Finellach by Agelast

He had slipped away from the nurses quite easily, with hardly a murmur. They were calling his name now, "Finellach! Finellach! Where are you, you silly boy?" He was hardly that. He had evaded capture for more than an hour now, safely burrowed in the darkness under his father's cavernous desk. He curled up there and went to sleep.

The sound of leather boots against flagstone woke him later -- he didn't know how long, though the shadows in the room had lengthened across the floor. The boots strode across the room, this way and that, until suddenly they stopped in front of Finellach's hiding place.

He held his breath, desperate not to be caught. After a few, fraught moments, the boots turned away. Finellach gave a small sigh, and that proved his undoing, because a pair of strong arms reached into his hiding place and hauled him up and up, until he was staring at his father's face.

"Finellach!" his father said, with a fearsome, though patently put-upon scowl, "So there you are! Did you not know that you had driven the entire castle to distraction, looking for you? Your poor mother feared the worst! What could have possessed you to do such a thing?"

Finellach wrapped his small arms around his father's neck, burying his face in the dark fall of his father's hair. "I'm not going, Atto," he said, at last, his words muffled.

"Going where?"

"You know," Finellach said with a loud sniff. He pulled away so he could see his father's face. "You need me here. I've heard you say so."

"Oh --" His father placed a distracted kiss on the top of Finellach's head. "I need you indeed, my bravest, brightest warrior. But you know as your king, I must send you where you are most needed, don't you? And you are needed at the Havens, with your mother and Círdan."

"Stop it," Finellach whispered.

"Stop what?" His father peered closely at him, the tip of his nose almost touching

"Stop being the king and be my father instead!" As soon as he said, Finellach knew he oughtn't have, and even if he hadn't, his father's expression would have told him the same.

His father looked remote and sad, for a moment, before he put on his customary smile. "Ah, my son. If kingship was so easily put aside! You know not of what you speak, though my heart forewarns me that you will know too soon. Remember me with kindness, my dear."

But Finellach could not understand, and began to cry, gathering up hunks of his father's hair and pulling, and pulling until at last he let go of his own accord, too tired to cry anymore.

*

In many ways, living in Círdan's house was a joy, so different than the darkness of Barad Eithel. Light seemed to filter into every corner, and he knew his mother was glad to be among her own people again. Círdan was -- kind. He did not seek to replace Finellach's father in his heart, but rather sought to teach the young Elf all that he knew.

Finellach found that he had an affinity with the water -- gazing at it did not give rise to a terrible longing in his heart, but rather, such love and fascination that he had hardly experienced before. His favorite hobby, after the day's lessons were concluded, was to sit on a outcrop of rock and watch the waves roll onto the shore. When the tide was low, he would carve out little boats -- Círdan had showed him how -- and then set off out into the water. He fancied some other boy finding his little boat on the other shore, though he knew that wasn't likely.

The night had gathered quickly that day, and Finellach struck a flint and lit his little lamp. His stomach rumbled and he was about to turn home when he saw a runner coming towards him. The runner was a ragged Elf, on whose chest was emblazoned a sigil of the House of Fingolfin. He stumbled at the last moment, and cast himself against Finellach's feet.

"Forgive me, my prince, for I bring ill news to you and yours," panted he panted, and Finellach saw that he was greviously hurt.

"I will not hold your news against you," Finellach said gently. "What is your name?"

The runner blinked up at him, his face blank, as he had forgotten, in the terror of his flight. "I am Alagnir, my prince."

"And what is your news, Alagnir?"

"The king is dead," Alagnir said, "the battle -- Hithlum -- all is lost."

"I see," Finellach said, though he could not, quite. His vision seemed to flicker dim, for a moment. "So I am king?"

"Not so, my prince. Not yet. Your uncle, Turgon, still lives and the title goes to him. He and his followers came to us all unlooked for during the battle, and for some time our hope was high that we would still prevail. But -- it was not meant to be. We could not hold against our pitiless enemies nor the treachery of some of our -- allies."

Alagnir spat on the ground. "The Union of Maedhros indeed! May he suffer for he has done!"

"You must--" Finellach stopped, for he knew his voice shook. Alagnir looked at him, his eyes wide. "You must go at once to my mother's house, and there eat and bathe. I am sure we will want to know everything you know. But for tonight -- you must rest and find treatment for what wounds you have."

