Disclaimer: Tolkien still owns Arda. Hopefully, he won't mind if I borrow it.
Penninor, SA 881
The final day of the year dawns with false cheer; the sky is cloudless but the fire in the grate cannot quite banish the deep chill. Likewise, the familiar seal on the letter delivered with breakfast falls short of its promise. Affectionate but short, the letter fails to address his request. When he is finished with the meal, he reseals the letter and puts it in the drawer of his secretary. He will answer Celebrimbor later. He cannot trust his quill just now.
Elrond already awaits him in his study. He has sorted the petitions and correspondence, delegated or answered the lesser matters, and left what remains in order of most pressing. He gives report on the items Gil-galad will not see and takes his leave.
Distantly, he can hear the laughter of housemaids, giddy with anticipation of the night's celebration. Resolutely, he turns his attention to the charter in front of him. He might not share the excitement, but he has no wish to spend the evening bent over his work. Celebrimbor would tell him that if he cannot finish with the day's work, then the requestors will wait on it - "You are not at their beck and call," he would remind him - but without such discipline, he would soon be wading in papers. Though he has reluctantly shifted some of the burden to Elrond, his expanding influence comes at the cost of ever more demands on his time.
When he leaves his study at mid-morning, the stack bearing his seal, ready for dispatch, has grown appreciably. He will be late for Arphenion's report, but deliberately so. The captain is a stickler for punctuality, and he is one elf who bears reminder that the king is not at his beck and call.
He pauses by an east-facing window on his way to Arphenion's offices. Cold air creeps around the lead glazing, but the windows are only shuttered during the most violent of storms - no Elf could stay long in a place without light of sun and stars. He scratches away the frost still clinging to the glass and squints into the sunlight. Trade wagons, light carriages and solitary travellers on horseback dot the road from Mithlond, but none of the lords riding abroad wear the distinctive red and black.
"You were expecting another guest?" Unlooked for, Círdan had come to Forlond yestereve with the Hirilondë, Aldarion's great ship, "to see the fireworks," he said.
Aldarion had been more blunt. "We have come to cheer you, lest you dampen the festivities with your moping."
"He has never stayed away so long," he says to Círdan, turning away from the window.
"Why, by the Valar, do you not go to Eregion?"
He grimaces; they both know the reason. He can argue that he can hardly leave Forlond for so long, but the truth lies in pride. He is the loser in a contest with Celebrimbor's craft, and Círdan thankfully does not mention that he had long ago warned him of this. "I have a meeting to attend," he says abruptly, and walks away before his foster-father's concern overwhelms him.
Disquieting quiet has settled over Eriador in the past ennin, and Arphenion's report is accordingly short and unremarkable. The Shadow has withdrawn; Gil-galad knows this from his untroubled dreams, from the menace that seems muted. Yet, its distance brings him no comfort - it will return, with strength it is even now building. (1)
"We have still to find any trace of Gellin," Arphenion says, finishing his report.
Acting as a spy, the elf had given word of his wellbeing to the Sindar in Belfalas. Some four weeks later, Gellin had left a cryptic message with Aldarion at a Mannish port further east. He had heard strange tales of fire and brimstone from men in the region, and planned to follow his instincts toward the source. A round of the sun has passed without further communication. Gil-galad has already informed Gellin's wife of his presumed death, and to his mind, the matter is finished.
"What he found might be important," Arphenion argues.
"And yet we know not where he went, and any elf sent to track him might easily come to the same end, for his questions would be a warning in the wrong hands. We have neither enemies nor allies beyond Hithaeglir."
"Then perhaps it is time we ventured farther afield."
Gil-galad studies the slate board tracking troop assignments. They have warriors in Tharbad and, under Galadriel's command, in Ost-in-Edhil. Other warriors occupy watches in the heights of the Ered Luin or hold checkpoints along the East Road. They are already stretched thin. "We do not have enough Elves. But," he muses, "there are also Men. I will see if Aldarion's people can discover anything." (2, 3)
Arphenion snorts. "You put too much trust in Men."
"I put my trust in those who have earned it."
"Ah, yes. You have said that." With a few graceful steps, Arphenion closes in behind him, so near that he can feel hot breath on the tip of his ear. "Trust can be betrayed."
