Disclaimer: The characters and evil doings of Annatar belong to Tolkien. The embellishments and a few minor players are my fault.
Forlond, SA 1325
He hears the quiet click of the latch and its catch as the door shuts again. Celebrimbor covers him, his touch gentle, his kisses reverent. He responds without thought, though his desire comes as much from fëa as hroa.
A dab of wetness falls on his cheek. They lie still one within the other, a physical connection from which he is loath to disengage himself, to hurry their separation. Celebrimbor's tears come not from contrition but regret. Underneath the familiar cinnamon heat, Gil-galad smells the stink of him.
At the appointed hour, Celebrimbor comes to his study. Gil-galad puts aside the letter from Hadhodrond. Staring without comprehension at the Dwarven-king's careful tengwar, he has rehearsed this interview a dozen times. Now he has Celebrimbor in front of him, however, he finds the setting too formal, his language too officious. He leaves his chair and goes to the window to stare blankly at the gardens as all words fall away.
Birds are nesting again in the deep recess of the window well. He once kept track of the generations, noting in a diary the meanest differences in feather and habit. 'A bird is a bird,' he thinks now.
"Why did you come to me?" The question is out before he knows that he has asked it.
"Why did you bring me here, as your prisoner?"
"I would have wished that you had come willingly, because I asked it of you."
"I would have wished that you had received me into your rooms, as your lover."
"I did not know if you would come."
"What you do not know of me could fill your library."
"No," Gil-galad sighs. "I know you too well." He turns to look at Celebrimbor. "Tyelpë...you do not see what a dangerous pact you make. He offers you what you most desire, but his price is too high!"
"And what is that price? You scarcely met with him. What price did he ask?"
"You have stated that you do not trust him. You must see that there will be a reckoning of accounts."
"You think I am so easily led. Why will you not trust my judgement?"
"Why will you not trust mine? You, who have reassured me of my wisdom countless times, now doubt me."
"Artanáro, I fear you are swayed too much by your heart. Where you once had respect for my craft, you now resent it, and fear it. Do you think that, having done all I hope to do, I will return to Valinor?" Celebrimbor looks at his hands. "I will not sail. I could not leave you."
"You cannot make such a promise, Tyelpë! No Elf can." He bites his lip; the words have tumbled out without thought. Is this why he resents Annatar's presence in Eregion? He turns back to the window and steadies himself against the thick stone wall. He can hear the echo of Círdan's words.
Trust your instinct, Ereinion.
"If you would but let me tell you of my work - how it could strengthen the Noldor - how it could strengthen you. I used to fear that I brought you this...discontent, but you have found unhappiness," Celebrimbor says quietly. "I did not lead you to it. There are powers untapped that can ease the heaviness in your heart."
Oh, such words hold truth, and the wound they leave would make him strike cruelly in his own defence. Yet the diabolical mind works thus, painting a lie with just enough reason to make it seem fair. Annatar has underestimated him. "He spoke of this to you, did he not? He warned you that I would be jealous of your ambition, and fearful of your success."
"He said nothing of the kind," Celebrimbor insists, but his eyes reveal his confusion.
"You are already in thrall to him. What is folly shall seem wise in his words, and what is wise shall seem selfish." He looks directly at Celebrimbor. "I say this to you as I would say to any so caught in his deceit. If you trust me at all, you will send him away."
"Do not ask this of me."
"I am not asking." Gil-galad waits, his breath bated as if the slightest movement might tip the rudder toward one side or the other.
Celebrimbor lowers his head. "No."
His words come easier than he expects. "Go then, if that is your choice. But do not expect to return."
The scrollwork of the tester, carved by an elf of Ossiriand who had long ago gone east with Oropher, still confounds him in the long, sleepless stretches of the night. He retires later and, if he sleeps at all, awakens earlier, and his dreamsleep meanders through a landscape of molten skies over creatures who swarm like ants, piling black rock ever higher. He wakes with the consciousness of shadowy movement and the memory of red pools ringed with black like poisoned sores. Before he had sent Elrond to Tharbad, ostensibly to stand as a bulwark against Annatar's encroachment, he had inquired whether some draught might bring more restful sleep.
"There are some infusions useful to those who suffer from grief or injury, but none for general wakefulness. If I may be frank, you do not sleep because you do not rest."
