Author Notes: In 'Last Writings', Tolkien states that Gil-galad did meet with Annatar. This seems more plausible to me than the versions told in 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age' and 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn', in which he bars Annatar and his emissaries from Lindon altogether. One does not meddle in the affairs of wizards without good reason, such as strong feeling that could only come from an actual meeting. (1)
Disclaimer: With the exception of a few supporting roles and much embellishment, the characters and story still belong to Mr Tolkien.
Forlond, SA 1252
Ethuil
"Old Ossë is in a rare temper tonight," Elwandor says, whisking away the empty teacup.
A spate of rain strikes the windows; Gil-galad can just make out the foam-tipped waves rising like snakes under a starless sky. "That he is. What is his complaint, do you think?"
Elwandor shakes his head. "I cannot say. If the matter concerns the Elves, I am sure our Lord Shipwright will know it. By your leave?"
Gil-galad hides a smile at the Falathren elf's - and his own - implied deference to Círdan. "You may retire."
He shrugs out of his dressing gown and slides between sheets made cosy by a bed-warmer in defiance of the cold streaming between the windowpanes. In the quiet moments, those between night and living dream, he finds simple joy in his bond to Celebrimbor, a comforting glow that lights the way to pleasant dream.
The morning fails to quiet Ossë. Clouds hang heavy over Forlond and Arien watches from a far distance. Nonetheless, the courier had reached Minas Silivren in advance of the storm, and Elwandor has tucked two personal letters underneath the bread plate. One comes from Celebrimbor, the other from Númenor.
The latter pleases Gil-galad almost as much as the former. With the Lord of Andúnië's aid, he had sent cautious overtures of friendship to Anárion, the son and apparent heir to Tar Ancalimë. The letter makes no promises, but indicates a cordiality missing from current relations with Númenor. Anárion is clearly not his headstrong grandfather, but that is perhaps well; Gil-galad feels partly at fault for the coldness between their people. Had he curbed Aldarion's wilfulness, perhaps his daughter would be less self-engrossed.
Celebrimbor has addressed his letter in beautiful, looping tengwar: an ancient style. His own writing is precise and unembellished, designed for haste. The King's Hand, to his amusement, is now the standard taught to young elves. His tutors, who had tried in vain to teach him the art of writing, would weep, but art is best left to those to whom it is their business, he believes.
Art is most certainly Celebrimbor's business, but he has little to tell of his work; rather, he sends affection and warm desire.
He holds the letter in his lap, unsettled. He cannot decipher the words between the lines, yet what is unsaid, he judges, is left deliberately so. What is it that Celebrimbor chooses not to tell him?
He takes unnecessary care in the blotting of his signature, his mind still preoccupied by Celebrimbor's letter. The waning of passion, claim the loremasters, is the usual course of love between Elves. Yet passion is not lacking, nor is love. The loss of a confederate - a like mind whose support and advice he can trust - he mourns most in Celebrimbor's absence.
He reproaches the roiling sky for encouraging such melancholy. In the midst of a bitter storm, the usual sounds of the palace drown in the wind and he feels like he is the last child of Ilúvatar. Enraged howls batter the windows, as if something is desperate to come inside the walls.
Gil-galad jumps at a knock at his door and laughs shakily at his own imagination. "Yes?"
Elrond slips into the room. "You have the most curious visitor."
"Can he wait? I will be in the presence chamber shortly."
Elrond's brow creases. "So I would have told him, but I thought you would rather receive a Maia privately."
"A Maia? Truly?"
"Indeed." Elrond's face is strangely neutral.
Across the threshold, the Maia casts a shadow of immense height, and upon appearance, his form nearly fills the doorway. He has chosen the guise of a Man - a very well-formed man, in Gil-galad's opinion.
"Artanáro Artaherion, Tar Etyangoldion. I have long anticipated this meeting." (2)
"Then I am at a disadvantage, for I neither anticipated this meeting nor are you known to me."
