Narn Gil-galad by Earonn

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Chapter 14: Gondolin

 

Curtsy: I deeply bow to Ute who made the beta-reading this time. For you not many orc-cookies (you will get them anyway), but many collection-stickers, delivered by an electrical-engineer of your own choosing… ;)
All remaining errors in the text only exist because I revised it without giving it into Ute's care a second time. You have enough work with teasing this Kiwi, after all.

Dedicated:

Oleg
A little black Polish guinea pig-Lady
1996 – 2003

Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur
Mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur
omnia mors perimit
et nulli miseretur

The short life soon will end
death comes faster than you would believe,
it destroys everything
and has no mercy.

 

XIV Gondolin

Círdan the Shipwright stood at the bow of the ship that cut through the water, white foam at its left and right while the wind from behind filled the white sails. His eyes were closed and he enjoyed the touch of the early morning sun on his skin.
They were on the way back home from the first trip with this vessel. It had proved itself swift and willing under the hand of the helmsman, this and its beauty bespoke the love and the skill of its creator.
The lord of the Falathrim did not know the ship's name yet, which was unusual as normally he was bestowed with a vision from Ossë before the maiden voyage. But he could wait. She would get her name soon enough.

As they put into the port a lot of people assembled on the quay, shipyard-workers and fishermen, tradesmen and rope-makers, and many more who wanted to see the return of their lord and his youngest child. For that was how the ships built by Círdan himself were called, and not without reason.

Many praised Ossë in gratitude for having accepted the new ship in his realm, others spoke blessings and appealed to Uinen to protect it. A few began a welcoming song.
After the boat was moored at the wharf, many came to touch the twig of Oiolarë at its bow since the Falathrim believed that in this way some of Uinen's grace would pass over to them.

Círdan spoke shortly with the other shipwrights, then he mounted a horse and impatiently rode up to his hall.
Due to its location at the western shore of Balar the building still lay deeply shadowed, though voices and other sounds of its inhabitants indicated the activity within. His heart ached in joy. He was coming home, to those whom he considered his family.

The Elves awaiting him in the courtyard took care of his horse and Silíel offered him a breakfast when they met by chance in one of the hallways.
"Not now, Silíel, thank you. Where can I find the king?"
She knew her kinsman long enough to predict what awaited the son of Orodreth. "I should not tell you, for you will talk until his fëa flees his body, but he is in the Great Library," she said with a mischievous smile.
Círdan did not honour this with any answer except for a poorly faked indignant glare.

He found Gil Galad in the appointed room. The king of Nargothrond bent over a map of the inland, making notes on it in his small, precise writing. Near to him stood three jars of ink in different colours, each with its own pen.
Dust was dancing in the pale light that shone in through the huge windows. With each movements of his hand glittered the broad ring Gil Galad wore as only piece of jewellery. At the rim of the table stood an elaborately cut carafe of clear glass holding a golden liquid with a half filled glass beside it, long forgotten.
He leaned on his left hand, his lips moving slightly as deep in thought he spoke to himself. Again and again a dark strand of hair fell into his face, was absently put back behind an ear and fell anew. Exactly like the Shipwright had left him three days before.

Círdan needed only a second to take the whole picture in. "She is wonderful!" he cried while bursting into the room, crashing the door against the bookshelf at the wall beside it.
Gil Galad looked up and smiled, by no means surprised. Over the last years he had got used to the excited outbreaks of the usually calm Telerin elflord.
"Greetings to you also, my friend. I suppose you are speaking neither of a woman nor of my new horse?"
The Shipwright playfully slapped the younger Elf on the hand. "Insolent elfling! She has surpassed my greatest expectations! Swift before the wind, friendly with the waves! Indeed, she is blessed by Ulmo, and Ossë enjoys her on his seas! I just wish we would have had some stronger winds to fully test her abilities, but I do not doubt she will master even the wildest storm!"
In this way it went on for some time. Gil Galad did not interrupt the flood of words, just poured some apple juice and mixed it with water for the Shipwright to wet his throat. Círdan was a venerable and noble lord of his people, but when it came to new ships he changed into an enthusiastic father of bright children - or even to an excited child itself.

