AN1: Nargothrond, an underground kingdom, stayed hidden from Morgoth until its lord, Orodreth, let the mortal hero, Túrin Turambar, talk him into building a bridge across the river and marching openly to war against the Enemy. It’s hard to hide a bridge! In FA 495 the warriors were drawn away from the city and, while they were fighting for their lives, Nargothrond was overrun by an army of Orcs led by Glaurung, the Father of Dragons. None of the captives survived, they were killed on the road north.
AN2: anyone not knowing Túrin’s history – as heroes go, he’s interesting, in a dark, blood-drenched sort of way. Killed his best friend by accident, married his sister by mistake… none too likeable, but very slashable and buckets of angst!
Chapter 19
The cavalcade travelling along the coast road made an impressive sight, accompanied as it was fore and aft by riders bearing the standard of the High King, along with an assortment of other brightly coloured banners and crests. These included the new colours of Númenor, as well as the emblem of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin. Their pace was leisurely, dictated largely by the presence of wagons, which carried gifts selected by the High King and his Council to be taken over the sea to the New Land as a token of friendship, and the last few personal items Elros had been reluctant to send on ahead. Amongst these, confined to her cage, was Laslech, the new king’s dog..
~*~*~*~
The road
Glorfindel, not unexpectedly, enjoyed the journey to Forlond. Already curious about the expansion of Lindon, he was fascinated by everything along their route; the new settlements, the cultivated fields, the orchards, the many signs of the beginnings of prosperity. The early winter’s day was mild, with intermittent cloud and a fairly brisk breeze, and the scents of sea and growing things combined with the warmth of the sun on his back to give him a feeling of quiet contentment.
He rode either alone or else alongside Dalbros, the senior librarian, who was unaccustomed to travel, and was enthusiastically excited to have been included in the party. He had been invited specifically to record the details of this unprecedented event for inclusion in the History of the Kingdom of Lindon which he had recently begun compiling.
The party included a group of Men, mainly sons and younger brothers of several of Elros’ councillors who, on an impulse born of youthful high spirits, had travelled up from Forlond, wishing to provide a welcoming escort for their uncrowned King. To Glorfindel’s amused surprise, they got along far better with the assortment of Elven councillors and nobles and the members of the strongly armed escort of warriors than would probably have occurred under more formal conditions
Gil-galad rode a little apart from the rest, apparently deep in thought, not even speaking to Elros who rode in equal silence a short distance behind him. Glorfindel discreetly watched the future king of Númenor smile and speak to any who came to ride alongside him, but the smile failed to touch his eyes and there was an air about him that suggested company was tolerated rather than sought. Knowing how this venture had been thrust upon him, the Elf from Gondolin could hardly begin to imagine what might be going through his mind.
~*~*~*~
Neither Men nor horses have the endurance of the Eldar, therefore arrangements had been made for the party to pass the night in a lightly wooded area just outside a small fishing village, which they reached late in the afternoon. Those responsible for the travellers’ comfort had gone on ahead while the main party had stopped for lunch, and by the time the King arrived, tented pavilions had been set up, fires had been lit, and dinner preparations were already underway.
Glorfindel, having found his designated shelter, noticed that the royal standard was in the process of being raised above Gil-galad’s tent, and that guards had already been set at the entrance. He smiled wryly. This was one night he and Gil would definitely be spending apart.
To fill the time before dinner, he decided to explore the village, taking with him a couple of sticks of charcoal and his new sketch book, which was already half filled with rough drawings. Art had been a much-loved pastime in his youth until curtailed by his father, who insisted this was an unsuitable hobby for the son of a lord. He had recently confided this to Erestor, whose response, within hours, had been to present him with a variety of materials to experiment with and on. Glorfindel found himself actually teasing the dark Elf, suggesting that this ability to produce the unlikely at such short notice displayed the makings of an exceptional quartermaster.
Which, in time, would prove to be true.