"If I could sleep, I would have rest," he had snapped, though he saw Elrond's meaning, and had made no more enquiries.
A low, but urgent knock at his door startles him. He raises himself on one elbow. "Yes?"
Moebeth enters, his smart colours in disarray. Evidently, he too had been roused from his bed. "Hîr Celebrimbor wishes to depart. Is that your will?"
"He has leave to go," Gil-galad says tiredly. He feels spent, as if the fëa that animates him has sought a less turbulent home. He can summon neither grief nor sorrow nor anger. He can think only of his growing dread at Annatar's unshakeable hold and of the weary grey of waking nights that blend into bleak mornings.
His sister had been fond of flowers, and tended a little garden upon Tol Sirion. She had mourned it greatly in the caves of Finrod - Nargothrond had not been kind to Finduilas. Gil-galad has heard that her gardens bloomed once again after Lúthien cast Sauron from the isle. He has not Finduilas' way with flowers, but the gardens bring him some rest, as nothing else can of late. After breakfast, he wraps himself in a light cloak against the morning's chill and leaves the palace.
In the rose garden, an elf leans forward to inhale the scent of a flower, her fingers curled under its petals to bring it close.
"Hirilen," he greets her, with a courtly bow of his head.
"The roses are uncommonly sweet this year, do you not think?" says Thilia, turning to him.
"I think they always smell sweet when they first come into their fullness. What is long awaited often seems all the more precious."
She frowns. "But one is not always deceived in such matters. What has been out of reach may bring true reward to those who wait." After a moment of hesitation, she says, "You have not responded to my invitation to our betrothal ceremony."
In resignation, he offers his arm to her; this talk is long overdue. "You put me in a difficult position. My presence would seem to lend approval."
"And you do not."
He ducks his head in admission. "I cannot enforce the Laws-."
"The Laws have made you unhappy, and therefore you do not see why they should not make others so."
He does not see her meaning - Celebrimbor's inconstancy is no fault of the Laws. "You overstep yourself."
"I do not say this in bitterness, Gil-galad. I once loved you very much, and I wish you no ill. But you must see that the Laws were made for a people who knew neither death nor war." She slips her arm from his and stops. "Do you know what happens in Valinor to those left behind when bonded mates are lost, to accident or folly? They fade. They give up their fëar and join their spouses until both are restored to bodily form. That is not an option for us, we who survived the Elder Days and remain on these shores. We are too strong. We lost everything - our mothers and fathers, my brother, your sister - and still, we did not seek healing in the Blessed Realm when it was offered to us. We did not fade, but found hope and purpose in the building of a new realm."
"But do you not see how it must end? What is the fate of Egalmoth? What shall become of your bond, should you go into the West?"
She takes his arm again and they continue along the path. "At present, I fear more that Elemmakil will join Egalmoth in Mandos, along with my children, should I have them. I am no fool, Gil-galad. I well understand that you encourage marriage so that we will provide you with sons to send off to war."
"It is not my intent-."
"You are a good king. I know you will not lead us into war except at the last peril. But war comes, just the same. Some already think to go West, but as for me, I will defend the bliss of these shores or so perish."
Her spirited words cannot help but make him smile. He envies Elemmakil a little.
"I am sorry," she continues, "that love has not brought you all that you desire. You endure, and think little of asking others to do the same. It is presumptuous of me to ask you to question your faith." With a squeeze of his hand, she says, "It will suffice to have your good wishes."
"Those, you have," he says warmly, though a shadow seems to fall as she leaves him on the path. A formidable queen and mother to his heir she would have been. Her certainty and steadfastness only remind him of what he finds lacking in Celebrimbor.
The better part of the morning he gives to the agenda for the King's Council. His desk overflows with letters to answer and petitions to consider, and from time to time, he glances at the work guiltily. His father's chief aide, loyal Guilin, has been most helpful, but Gil-galad finds it difficult to delegate. The older elf chafes at his tight control, for Arothir had left nearly everything to him, and Gil-galad has had to reassure him that it is not a matter of trust. Though he cannot say as much to Guilin, in truth, he misses Elrond's way of knowing his mind without need for words.