When finally the long and detailed description of all the boat's merits - and also a short regretful mentioning of her continuing lack of a name - had ended, the younger Elf set the glass in front of his friend.
"It seems to be a marvellous ship, though I do not believe that my opinion counts very much in those matters. Perhaps you should call her 'Good News', for those have reached us during your absence."
"What good news?" Círdan asked after taking a deep sip.
"A group of dwarves from Belegost has arrived only two days before. Among other news and a message from their lord I will tell you later of, they also brought tidings of Celeborn and Galadriel. They are well and live in peace. They have settled at the lake Nenuial, some fifty Leagues east of the Ered Luin."
In his still enthusiastic mood Círdan set his glass on the table and embraced Gil Galad.
"I can imagine what this means to you. Your grant-aunt safe, and also those who went with her and Lord Celeborn. I truly remember the beauty of Nenuial in the light of sunset, when we saw it for the first time during the Great Journey! Like red gold the waters of the Lake of Twilight seemed to us and the waves lapped in sweet, low harmonies." He returned from the depth of his memories. "Any more of them?"
"Yes, much more," the younger Elf answered in an amused tone. "Celeborn wrote me a long letter. Galadriel apparently is too occupied with governing the people to write much to her nephew. She only added a short note."
"Oh, the lady always knew – and mostly did - what she preferred!" Círdan replied. "But I don't doubt that they are capable leaders. Two good news in such a short time - this year the Gates of Summer truly are blessed. It will be a splendid celebration!"

The news of Círdan's return, the wonderful new ship and the safe arrival of the Doriathrim in Eriador swiftly spread along the islands and the bay, and so all Elves prepared the annual feast with special joy.
Two weeks later, on a warm evening in late spring, great excitement hovered over Balar. Fires were lit on the beaches and many Eldar – and even some Men - gathered there in groups, laughing and talking.

Gil Galad sat on Balar's eastern strand, counting the white flags on the mast of the ship halfway between Balar and Tol Faenglîn. Its sailors observed the sinking sun and indicated Anar's position.
Five flags. Five handbreadths over the horizon.
Loud squeaking made him turn his head and chuckling he watched some children splashing in the waves. Others played in the sand, building houses and animals or just digging channels for the water. And above them dozens of gulls, small and big, flew in circles and to him their cries seemed like laughter at the children's games. It was a warm and peaceful evening and he had every inclination to enjoy himself.

Only the restlessness of his hands gave a hint of some inner unrest. They wanted to caress Elwing's hair, but the girl had remained on the mainland. Therefore they occupied themselves with grasping some dry, loose sand to let it run through the fingers. Badly the young lady of the Doriathrim had wanted to spend the festivities with her 'big brother’; it had taken Erestor and Gil Galad much effort to convince her that on such an occasion her place was with her people.

Of course the rightfulness of this decision made it not easier for Gil Galad to endure her absence.

With a frown said lady of the Doriathrim combed her curly dark hair. The plaids she wore had been made by Finellach yesterday, and if they must give way in favour of another hairstyle she was not willing to let anyone else do it.
Elwing sighed. It was very difficult for her to understand the ways of grown people. Some celebrations she was allowed to spend with Finellach, at others they had to stay separated. And she could not discern any difference between the one and the other! Once she was grown herself and leader of her people she would spend every feast with him!
Having made this decision she loosened the last plaid with a firm tug.

Wriggling under his father's strong hands, Eärendil struggled to flee. "It hurts!" he cried.
Tuor laughed sympathetically and lowered the wooden comb. "Only because you are running around all the day with your hair unbraided. Keep still, the sooner we will be through."
He kissed his son's golden head, happily inhaling the warm scent. Sometimes the love for his family even could silence the song of Ulmo's waters and the sea-longing in his heart.

When Anar's last rays finally disappeared beneath the horizon, the last white flag was lowered and replaced by a dark one, and in this moment all laughter and talk ended. Only low music of flutes and harps and singing filled the air. For this was the night before the feast the Firstborn called Tarnin Austa, 'Gates of Summer'. In this night all Elves in Beleriand stayed awake and after midnight remained in reverential silence to greet the dawn with sweet and grateful songs.
It was a Sindarin custom, developed when Anar had appeared for the first time. In awe and wonder the Elves of the Hither Lands had looked at the new star, bright enough to illuminate the whole sky. And after sunset they had waited throughout the night, hoping for the beautiful light to return.