The village contained no more than a few dozen houses and a blacksmith’s, all huddled around or close to a central square. A small, open space near the little harbour was hedged with rosemary and rowan and contained a circle of polished white stones, shoulder high; this was obviously the village holy place. Glorfindel had heard of this practice, which was rapidly growing up amongst the Sindar, who in their turn had obtained it from the Silvan Elves. Despite it being fashionable to mock such behaviour as unsophisticated, he rather liked the idea of having a place set aside to go and give thanks to the Shining Ones and to remember those lost during the times of trouble.
He paused beside it, not liking to intrude in a place that was not his own, and, closing his eyes briefly, made his thanks – for life, for friends, for the cool sea air, for the merciful fading of his nightmarish memories, for Gil-galad… Especially for Gil-galad. Glorfindel, as he slowly adjusted to his new life, remained ambivalent towards much of it, but not about the King. In a manner that was both complex and wonderfully simple, he knew that in Gil-galad he had found the love of his life. No matter what road the future took, no matter the state of the King’s heart, for Glorfindel this love would be forever, a part of his own personal thread of the Music.
~*~*~*~
The palace
The emotional storm that had torn through Elrond’s defenses and sent him into Erestor’s arms ran its course, though not before he had stammered out a semi-coherent catalogue of the horror and loss that had filled his life, most of it into Erestor’s white-clad shoulder. Erestor said nothing throughout, simply held him and stroked his hair and back, eventually guiding him to the bed so that they could sit together instead of standing in the centre of the room.
When the wracking sobs had finally ceased and even the occasional soft hiccough of a tear had subsided, Erestor rose and went to open the prohibitively expensive bottle of miruvor he had bought in case of a special occasion, and the two small cups out of which it was customarily drunk. Going back to the bed, he took a moment to consider his unexpected guest with concern. Elrond sat very straight on the edge of the bed, with his head bowed and his hair hanging loose and tumbling wildly around him. His hands were clutching the coverlet, gripping so tightly the knuckles were white; he looked pale and tense, with eyes so dark as to seem almost black.
Erestor offered the miruvor and said firmly, “Come on, drink some of this. It’ll help steady you.”
Elrond took the cup and looked down at it uncertainly, before putting it to his lips and sipping the potent liquid. “Half a bottle might do that,” he said in something closer to his usual tones.
Erestor smiled briefly. “It’s a very small bottle,” he observed dryly. “Still, even a cup will help. It can’t diffuse the pain, but …”
Elrond sipped again, then looked up at Erestor through his hair. “I’m sorry about…earlier,” he said slowly. “It was just – it was too much this time. It feels as though everyone I love gets taken from me. Today was just…very hard to deal with. I’m sorry for intruding on you like this, I’m sorry for making you listen to all that…”
Erestor sat down and reached over, covering the hand not holding the cup with his own. “You came to me, I listened. If there had been more I could do, I would. No need for apology, ever. The danger with pain is that if you keep it inside, it confines its poison to your heart. Eventually either it eats you alive or you grow hard enough to ignore it. Neither are good, though learning to be hard is worse, I think. It grinds away at the place in your soul where love grows.”
Elrond slanted him a glance from dark eyes. “They make songs about my family’s history for entertainment. Elros will just be one more tragic hero to add to the list.” He made no attempt to hide the resentment in his tone.
Erestor nodded, unable to argue with this simple fact. “I know it hurts to see people you love being reduced to a fireside tale, but if you only look at the pain you forget the joy. Death is not an ending to love unless we make it so.”
Elrond’s face became still and closed and he drew his hand back. “For us, perhaps. Not Elros,” he said flatly. “But, of course, he will make a lovely song…”
Erestor placed a firm hand under the Half-elf’s chin, tilting it up so that he could look into the dark grey eyes, and spoke firmly. “Elrond, most of us now living have suffered loss of some type. I know it feels as though you’re alone, but you’re not. I really do understand…”
Elrond had the grace to lower his eyes and give a small nod. “I know I’m not the only one,” he admitted. “I know the stories, I grew up with them. Still, they tend to make much of my family… it’s almost as bad as coming from Gondolin, I think,” he added with an attempt at humour.