Gil-galad falters at the edge of the trap, but catches himself. Arphenion knows nothing - he is toying with him. "If you are bored, Captain, I can easily arrange for you to pass a few dozen rounds of the sun in direct supervision of the garrison at Tharbad. Elsewise, it is better if you do not speak of what you do not know," he snaps.
"As you wish," comes the unruffled answer, and loath as Gil-galad might be to admit it, Arphenion succeeds in planting the seeds of doubt.
A servant offers cups of hot cider to take the chill off the air. Were Celebrimbor here, he would complain of some minor fault in the silver serving tray, one of his own crafting, and Gil-galad would catch his sleeve to keep him from chasing after the serving girl to banish the offending tray. He closes his eyes, imagining the conversation.
"I assure you no one will notice."
"But I will."
"Then I must keep you from looking," he would say, and the tray would be forgotten in a kiss stolen in the shadows of the gallery. Celebrimbor would taste of apples and nutmeg and spirits - a promise of more to be consumed later.
"Tauren?"
His eyes fly open. His expression must reveal something of his thoughts, for Moebeth gives him a queer look.
"The joust is about to begin in the practice yards."
"Thank you." He falls into step with the guard. "Is it true that you will be participating this year?" he asks.
"It is, Tauren."
"Then I wish you luck, though I fear it may cost me my chambermaid," he says, grinning at the pink glow that spreads over Moebeth's cheeks. The prize for the winner of the tournament is a spacious house in Forlond, ideal for young elves starting a family. The Crown had come into its possession when the inhabitants sailed for Valinor leaving no heirs, and such a reward fits well within his official endorsement of marriage and the begetting of children as natural according to the Laws of the Eldar. His own hypocrisy - particularly in the subtle discouragement of bonds between ellyn - does not escape him, but neither does its necessity. In one matter, at least, he and Arphenion are of the same mind: war will come, and they will need warriors. (4)
He takes his seat in the middle of the field and beckons Aldarion to the place at his right. "I was surprised to find that you had been in Mithlond - you have tarried long in Ennor, and your last letter from Vinyalondë indicated that you would return to Númenor before leaf-fall."
"I wished to consult with Círdan on the building of flat-bottomed boats. We think the Gwathló can be made navigable as far as Tharbad," Aldarion says, his face alight with enthusiasm for the project. "I fear my stay has been lengthened by the need to establish a permanent presence in Vinyalondë. We have had much trouble with the native folk of the region - now that my father has forbidden the harvest of wood in Númenor to the Uinendili, we are forced to seek wood elsewhere, and the Gwathuirim resent it. They do much damage to the port in our absence."
"It would be better if there were no enmity between your peoples, for evil finds fertile ground in anger," Gil-galad warns. On the field, a combatant yields in defeat, and Gil-galad pauses to join the crowd in applause for the victor of the match. As two more hopefuls take the field, he turns again to Aldarion. "My heart tells me that other reasons have kept you here so long, mellon."
The man's fair face grows sombre. "You know of my father's opposition, and Erendis is of the same mind. Vinyalondë has become a haven for me, as much as the sea herself."
Though he sympathises with his friend, the state of relations between Aldarion and Tar-Meneldur - and the possible consequence for the alliance between Númenor and Lindon - worry him greatly. He had been pleased at Aldarion's marriage, as he had long feared that the man's infatuation with him would sour their friendship. Alas, it seems that such happiness as had attended the marriage has proved unlasting. "Hiril Erendis is hardly at fault for missing her husband, and it seems to me a great ill to be separated from a daughter who is yet so small," he says gently.
"My father wished me to marry, and I have done so," Aldarion says, a hint of petulance in his voice.
"You still lack an heir," Gil-galad reminds him.
"As do you."
Gil-galad considers his answer carefully. True, he might fall from his horse, or drown at sea or be slain in battle. Aldarion, however, will die, of age if not accident. He is loath to speak of his friend's mortality, however. "I turned from that path a long time ago," he says at last. "I was young, and valued my happiness over duty."
"You sound as if you regret it."
"No." The answer comes without thought under Aldarion's searching look, but it begs another question. 'Would I do the same now?' he wonders.
"Perhaps I can ease matters somewhat with your father," he says presently. "Ere you take ship for your return to Númenor, I will have a letter for him." He does not know if Meneldur holds him to blame for his son's wanderlust, but if he is wise, then surely he must see that Númenor, too, is at risk should the Shadow continue to grow.