Nowadays all Elves celebrated this night and the following day. They sat together on Balar's strands, in Arvernien and Thargelion as well as along the coast and in every single settlement, be it roofed by leaf or stone.
It began in Gondolin, where the high peaks of the Crissaegrim shielded the White City, was followed by the roaming Sindar in the woods who had gathered on clearings and last of all the Elves at the coasts began with the ceremony.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Gondolin the High King Turgon stood on a balcony of his tower, waiting like all others for the first rays of the sun over the eastern Crissaegrim to arise. Little Eärendil he held on his arm, with one of the boy's tiny arms around his neck. Turgon's face was full of happiness. Here he was, with his family around him: his beautiful, wise daughter, his son-in-law, his bright grandson and his nephew, who after all the countless years seemed to have overcome his dark moods and smiled joyous like all others. Here he was, in his White City, the Flower of Stone, beautiful like Tirion upon Tuna and strong enough to withstand any attack. If only Elenwë could be with him!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gil Galad listened to the cries of the last gulls and in his heart he felt gratitude for this one moment of peace his people were allowed to experience.
Elwing was leaning against Erestor, thinking about all the fun and merry dancing that awaited her in the morrow.
Erestor held his lady in his arms and mused over politics and over the beauty of Lúthien as she sang and danced on Tol Galen to welcome the sun.
Eärendil looked up to the clear sky and repeated in his mind what his father and grandfather had told him about the stars.
Idril caressed her husband's hand and they shared a mutual feeling of hope. Maybe the Valar would grant them many such celebrations in the future.

He watched Idril closely, her hair and face shining in the silvery light of moon and stars. Soon, very soon, she would be his!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deep in the night Gil Galad and Gildor Inglorion lay stretched out on the sand, dreamily observing the stars and listening to the music of harps and flutes. Beside them Celebrimbor sat with his arms around his knees as he remembered happy celebrations with his family back in Aman. He had positioned himself in such a way that no light fell on his face, to hide the tears that run down his cheeks. He could not mislead his friends, of course.
None of all the Elves around them spoke a single word; even the children felt that this was no time for noisy games. Only sometimes cries of the youngest were to be heard, who cared not for sun or moon but only for their mothers' warm bodies and sweet milk.
All faces were illuminated by the fires and the peaceful light of the moon which built a silvery path over the water.
The night went on. And the Sindar and Noldor of Beleriand remained silent in their expectant watch.

Except for Gondolin, where the Elves fought against an overpowering enemy and all they felt was hate and fear and despair.

This was the night when deeds were done of which one day many songs, sad and proud, would tell. In later years Elves and Men would sing of the False Light and of Rog the Hammer of Wrath, they would mourn for the Tower of the King and remember the Eagle's Fight against the orcs. (1)

For those, however, who were present at the cruel death of Gondolin, the Stone of Song, it was only blood, fire and pain. (2)

Tuor stood in front of his house, facing a group of about thirty Elves, all clad in simple black.
"Go away, shabby Edain!" one of them hissed scornfully.
The man looked his opponent straight in the eye. "Out of my way, Mole."
But the Elf did not move. "Our lord gave us order to stay and stay we will."
"Are you mad?" one of Tuor's followers cried. "Have you not heard what was spoken by Gothmog himself? It was Maeglin who betrayed us to Morgoth!" (3)
"Still he is our lord and we will follow his order. If you want to go through us, you will have to fight," came the stubborn answer.
Someone cried inside the house, if in pain or anger no one could have said. Tuor's eyes flashed in anger, he drew his sword and the members of his House with him. The other Elves also raised their weapons. Fight was near.

In this moment commotion arose among the dark clad Elves. Several roughly pushed through the group and came forth. With serious, even reproachful glances both to Tuor and their stunned comrades they sheathed their swords and then left the place. Only one of them, a young female Elf, turned once and looked back to the house, and she wept.
The two groups faced each other in silence. Now their numbers were equal.
"Go!" Tuor said quietly. Then he stepped forward and the Elves made room for him before they also went away, forsaking their lord and abandoning the loyalty to his House. (4)

********************

When dawn came the Eldar rose and turned their faces to the morning light. The best singers began with ancient songs and the clear voices of the others joined them.