Erestor started to tidy the tangle of web-fine hair back from the Half-elf’s face. “Or Nargothrond,” he agreed almost conversationally. “I’ve had a few days when I’ve wished the songs could at least have been written by someone who had actually seen a Dragon.”
Elrond turned his head into the tidying hand almost unconsciously and frowned thoughtfully, a spark of interest lighting eyes that had previously been flat and distant. “Have you ever seen one? A Dragon, I mean.”
Erestor paused. Like Elrond, he lived life behind a mask, in his case not as a defense against pain, but as a means to force the world to take him seriously. Exotically beautiful, with his slanting, amber eyes, shining black hair and creamy skin, it had taken several harsh lessons before he learned that the best response to those who saw no further than his obvious attractions was a cool, superior attitude and an acid tongue.
Most people with whom he had dealings very quickly stopped noticing his appearance, although this, he knew, was not yet the case with the Princeling. Gentleness and vulnerability had no place in the façade he presented to the world, nor had the memories of his past, yet these, his instincts told him, were needed to convince Elrond that he did not have to deal with this latest grief totally alone.
“Yes, I’ve seen one,” he said in an even voice. “I saw Glaurung himself.”
Elrond curled onto the bed and, drawing his legs up beneath him to sit cat-like, assumed a waiting air, the cup forgotten in his hand. Erestor put his miruvor down on the floor and impulsively crawled across the bed to sit behind Elrond, who looked back over his shoulder, startled. He relaxed when Erestor drew his wayward hair back before picking up a brush from the little nightstand and starting to impose some form of order while he talked.
“It was against the rules, but we were walking together – we were all very young,” he began, brushing firmly, his voice soft with memory. “We’d been sent on an errand to Círdan’s people. I remember I was talking about a visit to the baths and about my mother’s cooking… At any rate, Brethil was the one who first realised something was badly wrong, though it was Dínen – he was sister’s son to my father, he died during the War – who said he smelt smoke, and…something more. We kept low after that, and silent, but even so I think the only thing that saved us was that they never thought to look so close to the caves for more victims.”
He fell silent, remembering an odour of burning mingled with a foul, metallic stench with an edge of corruption. The scent of Dragon.
“The bushes down by the river were on fire,” he continued, brushing slowly. “The smoke hid us, so we could get close enough to watch, even hear… The survivors were mainly women and children. They were being…herded out onto the long terrace in front of the entrance. The Orcs were kicking them, driving them along with whips…”
His voice trailed off. Elrond shifted back to lean against him, and placed a steadying hand on his thigh, his own grief for the moment put aside. Erestor set the brush down and slid an arm round him before continuing. “There were only six of us, we could do nothing. We watched them drive our people across the bridge…When it was built, my great-uncle Gwindor said it would be our doom, and he was right. Before then, we had been hidden, but the bridge showed Morgoth the road to our door.”
He drew a ragged breath before going on. “The Mormegil was there too, the Man you’d know as Túrin Turambar. He was standing on the edge of the terrace near the bridge – they had to pass him before they crossed it. We heard Orodreth’s daughter, Lady Finduilas, screaming at him to wake up, to help them…She tried to go to him but the Orcs laid hands on her and pushed her to join the others. He never moved. He just stood there…bewitched by Glaurung.”