He helped Alagnir up, and showed him the way to the house, and called for servants to attend to him. Alagnir turned to look at him as he was led away. "My prince, will you not come?"

"I will come," Finellach said. "In a little while."

He waited until the little party had disappeared from view and turned back to his collection of boats. How pathetic and childish they looked to him now! He squatted down and uncapped his lamp, and watched the flame leap bright against the growing gloom of evening.
One by one, he set the little boats aflame, on the water. They bobbed up and down, briefly, before they sank. As the last of them disappeared from view, Finellach thought, I am not my father's son. I will not die as he has done, hopeless and betrayed.

I will live, and and live and live. But I will be Finellach no more.

After all, he thought, he already had other names.

It was a lucky thing, Gil-galad thought, that he thoroughly enjoyed being king. Not just the pomp and circumstances, but the day to day tasks that would perhaps bore the life out of any regular person. Like now, when he listened with rapt attention to a long, and rather involved tale of a property dispute that had lasted for almost three hundred years. It had to do with an apple orchard located between two homesteads, and within the borders of the royal city, which is was why Gil-galad was obliged to hear the case himself.

One of the appellants, a thickset woman with silver-bright hair, whose name was Faniel, spoke passionately about the orchard, which she said had been in taken care by her family for many long years. Why should they -- she gestured at the other party, represented by an impatient, dark-haired woman, who looked outraged at being addressed -- reap the fruits of their labor?

“Your honor -- your grace,” interrupted the dark-haired woman, named Rileth, “I have with me now the original deed to the property, which shows clearly that Hithwon, my husband’s father’s uncle, bought the land from Mithil more than two hundred and fifty years ago!”

“So?” said her rival, “I have with me a document that shows Mithil sold the property to my mother, dated two hundred and fifty-two years ago!”

“Peace,” Gil-galad said, holding up his hand. “I doubt not that the two of you possess the documents you speak of. To my sure knowledge, this Mithil sold all of their possessions twice-over before they sailed, and now is remembered as an utter scoundrel. Now, before you is a plan worked out between your lawyers, to share the orchard and its fruits. I suggest you abide by the plan, or else we will be here in another two-hundred years, with nothing resolved. Are you agreed?”

Neither parties looked particularly pleased by the decision, but both agreed to abide by it. Then the bell rang, and Gil-galad rose from his seat, and all followed him out of the hall. Immediately, he was mobbed by courtiers, each with a request on their lips.

Gil-galad smiled and nodded as he made his way to the end of the hall. His smile, practised (still quite genuine), melted into a broad grin. “Well, Elrond, is everything ready?”

Elrond nodded, a serious expression on his face. “It is, my lord. If you would come this way.”

They headed out of the palace -- the crowd, still intent on following them, was stopped the discreet appearance of guards. Gil-galad and Elrond kept their steps measured and their faces grave, until they reached the path that lead to the king’s private dock.

“Quickly,” Gil-galad hissed, and Elrond shot him an exasperated look.

The boat that waited for them was a yacht, a pretty, ostentatious thing that Cirdan had presented to Gil-galad on the occasion of his five hundredth begetting-day. Usually, it required at least a crew of five, but Gil-galad had assured Elrond that he could do it all himself.

It was a good day for it -- the sky was clear and the sunlight sparkled on the water. The muggy heat that had clung to them all through the day whipped away with the wind of the water. There was hardly a moment to talk -- whatever Gil-galad said, he was glad for Elrond’s help, in sailing out into the Gulf, and then anchoring.

After that, Gil-galad went to the side of the ship and looked out. The water looked too cool and inviting -- without a word to Elrond, he quickly undressed and climbed over the railings, diving into the sea. He heard Elrond’s shout, but it was too late by then to reply to it.

The water was still relatively shallow here, and kelp tickled at his feet. Gil-galad looked around curiously, wondering if Uinen, the Lady of the Sea, felt playful today. He swam a little deeper, startling a fish as he did so. It was quiet under the water, and peaceful.

But alas, an Elf, however devoted to the sea, could no more breathe under water than could a bird, and so Gil-galad came up to the surface again with a mighty splash. He had surfaced some ways away from the ship, and swam leisurely towards it.

He could see Elrond peering anxiously over the side, his knuckles white against the dark of the wood.

"Ereinion," he shouted, "do stop being such a fool! Come out of the water!"