"You may call me Annatar, for to bring gifts upon Men and Elves have I been sent hither."
'He is modest, at least,' Gil-galad thinks sardonically. Should he await the Maia's permission to sit, or does the other await his invitation? "Please sit," he says finally, and when Annatar is settled, he takes his own chair. "The only gift we ask is the dissolution of the Shadow."
"The shadow?"
"The evil that now creeps across Ennor - an agent of Morgoth who awakens his foul issue and plants darkness in the hearts of Men." (3)
"I know nothing of any shadow, save the Doom the Elves have taken upon themselves." He smiles beneficently. "I come to lift that burden from you, to show you how Ennor might be made as blissful as the Blissful Realm itself."
Gil-galad raises his eyebrows. True, the Doom is but prophecy, but such prophecy had been made with Eru's design in mind. He is too well versed in his faith to be caught so easily. "You claim to come at the behest of the Valar, yet what you suggest - that we Elves can recreate the bliss of Aman in Ennor - is blasphemous."
For just a moment, the mask slips. "You labour under the delusion that the Valar still concern themselves with Ennor. Having refused their summons, do you believe that they hear your prayers?"
"I do not believe - I know. I know that Ulmo still whispers in the waters; I know that Manwë's great servants, the eagles, still watch over us; I know that Varda still hears us when we call to her." For whatever purpose this Annatar might have come, he has done so without charge of the Valar. The Ainur are to be honoured, he has been taught, but he knows also that the Wise are not always so. He draws a deep breath. "I do not think we have need of your 'gifts', Annatar. Here or elsewhere in Ennor."
Before Gil-galad can recoil, Annatar has reached across the desk. His thumb traces the hollow above his jaw and kisses over his lips. "Time will come when you regret," he says softly. "When all your allies hearken to me, you will stand alone in your righteousness." With a flourish of his cloak, he is gone.
Gil-galad touches his face. His skin burns as if he has leant too near to a forge.
Elrond re-enters, shutting the door behind him.
"See that he leaves the city."
"I have already sent two of the guard to ensure it."
"You do not trust him, either."
"No."
He dreams of the most intimate of touches, his own urgency hurrying toward a conclusion that is physically satisfying and yet without pleasure. As his shudders bring him near to waking, Celebrimbor's grey eyes darken to blackest night; a thumb caresses his jaw.
Fully alert now, he seethes with indignation. What right has this Annatar to disturb his dreams? What right has he to assault him where trust and closeness leave him most unguarded? He throws back the covers and goes to the washbasin, hardly noticing the cold as he does his best to cleanse himself. His skin fairly crawls.
"You are about early, híren," Elwandor remarks, entering the bedchamber. He kneels by the grate and stirs the fire to life. "Will you want your breakfast now?"
"Yes - and ask Elrond to join me." After Annatar's departure, a pall of inaction had come over him. Now, he feels as if a spell has been lifted and his turn has come to advance his pawn.
Elrond arrives in the wake of Elwandor's return with breakfast. "I am sorry for my appearance, but I was just rising-."
Gil-galad waves off the apology with impatience. "Send for Círdan as soon as you can. I suppose that we will have to have Arphenion present." He thinks for a moment. He needs the advice of an Exile who might have known Annatar in Valinor, and he wants one less cavillous than Arphenion. "And Gildor," he adds. He sips at his tea, already turned cold. "And then I want every book and scroll in the library that might refer to Annatar."
"All of this before breakfast?"
"I suppose you may eat first," he concedes with a grin.
"What exactly is it that you fear?" Elrond reaches for the bread. "What is Annatar's intention, do you think?"
"That is just what I fear - I do not know what he intends." Already, he is a step behind.
The weather has turned fair again. The gardeners sorrowfully collect leaves and branches torn away by the storm, but the lawns are clearly glad for the rain. Too restless to sit down to work that seems trivial in light of yesterday's visitor, Gil-galad is drawn to the window overlooking the gardens, where the court has turned out in pairs and threes. Birds swoop and chatter at the elves, eager to play. Two fly up to his window, calling to him. He laughs at their antics. "Off with you! Have you not a nest to build?" The birds look at one another and then at his window, and he might swear that they are considering his window ledge for that very purpose. He hopes that they will, though he suspects that the housemaids will take a dim view of the mess.