He paused, his eyes distant, and began to absently finger the soft fabric of Elrond’s sleeve. “How do I describe Glaurung to you? You probably need to understand where this happened. There was a terrace, and then shallow stairs leading down to the bridge and he was lying sprawled across the terrace with his head resting on the top step…” He was quiet for a moment, his hand still. “For years after, I saw that head in my dreams,” he said, his voice low. “Like a lizard, only – immense. They had to pass him as they left, close enough to reach out a hand, close enough to feel his breath on their skin…”
There were no words that would do justice to the memory, no way to explain scales that were a tarnished greenish gold, a body monstrously immense, so much so that the mind revolted at the sight. Words could never begin to convey the reality of those heavily muscled forelimbs, stocky, obscenely clawed, nor the grinning, darkly-crested head, almost the height of a full-grown Elf. And the eyes… He had caught a glimpse of the corner of one eye. Red it was, a dark, unhealthy red, and even that quick glance showed him the power and intelligence of the serpent, for this was no mere beast, but a sentient being. And emanating from it, as tangible as the acrid smoke that eddied and flowed around it, had been an aura of pure malice. Words, he realised, could only diminish it.
Elrond sat up and turned to face Erestor, and asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “Your family?”
He shrugged slightly, and the amber eyes closed briefly. “I saw my mother and one sister pass the serpent’s head. My other sister….she was very young. They killed the ones too small to work. Her name was Galuiel. My father? I assume my father died fighting on Tumhalad. I never found anyone who knew for sure.”
“How do you bear it?” The words came unbidden to Elrond’s lips, asking the question that had coloured his own life for so many years. He was kneeling with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, leaning forward slightly, his expression intent. Erestor considered him thoughtfully, then placed his hands firmly over Elrond’s, and summoned an attempt at a smile.
“I was angry and in pain for a very long time,” he admitted. “We were a close family. But my pain was overwhelming the good memories I had of them – so I let it go.”
“Our kind go to Mandos,” Elrond said quietly. “And later some are reborn in Aman. You will find them again some day. Not my brother. His death will be absolute.”
Erestor shook his head and smiled properly this time. “Who knows how death might change the reborn fëa? And I live here, not in the West. No. All I have for comfort is what I offer you. As long as we keep their memory fresh and etched in love, as long as there is a voice to tell their tale, those we love will never leave us.”
He slid his arms around Elrond, and moved gracefully into his answering embrace. As the Half-elf’s cheek came to rest against his hair, he added, “Believe this, Elrond, and your brother will never die.”
~*~*~*~
The road
Glorfindel explored the narrow streets, made a few brief sketches of the harbour and outlined a view of the houses surrounding the square, which he thought he might later expand into a painting, though he suspected he was being overly ambitious. After this, he immersed himself in the lines and curves that slowly shaped themselves into a picture of the circle of stones with the sea behind it. So involved did he become in this that it was only the fading of the light that made him realise he was in danger of missing dinner.
No one stopped to speak with him in the village, either during the time he spent there or at his departure, though he knew many pairs of eyes had been following his progress with interest. The few Elves he passed on his way back to the camp nodded and made the gesture of respect, fingers to forehead, which was normally reserved for great lords. They were partially right, he thought, with a small clench of sadness round his heart, not for the rank which had once been his, but for all he had lost with the passing of its relevance.
On his return, he found dinner being served and most of the company already eating. He joined the small group still gathered at the makeshift table – a board resting on two strips of wood – from which the remaining fish, pork and venison was being portioned out, and was waiting his turn when a member of the escort came up behind him, holding out a well-laden plate.
“His Majesty noticed your absence, my lord, and asked me to see to this for you. He said you would prefer the fish?”
Glorfindel turned, feeling the warmth in his face and hoping the blush wasn’t obvious in the gathering dusk. No matter how he tried, this was something over which he seemed to have no control. “Fish was a rarity in Gondolin,” he explained with a quick smile. Taking in the plate’s contents, he added, “And thank you, this was well-chosen.”
The warrior nodded confirmation. “Fish, well cooked, and a mixed salad, his Majesty said. And bread, not bratan. He was very clear about that.”
Bratan were strongly spiced wheat cakes, highly popular in Lindon, but foreign and unpalatable to the newcomer.