By the end of the tournament, the air is thick with the scent of roast lamb. Fireworks follow the banquet, and at last, the musicians begin to play in the great hall and the dancing and jests begin. Catching sight of Luinel, who stands near the doorway counting heads, Gil-galad takes her hand and pulls her into the ring of dancers. "Come, hirilen, the servants know their duties and you are entitled to enjoy yourself."
The roundelay increases in speed, with first the men of Aldarion's crew bowing out, and then the less nimble among the elves, laughing as they fall out of step. Gil-galad and Luinel are among the next group to step out. Elrond lasts another round, but soon, only the elves of Gondolin, where Idril had popularised the dance, remain. When Elemmakil and Thilia have outlasted everyone, their feet moving in a blur, the musicians take a needed break. Gil-galad threads his way through the crowd toward Elrond and the lady who has become his rather frequent escort at such events.
If he is to believe court gossip, their betrothal is a near certainty. In spite of the lady's connections, Gil-galad finds her a surprising choice. She seems too serious, as if her sense of humour is pinched. As he nears the couple, Elrond bows to the lady and comes to his side.
"I did not mean to take you from more agreeable company."
Elrond rolls his eyes. "Trust me, you did not."
"Indeed! Many would have you betrothed to her already."
"The court is saying this?"
"I hope the lady does not labour under the same delusion."
"I cannot have made my intentions clearer. She is rather...determined."
They make their way toward the jesters, who begin a rather clever farce about the 'King of Many Names', complete with a harried-looking Pengolodh and a long scroll on which he attempts to mark down all the names by which Gil-galad has been called. "They come from Eregion, from the Players' Guild," someone says.
By the middle of the night, the crowd is flagging; the most resolute of dancers will continue until dawn, but many of the feast-goers begin to drift away. Gil-galad feels the weariness of the long day, but the prospect of his empty rooms fills him with dread. "Come up to my chambers," he says to Elrond. "I have a special wine and need suitable company for its proper enjoyment."
While Elrond coaxes a warm blaze from the embers in the hearth of the sitting room, he fetches the wine from his bedchamber. "This is the true Dorwinion," he says, and sets out glasses purloined from the great hall. "The wine we served tonight is made by men of the region. They learnt to make it from the Tatyarin Avari who still live there. Arphenion somehow got hold of a dozen bottles when he was last in Tharbad, and I took two from him in a sparring match." (5)
Elrond raises an eyebrow. "May I ask what you wagered in return?"
"Let us say that losing was quite unthinkable." He sips his wine and waits to speak until Elrond sits back in his chair, his formal posture melting into ease.
"So, if this lady is not to your liking, tell me, then, who is."
Elrond sits up. "Gil-galad...Tauren," he begins, clearly unsure of his footing. "I would rather not answer that."
"You are a hard nut to crack. Why such secrecy?"
"In matters of the heart, we often profit more by ignorance than knowledge. Much awkwardness is thus avoided." His poise regained, Elrond looks him in the eye. "Do you not find it so?"
Once again, he has failed to pierce the veil. He has a sudden urge to kiss Elrond, to see the peredhel's composure fall away, to see if his lips can bring the thrum of desire to his skin he feels when he kisses Celebrimbor.
That such a thought has even come into his head disturbs him. Easily, he can blame Celebrimbor for his long absence, but adulterous desire is uncommon among Elves, or so the loremasters would have him believe. Certainly, many of the Noldor have endured far longer separations: wives who remained in Aman while their husbands went into exile; bonded mates parted by the death of one.
Hastily, he moves to more neutral ground. "What thoughts have you on Aldarion? I worry that his absences will set him forever against father and wife."
"She seems a hard lady, easily displeased. The sea is a less confounding mistress."
"Think you that his voyages might alter the succession?"
"You know Aldarion better than I do, and we have only his word on which to judge his father. Yet, I do not think Tar Meneldur would act so rashly - he seems to be of a conservative nature, and such an upset would be a grave matter." Elrond sips his wine, frowning in thought. "Aldarion is a man of great determination and foresight, yet he lacks both in the matter of Erendis."
"Perhaps he accepts what is inevitable."
"And yet, is trust not faith that continues without proof?" Elrond sets his glass on the table and refuses the offer of more. He stands as if to leave. "May I be candid?"
Gil-galad cringes inwardly; he has had enough solicitude for one day. "No," he says softly. "I would rather you were not."
After a moment's hesitation, Elrond bows to him. "Then I bid you good night. By your leave?"
