Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien, with the exception of Arphenion and Luinel.
Laer, SA 550
He surfaces from his dreamscape with the desperation of one drowning. He lifts his head from the pillow to listen; nothing disturbs the night. What woke him, he cannot say, but the dread follows him from sleep.
He knows that it is not nearly morning and that he will sleep no more tonight. Stirring now, he thinks that he should draft some letters or read reports, but Celebrimbor murmurs something unintelligible and curls an arm over his torso, effectively trapping him. He does not mind, however - the touch soothes him.
When Elwandor finally brings his tea, he tries to move Celebrimbor's arm, but his lover tightens his grip and nuzzles his neck.
"Let Arphenion wait." Celebrimbor slides his hand under the covers. "I think you will find me much more entertaining."
Gil-galad rolls over and kisses him, regret heavy in his groin. "You might have thought of this last night when you came to bed."
"I was sooty and dirty, then."
"And you are not, now?"
"I no longer care."
"I might." He leans over to kiss Celebrimbor again and is very tempted to be late to his morning appointments. Reluctantly, he pulls away and gets out of bed before he can rethink the matter.
"Did you sleep at all, last night?"
He fastens his dressing gown and looks around, surprised. "Enough," he says truthfully. Fortunately, he does not seem to need much sleep.
Celebrimbor starts to speak, but the chambermaid's knock interrupts them. Gil-galad hastily drinks his tea and follows the maid into the bath. If he is sleeping more poorly than usual, it signifies only that his mind is too busy to rest, and nothing more.
"And you base such claims on what? The word of some Avar who talks to trees?"
"It is only a feeling. But yes, the Laegrim were nervous when Círdan's folk last met them." Elemmakil glares at Arphenion.
Gil-galad turns away from the window. "Elrond, what are your thoughts?"
"I concur with Elemmakil. I cannot explain it, but it is as if a shadow has fallen."
"First the ramblings of tree-dwellers and now the wisdom of youth."
"And yet they are right, Arphenion. You sense it, too," Celebrimbor says.
Gil-galad knows that the captain is only making trouble; he has already heard his report in their private meeting. Arphenion's feigned scepticism serves his own aims. He takes his seat. "Let us withhold further discussion - I think we are in agreement that something fell is lurking, but we know nothing more." He looks at each member of the council in turn before going on. "For now, this matter remains behind these doors." It will serve nothing to alarm the general populace. No doubt, many feel the disturbance, but he does not want rumours to fuel unease among the Noldor.
He adjourns the meeting and retires to his study. He makes a note to send Elrond into Eriador to see what he can learn from the Mannish settlements. If he can find time to make the trip, he very much wants to speak with Círdan. And Celeborn's representative waits on a response to his lord's letter. Gil-galad realises that he has no time for dinner. He had sealed the letter to Celeborn late last night, but the morning has brought new tidings, and he will have to compose an addendum.
He begins to wish he were a shipwright in Mithlond. He presses his fingers to his temples, prompting a memory of childhood from the unhappy days after Finrod's departure.
"Ereinion! Naneth has been looking for you everywhere." Finduilas turned up the lamp, chasing away the darkest shadows in his bedchamber. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"
"My fëa is heavy."
"Silly, your fëa cannot be heavy. You mean to say that your heart is heavy."
"That is not what I meant." He crossed his arms stubbornly.
Finduilas knelt on the floor beside him. "What does it feel like, to have a heavy fëa?"
He gave a great sigh and hid his face in the folds of her gown. He could not explain; he did not yet have the words.
"You have big thoughts for such a little elf," she said, smoothing strands of his untidy braid away from his face. "You should not worry so."
His sister smelled of lavender and wore violets in her hair. Lavender still relieves tension in his head. And his fëa is still heavy.
From his study, he makes for the practice yards. He had been surprised and a little wary when Arphenion had suggested this daily exercise, but he has come to look forward to it - there is nothing like physical combat with a foe to work out the frustrations of the day.
The two elves square off, each on his guard lest the other strike first. In all things, he is cautious by nature, reluctant to take the offensive until he is certain of his opponent's intent. Arphenion has forced him to be more bold; in the beginning of their sessions, he had been so overmatched that he found it best to strike before the captain could develop a strategy.
He feints, ducks the counter thrust and steps to the right, looking for an opening. In the past season, Arphenion has taken to less conventional manoeuvres - less artful and more cunning, and Gil-galad has thought this a sign of his improvement. It occurs to him now that Arphenion's technique has changed out of necessity.
"You have been training me for war."
"Perhaps it is not my intent to see you killed the first time you ride into battle, Tauren."
He misses his footing and finds himself looking down the blade of Arphenion's sword. He smacks it away, irritated at his inattention. He has learnt enough for the day.
He looks for Celebrimbor in the larger forge, built to house the work of the Mírdain. When Pengolodh had disclosed his wish to revive the Lambengolmor, the notion had come to him that the guilds might be exactly what Celebrimbor needed. The Mírdain are more than a fraternity of elite jewel-smiths - they also instruct young elves in their art. Celebrimbor would never take an apprentice - he has attention for nothing but his craft while at work - but he is a good teacher, when called upon to demonstrate a technique or explain the principles of metallurgy. For this, he remains on these shores - to give back to those who suffered from his family's misdeeds - and he speaks with pride of his students.