Far below, Luinel and a companion catch sight of him at the window and gesture for him to come down. He smiles and shakes his head; just to stand in the golden light of Anor lifts his heart. Behind the two ladies, the ancient horse-master sets a dignified pace with his wife, nodding indulgently at a younger pair of lovers who sit entwined in close conversation by the fountain.
Elemmakil and Thilia: Gil-galad grimaces upon recognition of the couple. He can do nothing about the situation that has all the courtiers atwitter. His authority seeks to promote the Laws, but they are not his to judge - only the Valar can do that. Truthfully, he is rather relieved to leave the matter to the Powers, given his unfortunate history with Thilia.
No, he wishes her every happiness but cannot see how she will find it in Egalmoth's lover. Elemmakil's newfound love is incomprehensible to Gil-galad; such faithlessness to a mate should not happen, not among their kind. Not even the Halls of Mandos can separate two elves once bonded - or so he has been taught.
"And you sent him away?" Arphenion's voice rises to the edge of disbelief.
"You did not speak with him," Gil-galad says patiently. "You will have to trust my instinct."
"Your instinct I do not doubt. Your wisdom, I suspect."
"Just as one might suspect the wisdom of making war on a Vala."
"Do not quote your history books at me," Arphenion snaps. "I lived those wars of which you have only read."
"I am aware that I have made a powerful enemy, Arphenion, but I fear his friendship comes at greater cost." He turns to Gildor. "Did you know this Annatar in Valinor?"
"I think he is using a name convenient to his purpose, and whatever physical form he assumed in Valinor, it would not have been that of a Man in the Years of the Trees. Yet," Gildor glances at Arphenion, "he might not have been known to us at all and still, that would not signify that he was once a servant of Morgoth."
"But you think that possible," Gil-galad presses, an idea forming in his mind.
"I think it probable."
He glances at Arphenion in surprise.
"Círdan?"
The ancient elf is silent for a moment. "The temptation is strong to overstep ourselves and assume powers best left to those with the wisdom to wield them, be we Elf or Maia, Vala or Man. Evil may come of the best intentions."
Gil-galad looks at Círdan soberly, understanding the warning inherent in his words.
"If we are agreed, then, that Annatar comes with no good purpose," Elrond says, "should we not warn the Eldar in Eriador and our friends among Men?"
"And Oropher and the Avari," Gildor adds.
Gil-galad pulls at his braid with a sigh. He thinks it unlikely that the Sindarin lord - or king, as he now calls himself - feels more kindly towards him today than he did in the past Age. "A warning from me might well be an invitation to Annatar," he admits.
"I do not think Oropher is so ruled by his passions," Círdan says. "My heart tells me that he wants to be left in peace."
"I think our efforts are better concentrated on Men," Arphenion interjects.
"Elves can also be deceived," Círdan says mildly.
"Will Men heed our warnings?" Gildor asks. "What he might promise them - riches, power - might seem hard to resist, even at the cost of our friendship."
"I think it best that we do not threaten them," Gil-galad says. "Rather, we must show them that his 'gifts' do not come unfettered. I think the Edain will hear that."
He rubs his eyes, irritated by dust in volumes that no one has taken from the shelves since scribes last copied them for preservation. Valar, how many elves had written their memoirs while awaiting their turn to sail to Tol Eressëa? He closes another book and adds it to the pile of rejects.
Elrond reads with the practiced eye of one used to skimming for information, his right hand turning the pages steadily. His left hand swipes repeatedly at an errant braid, tucking it again behind one tapered ear.