When Elrond has gone, he tips the last of the bottle into his glass. It is a strong wine, meant to be savoured slowly over a meal, and small help he has had in its dispatch. Such solace as he seeks is no more likely to be found in spirits than it is to be found at sea, or in lust or in his work. Nor is it to be found in suspicion that reflects his own state of mind rather than any fault of Celebrimbor.
He drains his glass and weaves his way toward bed. Elwandor will click his tongue at such laxity, but he leaves his robes in a heap on the floor and crawls into bed, eager to find the blessed peace of sleep.
Would I do the same now?
His circlet has become so much a part of him that he hardly recognises the young elf who took up rule with such reluctance. That boy had wanted a lover who would fill him, and he could never have found that in a bond made out of duty.
Yet, perhaps he has not changed so, for his heart still yearns for that lover. If he questions his choice, he does so out of disappointment. His throat closes convulsively at the anger bubbling beneath the surface; he has only himself to blame.
"Two wishes of his heart collide - you may grant one or the other, but not both," Círdan had said, when he raged against Celebrimbor's request to go to Eregion.
"I should let him go, you think."
"Sometimes, what we want most would be better if it were not, and yet to withhold it would be like using a pebble to dam a river."
When has he ever had a choice? What was not chosen for him has come to him like Círdan's river, already a matter of fate. He tosses in frustration and tries to still his thoughts; he will be no better for a sleepless night. At last, Estë takes pity on him, putting the tumult in his mind to rest.
In living dream, he walks with Celebrimbor. Some nights, the subject matter is the sort that leaves a stain of evidence on his sheets, but more often, they talk. They never speak of daily matters - the fëa, apparently, could care less about his irritations with the King's Council or about Celebrimbor's designs for the House of the Mírdain. Their talks are philosophical in nature; he wakes with a memory of having discussed something of great profundity, but nothing concrete remains of it. Perhaps such things are beyond the waking mind's understanding.
Mostly, however, he is simply aware of Celebrimbor's presence, a warmth at his side that aches like a missing limb when he awakens alone.
This is such a wakening. He throws back the bedclothes and goes to the window, the yearning in his heart so wrenching, he feels as if it will break apart. Tilion is waxing, and he can see leagues into the distance. The road out of the east is still.
(1) ennin
Valian year (144 years)
(2) under Galadriel's command
This is somewhat symbolic - in practice, Celeborn would probably lead all warriors in Eregion, as he has the experience. In name, however, elves sent by the High King of the Noldor would be assigned to Galadriel. I do think Tolkien truly intended Galadriel to be at least capable of leading troops and acting as a warrior. In his attempt to rehabilitate her, he wrote, '...she with Celeborn fought heroically in defence of Alqualondë against the assault of the Noldor'. (Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p 243 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) Perhaps even more persuasive is her role in the War of the Ring: 'Celeborn came forth and led the host of Lórien over Anduin in many boats. They took Dol Guldur, and Galadriel threw down its walls and laid bare its pits...' (LOTR, 'Appendix B' p 1069 pub Houghton Mifflin) Tolkien revised the sequence of events in the fall of Eregion several times, but at least one version has Celeborn and Galadriel together fending off Sauron and leading the survivors through Moria, and that is the version I've chosen to use for this story.
(3) checkpoints along the East Road
The East-West Road at the time of the War of the Ring ran between Mithlond and Imladris. However, the original road must have led to Moria, since Imladris did not exist, and probably passed through Tharbad and Ost-in-Edhil at the time of this story. It would also make sense for it to have originally gone as far west as Forlond.
(4) ellyn
male elves (pl of ellon)
(5) Tatyarin Avari who still live there
In The Hobbit, Tolkien writes, 'The wine, and other goods, were brought from far away, from their kinsfolk in the South, or from the vineyards of Men in distant lands.' (The Hobbit, 'Barrels Out of Bond' p 176 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) 'Kinsfolk in the South' might refer to Lórien, though one has the impression that there was little communication between the two woodland realms. (Moreover, unlike Mirkwood, Lórien seems to have been quite insular.) Considering that the Sea of Helcar seems to have become, after the drowning of Beleriand, the Sea of Rhûn, it's possible that some of the Avari who never started the journey remained in the region. (Karen Wynn Fonstad, The Atlas of Middle Earth, 'The First Age' pp 4-5 pub Houghton Mifflin)