The refugees reached the exit of the secret passage and moved in a long row over the plain of Tumladen to the high pass they called Cirith Thoronath, the Eagle's Cleft. They were exhausted and had to walk slowly because of the children and the injured, regardless of the hostile army behind them.

From high above Thorondor, Lord of Eagles, observed their flight and his heart was filled with anger. Once he had been changed from a mere animal into a creature with reason and awareness of the One, ordered to help the Children of Ilúvatar and protect them against Morgoth and his slaves.
And now? Nargothrond had fallen and he had been forbidden to help. Doriath had fallen and all he had been allowed to do was to bring the message of its ruin. Now Gondolin, the White Flower in the plain of Tumladen, found its end by the paws of Dragons and the fiery whips of Balrogs. And still all the eagles could do, were permitted to do, was to protect the fugitives. With a furious flapping of his giant wings he called for his folk. "Arise o Thornhoth, whose beaks are of steel and whose talons swords!" (5)
And the Eagles came.
They attacked the orcs on the cliffs who waylaid the Gondolindrim. And Thorondor himself took part in the battle between Glorfindel and the Balrog. From high above in the sky he pounced down on the Maia and his claws deeply buried themselves into immortal flesh. With his mighty wings he slapped the demon hard and with his feathers he hindered his sight and thus he saved Glorfindel more than once.
And in the end their fierce enemy lost his balance and Glorfindel took this opportunity to press against him with all his strength, ignoring the heat that burned his body, and the Balrog fell into the chasm beside the path. But with his fiery claw he grasped Glorfindel and both vanished in the abyss.

Had an eagle been able to cry, Thorondor would have done so. Another undeserved death, another of the fair Children of the One gone to the Halls of Mandos against his nature. In spite of his own severe wounds he gathered his remaining strength and by the power of sheer will he followed their fall. Deep down in the cleft he found Glorfindel's body and as a last act of reverence he took him up to his people to be decently buried.
Then the Lord of Eagles returned to his eyrie to be healed from the wounds he had received in body. Yet he was a higher being, no animal anymore. Hence long he mourned and did not understand and though still absolutely faithful, Thorondor was disappointed by his Lord.

Three weeks later a young girl in the main haven of Balar stood in the opening of the low fence that shielded a small but beautiful garden against the busy street. She paid no attention to the carriages or the various calls, not even to the slender white boats dancing on the restless waves and rhythmically bumping against the quay. These had just returned from last night's haul and her elder brother was working on one of them.
She knew all these things well, they meant 'home' to her, notwithstanding she faintly remembered another time in green and more quiet surroundings, smelling of resin instead of salt, when she had been very, very young.

Not that she often thought of it, for the memory was sullied with noise and fear, pain and cold. She had been told that her whole family had perished in an orc-attack. In her memory she saw her parent's faces, gently smiling, but their names she could not remember. Likewise she could not recall her own name. It was lost with all remnants of her former life. Those who had cared for her afterwards had named her Ergaladh, Lonely Tree. On Balar there lived several other children with similar names. For them as well as for others they were a sign and a reminder of the life they had lost.

Nowadays, however, she had a new family and the first thing she had done when she came to them nearly fifteen years ago was thoroughly learning their names so she never could lose them like she had lost her real family. Halfion was her father and Gaervîr her new mother and she had two siblings - other than in her former life - named Nuninniach and Erinlith. (6)

For Human standards she seemed about five years old and if not for the shining of her eyes no one would have been able to recognise the difference between her and the Edain children of the neighbourhood.
Unless she spoke. Like all children of the Eldar she early had learned to master her mother-tongue, to use and to appreciate its forms. And today she was allowed to prove it.

Presently, however, her mind was set on a very special person and less on the ceremony ahead.
A visit of her king – her king, though not the king of her parents, a fact that still confused Ergaladh's young mind – always was a splendid occurrence. Once, twice in every season he came to her as he came to all the other children with the same sad names. He enquired after her well-being and if she was still happy living here. A strange question in her opinion, after all this was her home and her family!

Shortly she was distracted by the gulls hovering over the ships. She loved the white birds since their cries had been the first she had known of her new home, two days ere they had reached the sea. It was one of the few clear memories she had of the time of wandering and nearly the only pleasant one. 'Welcoming birds' she called them.