He had begun to unlace his breeches when he caught sight of Gil-galad, climbing up on the rope ladder that Elrond must have unrolled beforehand. Gil-galad began to squeeze the water out of his hair, leaning against the railing. "The water felt wonderful after all this heat. Why didn't you join me?"

"I can't," Elrond said, in an odd, choked-off voice.

“No? Why not?”

"I can't swim," Elrond said, and blushed. "I know, I know. My grandfather was Ulmo's chosen one, and my father, the great mariner. And even my brother has sailed away from me. But I -- I have always stuck fast to the earth, whenever I could help it."

"But you came out here with me, despite not knowing how to swim?"

“Of course I did,” Elrond said, “you needed it.”

“I did,” Gil-galad said, agreeably. He stretched, his hands brushing against Elrond’s side. “And I can teach you how to swim.”

Elrond snorted sharply. “With your copious free time, you mean?”

“I can make time,” Gil-galad said easily, “and besides, if you live next to the water, you ought to know how to swim, cousin. We could start now, if you'd like."

Elrond made a noise, not quite a yes and not quite a no, and Gil-galad, who knew to pick his battles, wandered over to his cabin and dressed in a spare set of clothes that were kept on the sea chest at the foot of his bed. When he came out again, he saw that Elrond had set out some fishing rods, bait and tackle, and they spent a pleasant afternoon fishing, and resolutely not speaking of anything of much consequence.

Sometimes, however, Gil-galad would catch himself casting looks at Elrond's direction. He had known Elrond for many years now, but he was still something of a mystery. Oh, Gil-galad knew Elrond to be a man of honor and discretion, his manners impeccable and his humor good-natured, so that it was a delight in especially boring council meetings, but everything else...

Elrond kept his feelings very close to his vest. Gil-galad was certain he was as close to Elrond as anyone on this shore, but the truth was that Gil-galad knew relatively little about his friend.

"You'll catch nothing if you keep your eyes on me rather than on the line," said Elrond with a sideways smile.

Gil-galad smiled back, reflexively, before he said, "I was wondering about you, actually."

"Me? But I'm hardly very interesting, especially to one such as yourself," said Elrond composedly.

"Let me be the judge of that. Tell me something about yourself, Elrond."

"What should I say?"

"Anything you would like, as long as it doesn't have to do with what we're doing now, or some intrigue in court. A childhood memory, perhaps? A like, a dislike? Knowing you, I can't imagine you have nothing to say."

"Well," Elrond said, reluctantly, “I like --" He interrupted himself with a laugh. "Ereinion, why do you have to ask me this?"

“I have realized that you have never quite told me how you left the care of Maglor and Maedhros, nor how you and your brother ultimately decided what should be your fates. At the time, of course, I thought it insensitive to ask --”

"But now, it is no longer so?"

"Perhaps it is still, but I confess, my curiosity grows as my patience lessens."

"I see." Elrond looked to the distant blue edge of the horizon. "I have no great secret, Ereinion, nothing that I am holding back from you, but perhaps--" He hesitated, looked unsure.

"No," he said finally. "Nothing of importance, anyway."

Gil-galad felt a definite tug on his fishing line. He decided to let Elrond go, for now.

*

The next morning, tucked in between Gil-galad's customary breakfast of aniseed biscuits and tea, there was a letter from Círdan. Gil-galad ripped into it with delight; he had not heard from Círdan since the latter had set off on an exploratory voyage on the lesser-known shores of Middle-earth, almost thirty years ago. But now, as the letter said, Círdan would reach Lindon soon, almost as soon as Gil-galad would receive his letter. Gil-galad smiled. He looked forward to seeing Círdan again. After his mother had sailed to the West, Círdan seemed to be the last link to Gil-galad's own childhood, so much of which had been swallowed up in the waves.

He sighed and snagged a biscuit from the plate, and ate it as he rose from bed and wandered to the balcony, which overlooked the gulf. He wished Círdan was with him now. Gil-galad was grown up now, of course, but he could still use some of Círdan's advice.

Say, with Elrond... In the light of the morning, Gil-galad saw that he had pushed too much, had acted, perhaps, foolishly. It would hardly do to push away an ally such as Elrond, however mysteriously the latter chose to live his life.

"Bah," Gil-galad said, as the sky lightened overhead, giving promise to another glorious day in Lindon. He went back to bed to get another biscuit.