'From his father,' Gil-galad thinks. Elwing, he remembers, has round ears, like those of Men. He wonders if that erect tip is as sensitive as the tip of Elven ears. Does the caress of a tongue over the flushed point elicit soft gasps? Perhaps none have ever dared. He is once again stymied by all that he does not know of his reticent adviser.
Elrond looks up suddenly, as if he feels the pierce of Gil-galad's eyes. "Did you need my assistance?"
The act of staring is one for which no Elf would feel compelled to apologise. Gil-galad nonetheless has the urge to do so. That, he chides himself, comes of impure thoughts.
"I begin to think this is hopeless," he says. "If Arphenion and Gildor do not know him, it is not likely that the daughter of a shoemaker will be much help."
Elrond looks relieved. "We do not even know what it is that we seek, and in the meantime, we have neglected all else."
Gil-galad glances at the growing stacks of letters and petitions and cringes. Elrond begins to collect the volumes scattered about, and Gil-galad finds himself staring again. A shiver of desire courses through his body. Seldom is any tale told of deeds of lust. What tales are told do not end well. He might blame Celebrimbor's absence, but the failing is his alone, and he knows not what to do about it. (4)
"So! What is it that you want to discuss in private?" Círdan asks, deftly filleting his salmon.
"Perhaps I asked you to supp in my chambers because I was jealous of your company," Gil-galad hedges with a smile.
"Hmmm."
Gil-galad swirls the wine in his glass. "What if Annatar and the Shadow are the same?"
"Do you think that they are?"
"I am filled with doubt," he admits. "To turn him away from Lindon is one thing, but to spread word of my mistrust amongst our allies is akin to an attack."
"Trust in your perception, Ereinion. I do."
"You do not think that I overstep myself, opposing a Maia?"
"No," Círdan says. "I think it is your doom."
Laer
I fear your warning comes too late, for Annatar has already been received by the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. I distrusted him immediately, and in Valinor, I heard of no such Maia among the Aulendili. Yet, the favour you have bestowed upon Celebrimbor, and his status - particularly among those who served his House - place me in a difficult position, and I am reluctant to act. (5)
Gil-galad laughs without humour. Galadriel cares little for his authority and even less for Celebrimbor's status as Lord of Eregion. For reasons known only to her, she has chosen to abstain from decision here. Surely, though, Celebrimbor will disassociate himself from the Maia upon receipt of his letter.
Still, if one of the Calaquendi can be so deceived, then perhaps they have dismissed Annatar's appeal to the elves beyond Hithaeglir too quickly. Círdan will know best how to approach the elves of Belfalas, Gil-galad decides. As for Oropher...who better to send as his emissary than Oropher's own kin? He picks up a sheet of parchment and begins to write. (6)
A separation, that is all that is needed. This unwholesome desire will wane in Elrond's absence. It must.
(1) Tolkien states that Gil-galad did meet with Annatar
(The Peoples of Middle-earth, 'Last Writings' p382 pub Houghton Mifflin)
(2) Artanáro Artaherion, Tar Etyangoldion (Q)
Artanáro son of Artaher, High King of the Exiled Noldor - Artaher is Arothir's Quenya name; Etyangoldion is the genitive case of attested Etyangoldi.
(3) agent of Morgoth
Gil-galad knew quite early on that the Shadow was connected to Morgoth, and stated this in his letter to Tar Meneldur, written in 882. (Unfinished Tales, 'Aldarion and Erendis' p209 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)
(4) Seldom is any tale told of deeds of lust.
(Morgoth's Ring, 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar' p210 pub Houghton Mifflin)
(5) I heard of no such Maia among the Aulendili
(Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p266 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)
(6) Oropher's own kin
Legolas twice refers to his kinship with Celeborn in FOTR. (LOTR, Book Two, Ch VI p339 & 346 pub Houghton Mifflin) As Nimloth, Elrond's grandmother, is Celeborn's niece, Elrond would be relatively close kin to Oropher, assuming that Oropher is also a descendant of Elmo, the most likely source of Celeborn's kinship with Legolas. (Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p244 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)