have no intention of listening to them."
"It will be said that you favour me."
"As if that is not known!"
"It will be said that you favour the Fëanorians."
"Because I have chosen the finest jewel-smith in Arda to lead the guild?"
"Some of our kindred are not so charitable."
"Charity? This is a matter of State.
"I envy Círdan," Gil-galad continues, tugging at his braid in frustration. "The Sindar simply go about their business, without all this nonsense. I cannot favour one House over another. I know you think me naïve, but the moment I act to appease one, I shall lose the loyalty of the others. I would choose you even if you did not share my bed, Tyelpë."
"Indeed, then, it is a great inconvenience that I do."
"Inconvenience?"
"You no longer need my guidance, Artanáro. I suppose that I am as much to blame as are you - I have held you back, I think, for my own selfish reasons." He should know better than to continue, but he must know the truth. "I was there when you needed someone you could trust - I fear that your feelings for me are a matter of circumstance, if you will."
"Circumstance?" Gil-galad slows his horse.
"That you want what I represent: a link to your past. Constancy."
"I see." The air has turned chilly, and not only due to a sudden change of wind out of the north.
Gil-galad slips into the forge so silently - and unexpectedly, all things considered - that Celebrimbor gapes at him. He rarely speaks during these occasional flights from sleeplessness - and Celebrimbor appreciates his reluctance to disturb him at work. Tonight, however, Celebrimbor wishes he would say something.
He banks the fire and hangs up his leather apron. He follows Gil-galad to his chambers, though they have not slept together these six days. He understands that this is a call for truce. Gil-galad sits on the edge of the bed and starts to unwind his braid; he is utterly avoiding discussion. His appearance in the forge does not signify that he is ready to talk. He simply wants Celebrimbor here.
He sits down next to the other elf and takes the comb from his hand, taking comfort, for a moment, in the simple intimacy of mutual grooming.
"You are still angry."
"I am less angry than hurt." Gil-galad turns to him and takes the comb back. He unties the thong that secures Celebrimbor's hair and runs his fingers through the loose braid to unravel it. "I do not know what I have done to make you question my feelings for you."
"It is nothing you have done! I only question whether your feelings are what you think they are." He swallows. "I fear that I am a father figure to you."
Gil-galad lets go of his hair, holding the comb in mid-air. "That is a particularly disturbing thought."
"No less for me."
He sighs as Gil-galad slips off the bed. His back is turned and his mind closed, but the rigid set of his shoulders betrays him. Some words are better unsaid, but it is too late to stop his tongue.
Gil-galad turns to face him. "You are determined to find pain in joy. Is there no end to the misery you must suffer in payment for your sins? But no, for you take upon yourself all the crimes of your House," he answers his own question. "Did it never occur to you that I loved you from the time I first saw you through the eyes of an adult? Not as a mentor, not as my cousin and certainly not as a father."
"Why? Answer me that, Artanáro. For I truly believe that you do not know."
"To explain what binds one heart to another? No - I am no master of poetry." He comes to stand inches from Celebrimbor. "You made me feel-."
Trust.
Celebrimbor is not sure if his lover's ósanwë is an order or an admission. (4)
"I have few that I can, and only one whom I desire," Gil-galad continues. "But I will not share my heart with an elf who has so little regard for himself."
"And you? You have not needed a mentor for some time, and yet you still demand this from me. Can you not see why I wonder at your feelings for me?"
Gil-galad looks at him, uncomprehending.
"You bear yourself as a king. Perhaps you should begin to think of yourself as one."
"I cannot help but question everything I do," Gil-galad says impatiently.
"You would be a fool if you did not. Indeed, I have seen my share of foolish lords who never questioned their decisions. Nonetheless, their people followed them, as they now follow you. It is your right to expect that." He pauses. "I have doubted your judgement in the matter of the guilds, as I should not have done," he says softly. "Sometimes, I forget that I am your subject."
"Tyelpë, I would not force it upon you, but truly, I think your fears shall come to naught. Whatever the Noldor feel about you and your House, they know your talent. The things you create...you are extraordinary." He is so near, Celebrimbor can hear his heartbeat. "Extraordinary," he repeats, his mouth closing over the skin of his throat.
Celebrimbor shudders, pain and pleasure mingling in the tender bruising of his throat. He cannot resist the lure of beauty and in a flash, he knows how it felt for his grandsire to hold the Silmarilli. 'This is what it is to covet, to put your fëa itself into a thing of wonder.' The very thought makes him pause and question the purity of his feelings for his lover, but he cannot think just now and he certainly cannot resist.
No, he has not resistance to the hands that push him to lie on the bed or to the fingers that free him from his leggings, and his mouth can only form sounds, not even language, in response to the lips that slide, tight and demanding, over his member.
When they make love, he is able to experience an untainted fëa.
Gil-galad licks his swollen lips and lies down next to him. "I love you when you are like this."
"How?"
"Mine."
"Yours?" Celebrimbor raises an eyebrow.
"When I know that I have you, entirely."
You let me feel what it is to be innocent again.
Gil-galad's eyes widen a little at this.
They are both so wary; even after all these years, they still guard their minds from one another. Yet, never has he known Gil-galad to hold him at a distance in their lovemaking. It is a gift, freely given.
Perhaps, as Gil-galad has said, the reason one heart binds to another is not something they can fathom. His mind rebels at this uncertainty; he has spent yéni learning that one metal will strengthen another and that one gem will cleave cleanly where another will not. The heart, however, has no well-ordered properties designed by Aulë. It simply is.
(1) Lambengolmor - lit. 'loremasters of tongues' (Q)
Pengolodh was the leader of the Lambengolmor in Middle-earth. (ref The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar' p 396 pub Houghton Mifflin)
(2) 'Elemmakil for the ironsmiths'
Tolkien doesn't give us much information about Elemmakil - we don't even know to which house he belonged. I've made him an ironsmith for convenience - and, dare I say, plot development.
(3) Enerdhil
According to one version, Enerdhil is the jewel-smith of Gondolin who made the Elessar. (ref Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' pp 261-2 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)
(4) ósanwë - lit. 'interchange of thought'; 'mind speech' (Q)
(ref Vinyar Tengwar, No 39, July 1998, p 33)