Author's Notes: This fic has been on a very long hiatus. Thanks to Wendy for beta-ing the previous version...six years ago.
Disclaimer: Characters and the basic plot still belong to Tolkien.
Forlond SA 1695
"I see now, what is new here!" Pengolodh exclaims. "That is a more than fair likeness of our dearest Idril."
"The artist knew how much I admired the portrait, and bequeathed his work to me when he left these shores. I find her calming."
Pengolodh's eyes mist in memory. "It is my hope that I shall meet her again in the Blessed Realm."
"You cannot be persuaded to stay, then?"
"I fear not. I am no warrior. I have passed my life avoiding the very events of which I write. It has never been my desire to become a part of history - I prefer to observe it."
Gil-galad sighs. "I cannot say that I am wholly surprised, yet it is a great blow to lose your counsel and friendship. I have few in whom I can confide so freely."
"I do wish that you and Hîr Celebrimbor had been reconciled."
"Wishes come of a barren tree, I fear. The leaves return each year, but never again will the tree bear fruit."
Pengolodh frowns. "You once had more faith."
"I once had reason for faith."
"Faith comes not from reason," Pengolodh begins, but his next words are lost.
With a perfunctory knock, Moebeth enters the study. "I am sorry to disturb you, Tauren."
"Indeed, I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed."
Moebeth bows. "A messenger has come from Tharbad in great haste, and will speak to none but the King."
A chill of certainty runs through his bones. "I will see you anon, good Pengolodh."
Pengolodh rises. "Bronwe i dangadad na estel, ist far uin nad i ú-genim. Think on this, if you will hear one last lesson from your teacher." (1)
In Pengolodh's wake comes a young elf still clothed in his travel cloak. He might wear the green of Nenuial or the grey of Mithlond for the dirt he has collected, and he moves stiffly, as if he has scarcely sat but astride a horse for many days. Leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him, he remembers to bow only at the last minute.
"What news do you bring, lieutenant?"
"The Drúedain flee from the hills - it is not their way to fly but to fight, but this army overwhelms them. War is upon us, Tauren."
He counts, to pass the time. He counts weights of gold and silver and counts the suits of armour and swords they will buy; he counts the remains of the Treasury and the elves boarding ships bound for Valinor. He counts the adversaries faced in training exercises and the mortal wounds he delivers; he counts each death he suffers.
He counts the steps to his chambers and the long hours of the night. He counts the sunsets, wondering which numeral shall signify the sundown of his reign.
So eight dozen years have passed, in a reckoning of days and hours and minutes that have seemed interminable. This news demands movement - now, every second must count. They have prepared for this, training gentle artists in the art of war and turning all arts to the crafting of weaponry, but he has not prepared himself.
The night has drawn into its darkest hours when he enters Arphenion's rooms. The bedchamber door does little to muffle the sounds within, and he is appalled to recognise the voice of his own scribe. Grimacing, Gil-galad knocks sharply on the door.
"Why disturb me now if you did not feel his message was urgent enough to discuss this afternoon?" Arphenion asks sourly. Even in dressing gown and tousled hair, he intimidates.
"I hardly think your nocturnal romps take precedence over duty to your King."
"Envy is unbecoming an Elf, Tauren" Arphenion smirks. "Shall we use my study? We will have need of maps."
"It is a pity I cannot send you West with Pengolodh's ship. But the Valar do not want you, either - I cannot imagine why."
Arphenion laughs and unlocks the door to his study. He lights a lantern as Gil-galad studies the map of Eriador. Here and there, tokens mark guarded outposts. Cirth, drawn in blue ink, show the garrisons in Eregion, Tharbad and Harlond; red ink marks the Númenórean stronghold at Lond Daer.
"According to the lieutenant, the army is massing just beyond the gap between Hithaeglir and the Ered Nimrais. They will march upon Eregion - that is certain - but can they leave the garrison at Tharbad behind them? The city is poorly defended, but Sauron will not know that."
"His spies are everywhere. He knows us far too well."
Gil-galad unfolds the letter from the captain at Tharbad and hands it to Arphenion. "In any event, we cannot help Tharbad - our worry must be Eregion."
"Sauron has not been idle," Arphenion says, reading the letter.
"No."
"Well, neither have we."