Most of the travellers had taken their food and gone to sit around the fire which had been built up within stones in the centre of the clearing, but Glorfindel found a quiet spot on the grass under a tree, made himself comfortable and began to eat. He had always kept a little apart, shyness being a barrier to the easy mingling that happened apparently effortlessly around him, and he had learned to take pleasure in being a spectator instead of a participant at social events.
He was suddenly taken by a feeling of unreality as he watched the scene before him. Men and Elves mingled in small groups, while the smoke rising from the fires danced in the glow of the lanterns which shone amongst the trees, strung there partly for the convenience of the Men, who lacked Elven sight after dark, partly for love of the atmosphere they created. Voices were talking, laughing, raised in song, all blending in harmony with the unseen, murmuring presence of the sea…
Gondolin had been a land of firmly imposed order, with accepted rules for public conduct. This relaxed sharing of food, interlaced with easy companionship and snatches of melody would have been deeply frowned upon. For the King himself to be part of it, to be wandering around, plate in hand, stopping to talk to first one group then another as he had been when Glorfindel had returned, would have been unthinkable. He sat, bread in hand, feeling dislocated as he had not for some weeks, trying to reconcile the sense of unreality, of being in two places at once, of being two people – for the Glorfindel of Lindon was developing into a very different person to the insecure, withdrawn Glorfindel of Gondolin.
“Ah, there you are, Glorfindel. May I join you?” Dalbros, holding two cups of wine, stood looking down at him. Brought solidly back to the present, solitude no longer an option, Glorfindel smiled a greeting and was soon caught up in conversation. Reality returned and the sense of dislocation gradually retreated.
~*~*~*~
After he had eaten, Glorfindel scraped his plate, left it on the stack to be washed and, after helping himself to an apple from the fruit offered in lieu of dessert, decided on a short walk before steeling himself to join the crowd sitting around the fire. This time he went up to the road, thinking to go as far as the watch station which had been set up a short distance from the camp. He had not gone far before he saw Gil-galad, who was standing looking out over the sea at the strange new light shining brilliantly in the West. Glorfindel was surprised to see that Laslech was with him, leashed and sitting obediently beside him, waiting, as Elrond had taught her, till they could move on.
He approached them unhurriedly, ignoring the sense of eyes on his back and telling himself firmly not to be fanciful, no one was watching, and, even if they were, this was nothing more than an innocent conversation. Gil-galad, alerted by Laslech’s excited bark and wagging tail, turned and smiled an invitation, his eyes lighting with welcome.
“I should have thought of this,” Glorfindel said, smiling a greeting and gesturing to the dog. “She hated being in that cage. I should have taken her with me when I went to look at the village, too.”
Earlier in the day, hearing the dog barking for attention, he had dropped back a few times to ride beside the wagon on which she was being transported, along with an assortment of crates and baskets, but his presence had only caused her to whine and scratch to be released. Concerned by her obvious fear and confusion, he had finally decided it would be best to let her alone in the hope that she would accept the situation and settle down.
“They let her out on the road a few times, but otherwise…. I was going to ask someone to take her for a walk, but it seemed easier to do it myself,” Gil-galad explained, reaching down to gently tug one of the young dog’s ears. “I wanted to have a look at the view anyway…it’s almost as bright as day.”
They stood together, watching the unearthly glow of Vingilot sailing low across the sea in the West. Glorfindel, who remembered the coming of the moon and the wonder it had engendered, had been surprised the unnatural light was accepted in so matter of fact a manner, but the Eldar had seen many strange things since that first moonrise, not all of them good, and they were less easily over-awed.
“I expected Elrond to change his mind in the end and ride with us,” he remarked, kneeling down beside the dog. She licked him with less than her usual exuberance, confused by the cage and the journey and not understanding the reason for what, in her world, could only be a punishment for some unfathomable error.