Finally she saw him come. At last! With a cry of joy she ran towards him. He laughed and as was habit between them caught her in his arms to throw her high into the air until she shrieked out of sheer delight. Then he took her on his arm. She was tall for her age and now her head was above his. Leaning forward she pressed a kiss on his cheek.
"I have waited, I have waited for you so long!"
His chuckle vibrated through her body, an intensely pleasant feeling.
"For that I beg your pardon, mylady. I had to escape some people with the odd opinion their business could be of higher importance than yours," Gil Galad answered. He had used all his diplomatic skills to postpone a discussion with some very upset emissaries of a Human settlement who had come to complain about Elves fishing at their coast.
The girl laughed and rubbed her cheek against his.

They entered the low house behind the garden and were welcomed by Ergaladh's foster parents. Both respectfully bowed to Gil Galad and smiled, for they knew him well from his various visits.
"Greetings, my king," Gaervîr said, offering some tea.
Gil Galad was wide aware of the addressing and knew not if to correct her. It became custom among the inhabitants of Balar to call him their king, though only a handful of them actually were his subjects. It was a sign of respect and trust and as such a gift they bestowed on him, a praise and reward for his work. On the other hand he did not wish to estrange the Falathrim from their rightful lord Círdan. Admittedly the Shipwright only laughed at this behaviour and gave no sign of disappointment or offence. Therefore Gil Galad decided to keep silent, at least for the moment. Today was a day of family, not of politics.
"Greetings to you also. I hope you and your family fare well?"
He hoped, indeed.
Halfion smiled. "We do, my king. Especially those with a serious task to perform."
He nodded towards the girl on Gil Galad's arm.
"And - are you ready?" he asked her with a playful poke ere setting her down. He knew, she did not like to be carried too long.
"I am!” Ergaladh excitedly cried. Then she run away to bring a cup for his tea, brown sugar in a small, delicate bowl and a spoon. This she ordered neatly before Gil Galad on the table and then raised her eyes to him in a begging manner.
He cast a questioning look at her father and the Elf laughed.
"You are supposed to utter more wishes, mylord. She loves to help me in the kitchen or with serving the food. Every time we have guests she tries to pamper them. I think, once she is grown she will work in the guest's hostels."
The king ruffled the young girl's dark hair. "Is that true? Do you like to take care for others?"
"Oh yes, it is so much fun! Don't you like it, too?" she replied in an unbelieving tone, astounded that her usually so bright lord could ask for the apparent. What could be better, after all?
He laughed. "Not as much as you do, little one, but if you still feel that way when you are a grown lady, you shall come to my home and take care for my guests."
"And for you?"
"And for me, yes."

Later they assembled with other close relatives and friends in the larger garden behind the house. Ergaladh was clad in her finest garment now, a gown of cotton woven by one of her aunts in a hue of dark blue like the sea on a sunny day. On her black locks she wore a garland of ivy to indicate that she was to perform an important and serious ritual.

The girl tightened the hold on her mother's hand when she was led in the middle of the group. She felt self-conscious in view of so many people paying attention to her, and with this so serious expression on his face her friend Finellach was the king again whom she loved but also feared a little.
Smiling her parents stepped before her and a little of the fear melted under these warm smiles.
"Have you made your decision, Ergaladh?" her father asked.
'Foster-father, my father who should ask me this is dead,' came the unbidden thought.
As she was told about the course of the ritual she nodded.
"I have made it, my father."
"So tell us what name you have chosen," Gaervîr said with a slightly shaking voice.

For this moment indeed was important. This was the day the girl whom they had accepted as their own child more than fourteen years ago as a small, underweight orphan, stunned with shock and half-frozen, would perform the ritual of the Essecilmë, the name-choosing. (7)
It was one of the strange traditions of the Noldor but both she and her husband had decided not to separate Ergaladh from her origins, instead to perform every custom of her people. Gaervîr even had to admit that she found the idea of a young Elf choosing a personal name for the use by close friends and family very charming. It also gave Ergaladh the opportunity to show her success in learning her mother-tongue in all its shades of meaning and sound.
But at the same time this day meant also a success for her whole family. When she came to them, nearly fading from the grief, they had feared they would lose Ergaladh as sudden as she had entered their life. It had taken weeks until she spoke and nearly one season just to see her smile for the first time. That today she would choose a name for her own was more than just a proof for her mastery of the Sindarin language. It was a sign that they had successfully brought her back to life.
And it was, of course, of special importance since she had no father- nor mother-name any more, only the one given by others, in love and affection, but still without the bonds of family.
Gaervîr closed her hands around Halfion's arm. Appropriate or not, she needed his support and she sensed his need for hers.