He draws a vicious line through his words: another letter for the fire. The Númenórean freighter docked at Mithlond waits upon him; nothing but an urgent prayer for help will do. Were his dealings only with Minastir, he would have dispatched the letter sooner, but Tar Telperien still holds the sceptre. Though her correspondence with him leaves military matters to Minastir's discretion, she hints that he has not been candid with Númenor, a charge he cannot refute.
"Herdir Elrond awaits you."
"You may send him in to me. And Lindir?"
"Tauren?"
"You might wish to review the Laws and Customs. You would do well to remember that they are the law of this realm."
The scribe barely voices his response. "I will."
Gil-galad picks up his quill again as Elrond enters.
"Is everything right with your scribe?"
"I do not see that it is your concern."
"I guess it is not."
Gil-galad glances up. "You will have heard by now that Sauron's forces have entered Eriador. I have sent word to Círdan - upon his arrival, we will have a council of war. While we await him, I want you to select messengers to the men and elves of Eriador."
"I would take the messaging upon myself, if you are so inclined."
"I am not." He turns his attention again to the letter. "You may go."
Elrond remains standing before his desk. "Have I displeased you in some manner?"
"Why do my counsellors question my every decision?"
"That was not my meaning." Elrond places his hand on the parchment, smearing the ink. "You have changed, mellon. Some on the King's Council have wondered if the ring you hold affects you, but you are not so weak-minded."
Forced to meet Elrond's eyes, Gil-galad reels at what he sees: less anger than passion, less warmth than concern, less pride than hurt. His infatuation is all the more shameful beside Elrond's discretion; all these years the peredhel has loved him, yet kept his heart close.
He does not consider what might have been had he bound himself to Elrond rather than Celebrimbor - such thoughts are not within the capacity of an Elf's imagination. Once bound, to imagine oneself with another spouse is akin to imagining oneself with fins rather than feet: absurd. Nonetheless, he wonders what it would be like to taste Elrond's skin, to burn in his arms and grapple in passion. Too easily, he can imagine it, and he is grateful for the desk that conceals him. "I fear I have not been myself," he admits.
"No," Elrond agrees, and sits. "I even feel that I must ask for your leave to sit, though we have not been so formal with one another since Forlond was newly founded. You once relied upon my counsel. Whereas you once trusted me to manage tasks of delicacy, I now find myself swimming in orders to purchase and settlements of estates. Your trust has been disappointed, and it has hardened your heart to those you once named gwador." (2)
'Be glad, Elrond Peredhel, that I do not keep you in my close counsel these days, for my thoughts would reveal me to be as lecherous as Arphenion,' he thinks. With a deep breath, he meets Elrond's eyes squarely. "Hard I may seem, but harder still are the choices before me - to spare one is to doom another."
"You need not tell me of the nature of war."
"No, I suppose I need not." He picks up his quill again. "That is all," he adds. Elrond's chair grates against stone; silent feet take him to the door, a retreating form just visible in the periphery of Gil-galad's view. The door swings open, but the drop of the latch never follows. Reluctantly, he looks up.
"You might," Elrond says, "be less hard on yourself."
They meet in Arphenion's study. The King's counsellors gather around the same map that he and Arphenion had studied several nights ago. He gives a tight smile of apology to Círdan, for he had no time to greet him on his arrival, and motions the Council to be seated.
Rolling up the map, he casts it into the fire. "That map shall be obsolete ere this war is ended. Lake Nenuial, Tharbad, the Mannish settlements in the Downs - all shall be ruins when the map is redrawn."
"I was not aware that you had called us hither to discuss our defeat," Elemmakil says.
Gil-galad unrolls a new map. Black arrows show the information he has received just last night - the unfortunate captain at Tharbad, doomed by Gil-galad's own decision, has proved most daring and resourceful in tracking Sauron's movement.
This could be Beleriand, just before the Dagor Bragollach.
"We are a dwindling people. The good Men of Eriador will fall, one village after another. They have no leader to unite them. I am sending Elrond with such troops as we can spare to Eregion." He glances at Elrond, whose face tightens slightly. "We must hope to buy time. With the aid of Númenor, we may yet avoid defeat."
"Galdor will lead a company from Mithlond and Harlindon," Círdan says.
He glances at the lord of the House of the Tree in surprise; Galdor - with good reason - has no love for the House of Fëanor.
