To Move a Star by Kimberleighe

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To Move a Star

I wrote a separate piece called Into Darkness Fell that describes from an OC POV scenes from before and after the Last Alliance set out to Mordor.  In it, Elrond recounts the fall of Gil-galad.  This piece provides a brief glimpse into the final day and mindset of Gil-galad as based upon Elrond’s account.

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To Move a Star

 

                “You survived.”  In a different place, the words might have been paired with a laugh and jovial shoulder thump, but here, the phrase was stated with relief, a hand clasping the King’s shoulder firmly. 

The King’s armor glimmered dully, coated with the black dust that invaded the air they inhaled.  His skin had become a mess of smeared dirt; water was too scarce for the luxury of a bath.  Ereinion turned slowly from his grim surveillance of the black land before him.  His gaze was quick over his Captain, checking for any apparent signs of injury.  Earlier, the Enemy had driven a wedge between their forces, completely overwhelming the hot-headed Oropher and his archers.  Ereinion ignored the familiar worried crease between Tirnion’s brow.

                “Not unscathed, I see.”  The Captain indicated the grey bandage at the curve between the King’s neck and shoulder.  A stray blow had scraped his skin; while it burned, he would not lose his head or life from such a wound. 

                “Disappointed?”  Ereinion would have smiled, but the heat had burnt away his mirth.

The black and ugly tower of Barad-Dûr loomed above them.  The grunts and hoarse cries of the enemy force resounded in a cacophony of anger that never ended.  Ereinion sighed, wiping at his face with the stained cloth in his hand.  Tirnion offered him a different, somewhat cleaner rag.  Ereinion took it, his appreciation passing silent between them. 

                “Relieved, Ereinion.  I would be a terrible Captain if I allowed my King to fall.”  His eyes never ceased roving the black wall and his hand rested ready on his sword as if expecting a threat at every moment.

A sudden volley of arrows and fiery rocks rained down on the field before them.  Ereinion held his breath, hearing the cries of their scouts caught.  Tirnion’s jaw clenched tight, but he otherwise remained hard as stone.  Ereinion forced himself to turn away and begin the short trek to their camp.  He could not help them anymore.  Tirnion fell into step a half-pace behind.

“How is Arvellon?”  Ereinion forced himself to not demand a report of their losses.  After seven years of war, Tirnion had ceased to provide such numbers; they could do nothing for the dead.

                At the mention of his son, a brief smile crossed Tirnion’s face.  Ereinion heard the quiet prayer muttered before Tirnion’s answer.

                “He is well; he is safe.”  A shadow of worry lingered in Tirnion’s eyes.  “Be glad you have no son, Ereinion.  You do not have to walk among the dead looking for him.”

A grimace twisted Ereinion’s face.

                “You are singular among my advisors then.  They nag me for leaving no son.”  He kicked at the rocks. 

                “Other than Celeborn, none of your advisors brought their children,” Tirnion replied dryly.

Ereinion laughed, the sound catching the attention of every soldier that heard it.  His teeth flashed white as he grinned, pushing past the heavy flap into his tent. 

                He knelt beside a bag in the corner beside his bed and began to rummage through it.  When the flap opened again, he was quick to ascertain it was Tirnion who entered.  Seven years of vigilance had enforced habits of which he wasn’t sure he’d ever be free.  He watched Tirnion circle the table set in the middle of the tent that bore the map of Mordor.  Ereinion carefully lifted the treasure from its many wrappings, rising and turning to present it to Tirnion.  The Captain stared at the bottle before bursting out into laughter.

                “Only you would keep a bottle of wine hidden in time of war.”  Tirnion snatched two crude metal cups and placed them on the map.

                “You have your sister to thank,” Ereinion replied.  “Somehow she wrapped this so well that it survived.  All this time, and it is not in pieces.”

                “Ah, we shall have to thank her, when this is over and we are returned home.”  Tirnion somehow had retained his optimism. 

                When their eyes met, Ereinion could not hide his skepticism.  In his dreams, he saw only fire and smoke.  The stars were veiled.

                “We will return, Ereinion.”  Tirnion’s voice was firm as he watched the wine dispense into the cups.

                “And what if I do not?” 

Tirnion’s keen eyes watched the King carefully.  Too many soldiers had begun to lapse into hopelessness and despair.  Protocol dictated that those men go to Lórien, to find some respite and regain their strength.  Ereinion met the gaze evenly.

                “Those are dark thoughts, my friend,” Tirnion replied.

                “Am I not allowed to voice them?”  Ereinion took a small sip of the wine.

He closed his eyes in sheer pleasure.  The dry and earthy taste reminded him of Lindon, of a life that now seemed to have occurred ages before. 

                “Here, with me, you may, but I would advise against doing the same with your other counselors,” Tirnion answered.  “You alone of the high-lords have not travelled to Lórien.”

Tirnion did not elaborate any further, but the King did not need him to.  Lately, the subject had been broached in their council meetings, much to Ereinion’s ire.  Ereinion just shook his head, his mind travelling back to the last meeting. 

                “Glorfindel made the unfortunate comment that I have too much of my grandfather’s temperament,” Ereinion grumbled, eliciting a loud laugh from Tirnion.

                “Should I take care to keep Aeglos and your horse under closer supervision?”  He set down his cup, gazing down at the map. 

Ereinion just lifted his cup, his lips twisting into a sad grimace.

                “We have not reached utter ruin as of yet.”  He drank deeply.

                “There are those dark words again,” Tirnion warned.

                “Just fodder for future and lazy nights in Forlond.  It will give you something to tease me mercilessly about,” Ereinion replied, watching Tirnion’s expression lighten.