After a dinner hastily consumed between modifications to the tariff to be proposed and the sorting of letters, he takes up his station by the window of the meeting hall.
Arphenion rises, leaving his reports on the table. "I have just come from the armoury and have learnt that a new difficulty has arisen. The Dwarven caravans from the Ered Mithrin are under attack again, and this time, it is iron that is wanted."
Gil-galad grinds his teeth - why had Arphenion not informed him of this prior to the meeting? He should have taken time to read the letter from Hadhodrond, but still, the Captain knows well enough that he reports to the King, not to the Council.
"The Armourers' Guild in Ost-in-Edhil blames this for their inability to fill orders," Arphenion continues, "but I suspect some mischief at work, also."
"Annatar," Gildor says flatly.
"Why is he permitted to remain in the city?"
Gil-galad turns to look at Elemmakil. "If you have a suggestion as to how we are to remove him, I will hear it. I am not Lúthien, and I have no hound of Valinor with whom to do battle with a Maia."
"It seems to me that you have more influence in the matter. He would not remain thither without the hosting of the jewel-smiths."
"You are mistaken." He holds Elemmakil's gaze until the hardness fades and is replaced by something else - jealousy, perhaps? Is it his fate to be continually at odds with this elf?
"Perhaps it would not be so unwise to act first," Gildor muses. "He could not resist an entire host."
"I fear he would only flee into the East and summon an army against us." He has other concerns, but he does not yet wish to speak of them before the Council.
As has become too usual, the meeting adjourns with the problem of Annatar still unsolved. He hails Elemmakil as the Council departs; perhaps he can at least make peace with this prickly elf.
"Tauren?"
He sits, hoping to appear less imposing. "I am sorry if I have given you reason to distrust me."
Elemmakil's hard features melt into pained confusion. "I do not know if I should be jealous of your interference or resentful, and I am blind as to the reason for your dislike of me."
"It must seem that way." He looks at Elemmakil. "Do not think I disregard all you have tried to do for the Gondolindrim. Rather, I am glad to have the advice of one who speaks for them. Yet, as High King, I must consider the interests of all my people - yes, even those who followed Fëanor."
"And what interest is Hiril Thilia to all your people, Tauren?"
"Can I not impart such wisdom as I have upon my subjects?"
Elemmakil's mouth sets in a firm line. "Perhaps in such uncertain times, you now regret that you have no heir."
"Let us be plain," Gil-galad says tiredly. This, he thinks, is the reason for his difficult dealings with Elemmakil. "If you think I have discouraged your betrothal because I want her for myself, you need only ask the lady about her feelings on the subject."
"I trust the lady. I am not so sure of your feelings."
"Then let me be still plainer: I did not take her to wife because I had no heart to give her - that already belonged to another. My concern now is that having been fortunate not to bind herself to me, she makes an equally futile match. Why must she be content with half of another's love?"
"Why must you quantify love? The heart need not split itself in two - it is large enough to hold love for more than one."
"The Laws would say otherwise. That is not-." He stops, feeling blind to what is patently apparent. "That is not the way of love among Elves," he finishes quietly. He lays his hands flat on the table, seeking a ballast, and murmurs his leave to Elemmakil. Faith has for him become a lifeline against despair, growing more rigid as all around him loses firmness. To abandon his beliefs - to abandon Truth, as he has received it, would be to abandon estel, hope against reason.
"If you think that Dorwinion will excuse your failure to confide in me, you are quite mistaken." He pushes aside the remains of his supper and looks at the Captain of the Guard with cold eyes.
Arphenion, undaunted, takes a seat and produces a corkscrew from somewhere on his person. "Good wine will excuse any slight, even one confined to a king's imagination." He uncorks the wine and pours liberal portions for each of them. "It was not my intention to spring that upon you. I had truly just learnt of it myself."
"Nonetheless, it was not a matter that needed the Council's immediate attention. Indeed, they had no suggestions of any help to us."
"On the contrary. Gildor is right. We now have reason to take action against Annatar."
"We have only our suspicions," he corrects Arphenion. "You once questioned my wisdom in sending him away. Why are you now so eager to go to war?"
Arphenion looks at him sideways, as if to invite confidence. "You have long suspected that Annatar and the Shadow are the same. If he is interfering with the armourers, then he already prepares for war."