Galdor, aware of his scrutiny, gives a wry smile. "My lord asks, and I cannot refuse."
"Celeborn leads the forces now stationed at Eregion, though I doubt you will find Galadriel sewing banners and making bandages," Gil-galad continues.
They bend their heads over the map, discussing Sauron's probable movements and the eventual siege of Ost-in-Edhil. Celeborn has not been idle these years, but has built a formidable defence around the city. Gil-galad means to turn Sauron's obsession with the rings against him. Eregion will fall - surely, the Council realises this. Yet, if his strategy is sound, Sauron will lead a lesser army upon Lindon.
Orders and assignments dispatched, he dismisses the Council. He looks for Círdan; with a nod, it is settled: they will supp together in his chambers. Arphenion follows close on his heels as they leave the room.
"How very convenient for you," he laughs softly, his eyes on Elrond's departing figure.
"What is your meaning?"
"Come, you are not so thick-headed. You have captains many years his elder, who have long been charged with defence of your realm."
"Elrond fought in the War of Wrath. He is hardly inexperienced."
"Still, he is a queer choice. I should think that you would want your highest counsellor near to you."
"Had I want of your advice, I would ask for it." He turns toward the stairs. "I have a letter to write to Númenor, Captain. I daresay you, too, have much to do."
"It is a treacherous thing, Tauren, to have your favour."
'Yes,' Gil-galad thinks. 'It is.'
"The city, a fair jewel of the great arts of the Noldor, shall be laid to ruin and her people slaughtered. I should have evacuated the city. One would think I wished to see him in Mandos."
"Do you?"
"That is just the trouble," he says, clenching and unclenching his hands. "I let him return to Ost-in-Edhil, and even then, I knew we must lose the city. Any fool can see that his secrets - and the other rings - would be better kept here."
"That is not the only reason you did not abandon Eregion," Círdan says placidly. "Sit and eat. This hovering is not good for the digestion."
He throws himself into his chair and eyes the potatoes malevolently. "Oh, my reasons were good, and they still are. We could not let Sauron march across Eriador unopposed. Moreover, the queen of Númenor is already suspicious - had we fled the very city that so long hosted Annatar, she might well have asked questions I would not like to answer." Giving up his battle with the potatoes, he reaches for his wine. "Nonetheless, I fear my intent is far less noble."
"It is the convenience of it that troubles you."
He stares at Círdan. "So said Arphenion."
"Does the opinion of a rogue matter so much to you?"
"You know it does not. Yet, too often, he reads me aright." He twists uncomfortably in his chair. "I could have recalled him from Eregion - if I cannot save the city, I might have saved him."
"He would not have come."
"No." He starts forward in his chair, torn by the need to speak and the fear he will reveal too much. "Yet now I send Elrond, my - my most trusted counsellor," he falters, "to meet a host so vast it is called a great storm upon the horizon by those who have seen it. To what do I send him but death?"
Círdan's lips twitch. "Do you also wish me dead, or is this murderous instinct of yours more particular?" He glances up. "Ereinion, leave the potatoes be. A few tubers will not poison the whole plate."
He sighs ruefully, feeling as ridiculous as a boy of forty.
"Elrond is the right choice - you know this, though you do not yet know the whole of it. As for Celebrimbor, he knows what he must do. Brooding will bring you neither victory nor peace.
"The Valar have placed their trust in the Elves. We are their stewards and messengers - a light to the free peoples of Ennor against the gathering darkness. None would blame you, Ereinion, if you fell to despair, for there fell your forebears." Círdan sets down his fork and looks at him fondly. "You are made of a stronger wood. The Valar count upon it."
"I wish you had told me, beforehand, of your plans. I do not like to appear a fool." Elrond stares down at him from the door to his sitting room.
Sprawled across the settee, Gil-galad raises his glass. "Sit! Have some of the wine - we will not be seeing its like for some time."
Elrond pours a glass of wine, but refuses the invitation to sit.
"No one knew it, save me. You are exceptionally hard to read, Peredhel. Do you object to the assignment?"
"In Galdor's words, my lord asks, and I obey. I did not come here to argue with your wisdom, Gil-galad."