Here, in the shelter of the tent, he allowed himself the luxury of mulling over future days when the war was won, and he was returned home to Forlond to rule in peace.  He could almost hear the rejoicing and celebration.  The streets of his City would be bursting with a victorious welcome for his soldiers.  Briefly, he entertained thoughts of the more intimate reunion that he longed for.  He felt a sliver of hope.

                “Gil-galad!”  The tent flap flew open.

Reflexively, both men had tensed at the sudden intrusion.  Tirnion’s sword had half-freed itself from the scabbard before he muttered a curse.  Ereinion scowled at Elrond, narrowing his eyes at the perceived carelessness of his herald.

                “The Dark Lord has sent an emissary with proposed terms to ending this war,” Elrond continued.

Ereinion immediately forgot his displeasure.

                “Has Elendil been notified?” he asked.

                “He should be making his way here.  Glorfindel and the remainder of your guard will escort the ambassador here at your command,” Elrond answered. 

Ereinion exchanged a single glance with Tirnion, and his Captain quickly exited the tent.  Elrond closed the distance easily, standing beside Ereinion to help clasp the heavy ornamental cape to his armor.  As Ereinion set the crown on his brow, Elrond picked up the bottle of wine with a sigh.

                “Have the rest,” Ereinion offered, holding out the cork.

                “Gladly.”  Elrond replied, quickly placing the bottle out-of-sight as Elendil and his lords entered the tent.  “I have no doubt I will need it directly after this conference.”

                After the parley, when their small party had arrived to stand in the shadow of the mountain, Ereinion recognized the chances of his victorious return had significantly slimmed.  The Dark Lord cut a tall shadow in his black armor.  He stood alone, waiting for his competitors.  Ereinion glanced only once to Elendil who spoke quietly with his son.  Tirnion silently finished his inspection of Gil-galad’s armor, nodding tersely to the King.

                “May the Lady shine her favor on you,” Tirnion said in way of a farewell.

Ereinion clasped his arm, forcing his Captain to stop.  He caught the strain in Tirnion’s face.

                “You did not bring me a horse.”  His ill attempt at humor eased the tension in his friend’s face.

                “It’s under supervision,” Tirnion replied.

Ereinion lingered only a moment more in the humor before he felt himself detaching and distancing from his old friend.  His gaze moved to his lords who had gathered as spectators. 

                “Captain…”  Even his voice had sharpened.  “…have your men please escort everyone but Lords Círdan, Elrond and Isildur from this place to our camp.  They will be alerted to the outcome soon enough.”

                “Of course, my King.”  There was a brief pause before Tirnion asked,” will you be requiring your Guard to return?”

Ereinion turned his head, gazing at the black armored Maia waiting.  He did not look to Tirnion as he spoke.

                “No.  Report to Lord Glorfindel for further instructions,” Ereinion answered.

The crunching footsteps signaled Tirnion’s departure.  Ereinion closed his eyes, and offered a silent prayer to the Lady.    

                “Ereinion, this is madness.  Let me go in your stead.”  Elrond was suddenly beside him, hand tight around Ereinion’s arm. 

There was wild and unabashed valor that tried to hide the fear in the Half-Elven’s eyes.  Ereinion simply placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder and smiled.  He opened his mouth, intending to say something comforting or brave, but nothing came.  Instead, he resolutely turned towards the Maia marching towards him.  Elendil would join him momentarily, he had no doubt.

                “Gil-galad,” Sauron sneered.  “You reek of fear.”

                Ereinion didn’t deign to respond, his mind fixed on a moment far in the past.  For a moment, he could smell the salty breeze and felt it cool his skin.  In his memory, his mother had closed the doors and windows of their sea cottage, sitting on the floor with him.  Outside, he could hear his friends’ laughter, and longed to skip these daily lessons his mother forced upon him. 

                “When I was a singer in Tirion, your uncle, Makalaurë, made a discovery, one he freely shared with the other artists.  The Eldar always knew there was power in music.  It is he that revealed through the pairing of words and sounds in a certain order, we could tap into the power of the Ainur.  We could will the stars to move and the flowers to grow,” she said, beginning their session.

                “Amil, only Lady Varda can move the stars.”  He had argued with the omniscience of an adolescent.

Meldilmë had only smiled.  That night, they had travelled to the beach, forgoing their usual dinner routine.  Once they were a fair distance from the lights and sounds of Eglarest, Meldilmë had sat on the sand. 

                “My son, we are the Children of Ilúvatar.  We can move the stars,” she murmured.

Ereinion curiously watched his mother.  She sat still, the wind pulling at her dark hair.  The moon created odd shadows across her face, causing her to look like some fey lady from Ninnethril’s stories.  She took a deep breath, opening her mouth.  The voice that left her lips was sweeter than he had ever heard before.  He could never remember the words to her song, but he never forgot the experience.  As the music continued, the air grew tense and hummed around them.  Meldilmë’s skin glowed brighter as her voice grew louder and louder.  Then he saw it: stars began to streak across the sky. 

                Today, the stars hid in the black sky.  He planted Aeglos bright in the black earth, pulling off his helm and tossing it carelessly to the ground.  It would not help him here.  Already, he felt he had walked this path before, perhaps, in his dreams.  Galadriel had once told him, after an over-indulgence of wine, that he had the voice of Findaráto.  He could only hope his song would not fail like Felagund’s. 

He drew a deep breath, and then began to sing.

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Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

Ereinion Gil-galad: High-king of the Noldor; son of Findekáno and Meldilmë.

Tirnion: First Captain of Gil-galad’s personal guard; brother of Idhreniel; son of Ninnethril and Olthir.

Arvellon: son of Tirnion.

Meldilmë: Exile; mother of Gil-galad; wife of Findekáno.