Gil-galad slips in unobtrusively, he hopes, coming straight from the exercise yard and not yet dressed in formal robes that would draw attention. Celebrimbor is just finishing a lecture on annealing that utterly goes over his head. When he is finished, the elf sitting on the floor near Gil-galad's feet jumps up and nearly crashes into him, her eyes widening in recognition of the High King. She performs a nervous bow and murmurs something that sounds like an apology before she skitters out, actually twitching with horror.
"She will make a fine smith, I think. She cannot put two words together unless one is the name of a metal," Celebrimbor says. He sobers. "I knew her father in Aman. He was a sword-smith of great skill."
"Was?"
"He lost an arm at the Havens."
Gil-galad can guess he had not been one of those defending the Havens. From his vantage point near the door, he can see the elf-maid greeting her father with the enthusiasm of a puppy. Their simple happiness contrasts sharply with the cloud of uncertain darkness that has haunted him this day.
"The watchfires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps." (1)
"I am not going to supper with you if you are going to quote Pengolodh at me."
He barely hears Celebrimbor's words. "I had nightmarish dreams as a child."
"I know."
"I had almost forgotten."
"And now you are having them again."
"I ceased to have the dreams on Balar. That is why they sent me there, was it not?"
Celebrimbor's hand falls on his shoulder. "Artanáro, they grieved for you. Do not think they did not. It is a terrible thing to be separated from a child. Yet, they feared for you more." Celebrimbor is silent a moment. "I fear for you."
He frowns at concern he instinctively resents - he is no longer a child. "Are you finished here?"
The outbuildings are deserted, as craftspeople and servants have left off their work for the day. The cobblestones retain Anor's warmth; her setting rays paint the west-facing walls in gold. Night approaches, but on slow feet.
"There is a reason you are having them again," Celebrimbor says presently. "I know not why, or how, but what brought them upon you then is tied to this evil that is falling."
Gil-galad suppresses a shudder. Living dream is just that to elves; the terrors that troubled him as a child were not spawn of overactive imagination.
They are not yet late for supper, he sees as they enter the palace. In the gallery above them, the lords and ladies of court flirt over aperitifs in their formal robes and gowns of blues, whites and silver. They make a pretty tableau, like a day of sunshine amid clouds. He and Celebrimbor part ways before his chambers - Celebrimbor still keeps his own rooms, serving the thin pretence that he is not sleeping in the High King's bed.
Gil-galad is just getting out of the bath when Celebrimbor walks in, clad in nothing but his leggings.
"Is your bath still warm? My chambermaid has taken a dislike to me, I think - she must have carried up blocks from the ice house to fill mine."
"More likely, she has no clue when or if you will be getting dressed for supper and has given up guessing when you shall need a hot bath. Indeed, I suspect that you would be tinkering with something even now had I not come to fetch you."
Celebrimbor raises his eyebrows. "I am not the only one who has been distracted, of late."
He ignores this; Celebrimbor's half-naked presence is much easier to contemplate than his complaint. With his towel, he pulls Celebrimbor into an embrace. "You do not really need a bath."
"If you have your way, we shall both need baths. And we shall miss supper."
"It would be a shame to miss supper. I hear that the minstrels from Harlindon plan to debut Galadriel's very latest composition."
Celebrimbor groans, though whether he does so because his leggings look suddenly very tight or at the threat of Galadriel's music, Gil-galad cannot say. He runs his tongue over Celebrimbor's ear and into the hollow of his throat, hands working to rid him of his leggings, and, pleased at the resulting gasps, he continues along the sensitive line of the jugular.
"Artanáro-."
He lowers his lips to Celebrimbor's neck, humming in answer, and receives a groan and a curse in response.
"A bath would be much quicker than being licked head to toe. And I am growing impatient."
He releases Celebrimbor just enough to allow him to step out of his leggings, and they fall together on the bed, tussling for position. He has always had the advantage of longer legs, but they are almost evenly matched, now, in upper body strength. When had that happened? He will have to thank Arphenion for the regular exercise, he thinks with a smirk.
"It is not polite to laugh at one who is about to bed you. It could have untoward effects."
"Please! Spare me the reference to 'wilting pride'." He shivers as Celebrimbor closes his mouth around his nipple. "No laughter, I promise."
Darkness has crept across the room, leaving them in a pool of candlelight beyond its reach. He watches Celebrimbor's shadow, thrown across the wall, and sees in the play of flame the elf beneath the wrappings, its rise and fall never varying in its rhythm or force, as a hammer might fall upon steel; fluid grace and taut lines that he will feel later in bruised hips. He melds into the flame, for the moment, lets it consume him, so that when he comes, he nearly plunges into the inferno beyond - so nearly, he twists away in panic.
He winces at the hard set of Celebrimbor's mouth, the look of reproach - or perhaps, disappointment - but the searing heat, the spirit of fire in Celebrimbor's mind, had terrified him beyond reason.