"My wisdom," he laughs softly. "Rather, my weakness." He sways to his feet and stumbles, finding himself a hand's breadth from Elrond as he straightens. "I dared no longer have you near." He presses his mouth to Elrond's, feeling hungry enough to devour.
He has waited long for this - wanted long to know this. And oh! He might blame the wine, sweet Dorwinion, but the thrill is no trick of wine, nor are the lips pressed to his a drunken illusion. One of the few who can stand nose-to-nose with him, Elrond might thank Thingol for his height, but his groin swells with the gift of his Mannish forebears. If Gil-galad doubted Elrond's sentiment, he doubts no more.
Elrond has the presence of mind - or the sobriety - to push him back. Flushed and plainly discomfited, he turns away. "I would have thrilled at such attentions when this Age was young, but your heart was meant for another, and still belongs to another. You do not mean this."
"Oh, but that is the trouble," Gil-galad says, falling back into the settee. "I do. I am in love with you, though it cannot be. I stand on the brink of a war I can win only with the strength of the Valar, and all I have been taught seems to be not so. Perhaps my faith in the Valar is equally ill-placed."
"You are fey with wine."
"Indeed," Gil-galad agrees. "One's most secret thoughts are laid bare by this enchanted wine, but they are not the less truthful for it."
"You confuse lust with love."
"Yet elves are no more subject to lust than to fickleness of heart, do the Laws not tell us this? Such things are impossible - save, it seems, for my father's children." Suddenly misty-eyed, he dribbles the last of the wine into his glass. "Nan methen!" he salutes Elrond.
To the end. The toast of gwedeir, of sworn brothers pledging their lives to one another, has a grim sound tonight. With the last swallow of Dorwinion, he savours the peace of Forlond a last time. All that he has promised: security, order, an elite civilisation in Ennor rather than ignominious exile to Tol Eressëa - shall fall. Their virtuous king has already fallen, finally undeserving of the blessings of the Valar. Faith, Pengolodh had said, is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. The seeds of doubt have come of his own weakness.
"I am sorry," he says, setting down his glass. "I had no right - would that you might forget what has passed between us."
"It is not yours to ask," Elrond says, his face inscrutable as ever. He lays a hand on Gil-galad's shoulder. "I will call for Elwandor and leave you in his care - the wine has turned sour, I fear."
Dorwinion brings the sweetest dreams. Its morning is a cold slap across the face. What seemed sweet is dreary; the warmth now sweat and sickness. Elwandor adds wood to the fire and hangs the teakettle to boil. "You will remember that Herdir Pengolodh is to join you this morning?"
Gil-galad reaches for his dressing gown. Pengolodh will be leaving with Círdan for Mithlond this morning. Guilin, too, is going West. His admittedly small circle of trust shall grows ever smaller.
"I am sure that your arrival in Tol Eressëa shall be as gladsome to your folk as your parting is sorrowful to us," he says, welcoming the loremaster into his chambers. They sit down to breakfast and he dismisses Elwandor. "She is a fine ship, the Hithlind - I helped in her rigging myself," he continues, pouring the tea. "Do not wait on me to eat, mellon."
Pengolodh frowns at this but withholds comment as he butters his bread. "I fear I shall not have much love for the vessel, however excellent she may be. The sooner I am dryshod in Kôr, the better."
"Nonetheless, your safe passage is more assured than the fate of those who remain."
"Is it?" The loremaster's eyes glitter. "Eönwë took aside your kinsman and all but ordered him to sail, and the reason is plain enough, now. I do not recall that you were so pressed."
"The Valar have faith in you - that much is known to me." So Círdan had told him, many years ago.
He groans and sets down his tea. "The Valar must think me a whining child."
"It is no small task they have set before you. They must have known that Sauron would slip his bond."
'Did they know also that we would arm him with the power of a Vala?' he wonders, but does not say it. Pengolodh does not need his melancholy this morning. He forces a grin. "Still, I would have liked to be a fly on the wall when Eönwë reported this to Manwë."
By evening, his headache has mercifully subsided, but his shame has only grown. He must apologise, and knows equally that an apology is inadequate.
Elrond's rooms are well-ordered in their furnishing, as he would expect, but Gil-galad sees little else to attest to the rooms' occupant. As with the rooms Celebrimbor had once occupied, the fittings speak of tenancy rather than ownership. How he had hurt when he saw the lavish apartments Celebrimbor had taken in Eregion! In his heart, he had known then that Celebrimbor did not intend to quit Eregion. Likewise, he has a sense that Elrond is only passing through.