Ergaladh took a deep breath. She did not see Gil Galad's expectant face.
"I have chosen to name myself after the first sign of my new home, and therefore take the name Filhuilen, Welcoming Bird." (8)
"So be it," her mother said. "Welcome again in your family, Filhuilen."

The tension broke and all the guests came to her, kissed her cheeks and forehead and those who were instantly allowed to use it - her parents and siblings – spoke her new name again and again, literally tasting it on their tongues as if it was an old wine. Later she would decide who might call her with her chosen name, for the name one took at the Essecilmë was private like personal property and to use it without permission meant a great offence.

"You have made a beautiful choice," Gil Galad said after he had lowered himself on his knees to look into her eyes. His pleasure was distinct. "No one could have found one more fitting to the lady who shall greet the guests of the king's hall one day."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Will you call me by my chosen name?" she whispered in his ear.

His hands were warm on her back. "I will gladly do so, Filhuilen."

It was a long wandering ere the remaining survivors reached the lower part of the Sirion. Only after one year had passed since the destruction of their home and the death of their king they came to the peaceful land of Nan Tathren. There they stayed for a while, rested and celebrated a feast in memory of all they had lost, and to mourn for Glorfindel.

And eventually they were found by Arvernian Elves, hunting in the woods. These were shocked at the news of Gondolin's fall and they asked Tuor and Idril to come with them and bring the sad message to Balar. But only Tuor went with them since he and Idril did not want to leave their people leaderless. So he left his wife and his son and the Elves led him to Balar.

But to his companions' surprise he smiled happily when they reached the shore. Finally he saw the sea again which he had missed for so long.

Chapter End Notes

 

(1) The songs of Gondolin's fall: I don't think that there's a better or more touching way to describe this tragic incident than Tolkien did himself in 'The Book of Lost Tales'.

(2) Stone of Song: literal translation. Figuratively it meant a stone that was carved to great beauty. (HoME II, 'The Book of Lost Tales II', 'The Fall of Gondolin', Name-list)

(3) That the Elves learned from Gothmog who had betrayed Gondolin is completely my idea. Tolkien never wrote about it. But someone must have told them and to me it seems unlikely that it was Maeglin himself.

(4) Okay, here I slightly stray from the description in the 'The Book of Lost Tales'... *sheepish grin*

(5) "Arise o Thornhoth..." is cited from the 'Fall of Gondolin' in the 'The Book of Lost Tales'. I love this particular sentence too much not to use it...

(6) The names in Ergaladh's family: the exact translation is
Halfion = Seashell-Son
Gaervîr = Sea-jewel
Nuninniach = Under-the-Rainbow
Erinlith = On-the-Sand
*sighs* Oh, all these elven names! This time I had no one to ask for the correctness of my translations. Means: please tell me should they be wrong.
Well, it seems that in this family the giving of epessë is not as seriously taken as it should be. In my imagination the name of Ergaladh's new father refers to his character, apparently he is a little introverted. The names of her brethren, though individually harmless enough, together (hopefully) indicate the circumstances under which their bearers were conceived... ;)
Silly Elves!
Silly muse!

(7) Essecilmë: the name-choosing, a custom described in the HoME X, 'Morgoth's Ring'. The person chose a name for him-/ herself which was to be used only among close family (parents and siblings) and intimate friends, never without permission. It was not secret, but something like personal property, e.g. a knife which can be lend to others. The ceremony took place only after the young Elf had mastered his mother-tongue well enough to understand and appreciate the sound and meaning of words, but seldom before the seventh year. Probably this custom was known only among the Noldor.
About the course of the ceremony nothing is said, so I developed my own.

(8) Ergaladh's chosen name: Filhuilen = welcoming bird, literally: greeting bird, shortened form of 'fileg-huilen'

2nd AN:

Oh yes, I know – Ergaladh's Essecilmë is absolutely unnecessary for the story, unless to give Gil Galad a few happy moments. But I couldn't bring myself to skip it. Btw: it was written in one go in my neurologist's waiting room. Apparently it has a very muse-friendly atmosphere. :D

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