"Tyelpë." Celebrimbor's expression fails to soften, and Gil-galad tries again, this time with his heart.
Len melon. (2)
He waits for a response that does not come. Hurt, he pulls away and slips out of bed. Afraid of what his face might reveal, he keeps his back turned as he cleans up at the washstand and dresses. He hears the other elf rustling about, gathering his discarded leggings and taking his turn at the washstand. He averts his eyes as he passes Celebrimbor on his way to the door.
"Artanáro." Celebrimbor reaches for his arm.
He sidesteps the attempt. "I have work to do."
He has petitions to answer, a task generally requiring little thought, ideal for his distracted attention. A scholar in Harlindon wants permission to study at the King's Library; a mother wants a place for her son at court. The first, he will simply grant; the second will go to Luinel to be decided. Celebrimbor tells him to leave such mundanelies to his advisors, but he does not like to cede control. It unnerves him to think that a key decision might be made without his knowledge.
His eye catches the precise and unembellished dwarven handwriting of a still-unanswered letter from Thek, the current King of Hadhodrond. (3)
You will no doubt be hearing complaints from your sculptors of the price of jade, but there is no help for it, as its getting has become more perilous of late. We have long had minor troubles with orcs in the Ered Mithrin, mostly theft and mischief; our stone delvers are far too numerous and quick with a sword for them to do much harm. In recent times, however, we have twice suffered the loss of life and goods in attacks upon our caravans by larger and better-organised bands of orcs.
The letter confirms Arphenion's belief that a chieftain has taken control of several petty factions. Still, is it a transient shift in power or is something more sinister at work?
A rap on the door startles him. He sees that his quill has left an enormous inkblot on the parchment he had been about to sign, and throws down the quill in disgust. "Yes?"
Elrond edges into the room, balancing a tray. "I thought you might want supper."
Gil-galad pushes papers aside to make room for the food. "This is hardly among your duties, but I am grateful and very hungry." He pours two glasses from the flagon of wine. "So why are you about so late tonight?"
"I spent the evening with a friend of old acquaintance. And you? Surely, paperwork can wait until the morrow."
"Oh, it will wait, and multiply while it does." He drains his glass and pours another. "Actually, I am glad you are here, as I wished to discuss the matter put before the council."
He has healthy respect for Elrond's instincts: he might be the youngest of his advisors, but he had fought in the War of Wrath, as no elf on the council had; he might be half-elven, but in his ancestry also runs the blood of a Maia.
Elrond rubs his chin in thought. "I am hesitant to do more than repeat what I said in council. Something stirs, that is certain."
"Some stroke of Morgoth that has lain dormant? A balrog or worm, perhaps - or something we have not yet seen?"
"No. Of that, I am sure. This is no stranger to us."
"That is what Celebrimbor believes." He takes another great swallow of wine, heedless of the potency he is starting to feel. He looks at Elrond over the rim of the glass and considers whether to say more with regard to Celebrimbor. He has discussed private matters with Elrond before now - they have talked of their childhoods and families - but never have they discussed matters of the heart. Indeed, he knows little of Elrond's affairs - he has seen him in the company of various ladies of the court, but he cannot think of one who seems to have his favour. Moreover, Elrond has not chosen to impart such information, and Gil-galad is reluctant to reveal intimacies when none have been offered. Elrond might rightly find such talk inappropriate for the relationship of King and advisor.
He sighs and swirls the wine in his glass, lonesomeness prickling behind his eyes. The plate of bread and cheese sits mostly untouched, and he realises a bit too late that his present mood has not benefited from a liquid supper.
"Gil-galad?"
"I am sorry, Elrond. I am not the best company tonight." He sits forward and sets the glass on his desk. "You are right - these petitions will wait." He lights a candle before blowing out the lamp, and they make their way toward the door. With one hand on the handle, he stops.
"I want peace," he says. "Our people have suffered enough from war and grief. I do not want this darkness."
"No. But still, it comes."
He is too uneasy to rest, or maybe overtired, and hovers on the edge of a dreamscape filled with shadow. He twitches awake when Celebrimbor comes in from the forge. Though he lies still, the tension in his limbs would betray his wakefulness even to one who does not know him so well. Celebrimbor spoons around him and kisses him just above the ear.
"Len melon," he says softly. "Sleep, now."
And he does.
(1) "The watchfires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps."
(ref The Silmarillion, 'Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin' p 176 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)
(2) Len melon
'I love you.' len, 'you' in the accusative case, is derived from attested le ('you' in the nominative case) and the pattern of attested accusative pronouns. melon, 'I love', first pers sing of mela-. (ref Vinyar Tengwar, No 45, Nov 2003 p 34 and David Salo, A Gateway to Sindarin, pub University of Utah Press)
(3) Thek (Old Norse)
We are missing the names of most of the dwarven kings of the Longbeards between Durin I, who died near the end of the First Age, and Durin VI, slain by the balrog in TA 1980. I've used the name of a dwarf from the Poetic Edda, the source of most of Tolkien's dwarf names.