"And what would we do with him, should we capture him? Even if we could force him to give up his fana, we cannot do so for mere suspicion."
"Then we exile him to the East."
"Wherein he gathers an army, as we have already discussed."
"You are not being candid with me."
"I do not trust you," Gil-galad says flatly.
Arphenion leans close. "It is unavoidable, this war. You know this. Why do you hesitate?"
Arphenion tests him - he wants to know whether he has the courage of previous kings or the caution of his father. Yet courage, Gil-galad knows, is not enough. One must have the strength to resist those with more courage than wisdom.
He will do nothing. He can do nothing; his arms are pinned to his sides. "I am not sure of the loyalties of Ost-in-Edhil," he admits. "What if they take up defence of Annatar?"
"And another Kinslaying result? Tell me, what will you do should Celebrimbor be persuaded to challenge your place as High King?"
"I should ask that question of you."
Arphenion laughs. "I speak hypothetically, of course."
Gil-galad examines his glass. "Hypothetical or no, I am least worried by that possibility. Lest Annatar gain extraordinary influence over his will, he simply would not want it. Galadriel, yes. Not Celebrimbor."
"You think she is at risk, then."
"No." He sits forward. "No, I think she speaks truly of her distrust of Annatar, and by all reports, she is immune to his attempts to woo her favour. I do not know why she has permitted him to remain. That part, I cannot piece out."
"No," Arphenion says thoughtfully. Gil-galad glances at his face, but sees no sarcasm. "We are missing a piece of the puzzle. What exactly are they doing in Eregion? What did Celebrimbor tell you?"
"I did not ask."
Arphenion frowns. "That was a mistake."
"I know it." He had allowed his heart to lead his head. He had feared persuasion, that Celebrimbor would sway him as Annatar could not.
"What do you intend to tell Númenor?"
"I shall inform them that I have a city in rebellion and that I am incapable of governing my own people," he snaps. "What do you expect me to say? 'A king is he that can hold his own, or else his title is in vain.'" (1)
"You are exceptionally maudlin this night," Arphenion laughs.
Gil-galad begins to feel the wine in his veins; it has made him careless with his tongue. Arphenion is no friend to him - he is a necessity, but a dangerous one. He drains the last of his wine, sets the glass down and stands up carefully. "Tomorrow, you will speak to Elemmakil about the need for armour. His craftsfolk will not like it, but they are quite capable of forging weaponry. Cancel such orders as remain unfilled by the Armourers' Guild. I will not have our army held to ransom by Annatar."
Elwandor takes the clasp from his hair and lays it in its box. Gil-galad stares at the box while the valet untwines and combs his hair. Odd, how a gift takes on the symbolism of the giver, and becomes impossible to discard or replace, no matter how ambivalent be one's feelings toward the giver.
On his dressing table lies a message, neatly folded.
"It is early yet. Do you want your tea?"
"I think I will do without tonight. You may retire."
Elwandor takes the washing and leaves, his brows gathered in a frown of disapproval.
Gil-galad goes to the cellaret and pours a glass of strong rye. Neither the long years of separation nor patience for their passage have undone him; rather, the simple living of each day has finally wearied him. With a bracing swallow of the rye, he picks up the message.
Neither of us expected to be the last scions of our Houses, but so we are, and we are left with all their failings and expectations. Yet, here we find ourselves at odds - the ghosts of the past haunt you as they do me. I will not bring you to ruin, Artanáro - you must believe this.
Nor do I give up hope that we might be reconciled, and our parting be but misunderstanding. When despair and guilt paralysed me, you gave me strength. In that, I was trapped, and bound to you though I did not want it, and feared you would be tainted by it. Yet without it, I would feel as if one side of me were left rough. This at least, I hope you will understand.
If the letter is meant to bring comfort, it fails. Despite his last words to Celebrimbor, he cannot comprehend permanence - a separation to last the untold Ages. He imagines that it would be like peeling away a layer of skin. Would it hurt? Would it bleed?
He loses courage - better to leave the wound alone. It will soon be but a scar, painful only in memory.
(1) 'A king is he that can hold his own, or else his title is in vain.'
(ref The Silmarillion, 'Of the Return of the Noldor' p 128 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)