"You do not intend to stay here."
"All have tasks not presently known to us."
"Must you be so evasive?"
"I would answer more directly if the questions were those I might expect from a king."
"And from a friend?"
"Is there not a line twixt friend and lover? Long years have I known that line."
"And in one selfish moment, I have redrawn it."
Elrond presses his lips together. "You cannot know what it is to be offered what one has long desired but remains ever out of reach. A taste, if you will - it is hardly what I would call an act of friendship and brotherhood."
Gil-galad lowers his eyes. "I am sorry."
Elrond sinks into a chair with a sigh. "I do not fault you. You are lonely, and grieving, and I have found neither lord nor maid to stir my heart as you did in our youth. And we have always understood one another."
"Not so well as we thought."
"No." Elrond is silent for a moment. "I will go to Eregion, as you wish, and perhaps save us both."
Gil-galad sighs with relief. "I am glad that you see it so. I feared - it was said, and I feared the accusation was right -."
Elrond raises his eyebrows, amused. "I do not intend to get myself killed, Gil-galad." He sobers. "But I am not certain of my return." He gestures at the minimal décor. "I have served you, because I love you - as my sovereign king. It has not been an easy thing, when my heart desired more."
Gil-galad laughs bitterly. "You must think me a fool."
"Our hearts are not so easily guided. Should one not feel loathing for one's captors, who have visited death and suffering upon one's people? Yet, Maglor and Maedhros were fathers to me. Should one not feel loathing for one's lover, who has betrayed the very people one is sworn to protect? And yet, you love him." Elrond stands and takes his hands in his. "I did not wish this for you." (3)
'No, of course you would not,' Gil-galad thinks, extracting his hands from Elrond's; they are too warm and soft around his rough and callused fingers. The Peredhel is grace itself, whereas he wavers between wishing his lover dead, shameful lust for another, and clamouring fear that begs him to recall Celebrimbor from Eregion. In the doorway, he pauses. "Do what you can to save him."
It is late when he retires; he has already sent Elwandor to bed. He changes into his nightshirt and sits at his dressing table. As he releases the clasp from his hair, the mirror catches its glittering reflection. Slowly, he turns the delicate mithril jewel in his hands.
I am not as perfect as you thought, Tyelpë. Do you not see how I have tarnished, while this clasp is as bright as the day you made it? Is this what it was like? Did you feel outshone, ever more tarnished beside me?
He buries his head in his hands. Understanding has come late to him; forgiveness, too late. His better counsel would tell him that he has made the right choices as High King and guardian of his people, but he wishes to be as pure in thought as deed. His selfish heart has made its choices, for good or evil.
(1) Bronwe i dangadad na estel, ist far uin nad i ú-genim.
'Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.'
This is Hebrews 11:1, which I feel Tolkien must have had in mind when he wrote about the meaning of estel in 'Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth'. (Morgoth's Ring, p 320 pub Houghton Mifflin)
(lit: Faith (is) the establishing of hope, knowledge enough of the thing which we do not see. i dangadad, gerund of tangada-, establish, lenited to dangadad following the article i; i ú-genim, which we do not see - i is used here to mean 'that' or 'which', cenim is the 1st pers pl of cen-, lenited following the negation ú.)
(2) gwador
sworn brother
(3) Yet, Maglor and Maedhros were fathers to me.
I'm not particularly fond of the fanon that Gil-galad fostered Elrond and Elros. It does not necessarily conflict with canon, but there's no support for it, either. In The Silmarillion, we are told that Maglor and Maedhros kept the boys. (The Silmarillion p 255 pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition) The notion that they were returned to their people on Balar comes from a linguistic explanation for their names. (The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter No 211 p 282 pub Houghton Mifflin) However, one would think that Elwing and Eärendil had already named the children. Moreover, it is not said who cared for them after they were found and Tolkien eventually abandoned the linguistic explanation for their names. To infer that Gil-galad fostered the boys is a huge stretch. He was relatively young himself, and had enough on his plate as the High King. If the Peredhel were 'rescued', it seems likely that either Círdan or Celeborn would have fostered them.