Gil-galad shook his head, his eyes following the flight of a gull, as clearly outlined against the sky as it would have been by moonlight. “It would be harder to keep up a front at the last, and there’d be too many eyes watching. I’m guessing they said what needed saying days ago. It’s the way they are.”
Glorfindel nodded slowly. “I should have tried to talk him into coming along anyway, or else stayed behind myself,” he said, putting an arm round Laslech and petting her. “I was wrong to leave him alone like this.”
“We’ll only be gone a few days,” Gil-galad replied, shrugging with the smallest touch of impatience. Glorfindel’s regular concern for Elrond tended to unsettle him for reasons he preferred not to analyse. “He’ll be more likely to need support once the reality’s had a chance to set in. Whatever he’s dealing with now could hardly be worse than the strain of putting on a face with everyone watching to see how he coped.”
Glorfindel shot him a glance. The remark had the edge of bitter experience to it. He was reminded of Elrond’s comments about Gil-galad having to cope with the news of the destruction of Nargothrond and the deaths of his father and sister whilst he was in Círdan’s care, and living amongst strangers. Deciding to keep the conversation light, he sought a less sombre topic. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself earlier?” he said, making it a question. “You spent a lot of time talking with the Men. You enjoy their company, don’t you? The Second-born generally, I mean, not just this group.”
Gil’s mouth pulled in a wry smile. “They have a lot to recommend them, I find,” he admitted. He glanced around, confirmed they were alone and came and sat down next to Glorfindel, stretching his legs out before him and leaning back on his hands, close enough for their shoulders to touch. He gave Glorfindel a sidelong, considering glance, before saying slowly, “I have spent almost my whole life being compared to my predecessors – to Fingolfin and Fingon, to Turgon, to my uncle Finrod… To the Second-born, these names are unimportant. There has only been one High King of the Elves for several generations of their kind. Amongst them I need not feel I am continually being measured…”
He stopped a moment and compressed his lips, then he glanced at Glorfindel with a rueful smile before leaning against him and pushing him lightly. The smile failed to reach his eyes; they were watchful, waiting for judgement or disapproval. “I think Elrond had to hear some of this the night I got drunk,” he admitted. “I’m completely sober tonight – hopefully I’m less self-pitying, too. It’s just – very hard to walk in their shadows sometimes.”
Glorfindel let go of Laslech, who had found peace in familiar company and was lying waiting for Elrond to come and fetch her home. He turned to face Gil, and placed a hand over one of his, knowing they were visible to anyone else who might care to walk along the road from the camp, knowing too that touch was essential to someone as tactile as the King. He understood how difficult it had been to share this confidence. Gil-galad’s eyes met his, and offered his vulnerability as a gift.
“Turgon accepted isolation for us,” Glorfindel said, choosing his words carefully. “I think it was the wrong choice – it left us trapped and unprepared when the attack came. Fingon was ill-advised, too inclined to listen to Maedhros who, in his turn, was driven by his father’s Oath, not the good of the Eldar. And Fingolfin…” He looked again at the light on the water, remembering another light, a powerful, larger-than-life personality. Something of this showed in his face, and he looked suddenly his age, one of the dwindling number of the Aman-born still to be found in Middle-earth.
“Fingolfin was a great king, a wonderful leader. At the end, his choice was more impulsive than wise, but he did what he felt was right.” He paused, turning back to Gil. “You remind me of him a little, perhaps. You have the same strength, the same love for your people. But you also need to remember, those times were different. I have seen them all, Gil. I even – barely – remember Finwë, and I believe that for this Age and this place, you are the best King we could have. I think, in time, you could show yourself greater than all of them.”
Gil-galad turned his hand and intertwined their fingers, squeezing briefly. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes, which appeared almost silver in the strange light, told Glorfindel it had been enough. They sat together, hands linked, with Laslech dozing beside them, and watched the light of the last of the Silmarils marking a pathway across the sea.
~*~*~*~*~
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Beta: Enismirdal, Red Lasbelin