*

Cirdan came soon after, with ships filled with strange and exotic things. The smell of spices, and foreign fruits were everywhere as the cargo was unloaded at the port, and Gil-galad had to comfort his head-gardener, who was distraught at the thought of all the new plants that she would now have to grow. “We will need three new greenhouses at least, your highness,” she said, clutching at his hand, her expression like that of a woman who had been shown paradise, but found it alive with snakes.

“I am sure you are equal to it, Lalvien,” said Gil-galad in a soothing voice. “If not you, who else?”

Lalvien seemed to consider it. “You are right. You mustn’t let Doron do it. He doesn’t know a berm from a compost-heap!”

It hardly mattered that Gil-galad didn’t either. He merely smiled and patted Lalvien’s hand, and sent her on her way.

From the milling madness of the crowd, he picked out Elrond, and waved. After a moment’s hesitation, Elrond waved back. But Gil-galad did not go to where he was -- he hardly needed to, for at this time, Cirdan disembarked and came to him, with many hugs and exclamations.

“You are looking well! Very well!” Cirdan shouted, his hands cradling Gil-galad’s face. Gil-galad laughed, and tried to wriggle loose from his foster-father’s grip. But those hands, used to lashing together ship’s timbers, could hardly be so easily escaped. Cirdan’s forehead touched Gil-galad’s for a moment, before he let him go.

“Oh, not in front of everyone, you’re embarrassing me,” Gil-galad groused, but Cirdan only laughed, and ruffled his hair.

*

Cirdan’s stories themselves were the stuff of legend, so it came as no surprise that that night the hall was packed with people, noble and commoner alike, to listen to his tales. Gil-galad sat with his foster-father on his right and Elrond on his left. It was a relief -- attention wasn’t on him, for once. He could eat and drink, and listen to Cirdan’s stories, just like the rest.

He turned and caught sight of Elrond’s face -- rapt, like the rest of the crowd. Elrond caught him watching and smiled back, genuinely warm. Gil-galad felt relief -- as if he had been forgiven, though for what, he hardly knew.

That night, when the crowds had dispersed and the three of them were settled quite comfortably in Gil-galad's private sitting room, Círdan unveiled one his more interesting gifts. Heating on a small brazier was a small copper pot of unusual design. It had a top and a spout, but also long handle that stuck out, opposite of the spout. Círdan fiddled with it a bit, muttering under his breath, before he deemed his concoction to be done. He took it off the brazier and placed it on a trivet, then poured out some of the contents into three small cups, which he gestured for Elrond and Gil-galad to take.

The liquid inside the cup was dark, suspiciously so, and the smell of it was unlike anything Gil-galad had ever experienced before, and he had to take a sip of it. When he did, Gil-galad could not help but exclaim. It was bitter, yes, and had a tang almost a like blood, but also so much richer than even the most luxurious of foods Gil-galad had ever eaten. The aftertaste taste was vaguely vegetal, and it left behind a heavy, brown residue on the bottom of the cup.

Gil-galad looked up at his foster-father. "What in the world is this?"

"I take it that you like it, then?"

"It is unlike anything I have ever had. Elrond, what do you think of it?" Gil-galad turned to Elrond and saw that his friend was still drinking his cup. A trace of it lingered in corner of his mouth, but it was wiped away by a twitch of his tongue. Gil-galad tried not to stare.

"It is very -- strong," Elrond managed to say, his face very pink. "Where did you get it, my lord?"

"We passed a Númenorëan ship sometime ago and set up an exchange, something interesting from them for something interesting from us. They say they got from a trader who received it from another, from the lands far to the west, a place more lush and green than anything like we have seen. But Men, you know, are often fanciful -- pardon me, Master Elrond --"

Elrond's eyebrow rose a touch, but he graced Círdan with a serene smile. "There is nothing to apologize for, my lord."

"Ah -- yes -- but there they use this substance for their most sacred rituals -- I can't think how the traders should have absconded with even a little bit of it."

"Do you have more of it? Seeds, I mean? Lalvien would certainly faint dead away, if she should encounter such plant like that. I would like to have them, just for the reaction." Gil-galad sighed, still tasting it on his tongue.

"As it happens," Círdan said, with a sparkle in his eye. "I do. But it is very rare, and as such, very expensive. And though I am very fond of you, Ereinion..."

"Oh, you are an incredible old man. I would pay whatever you asked for."

"The entire treasury?"

"Perhaps not that much."

"We shall see."

"Círdan," Elrond said, "what is it called?"

"Those who grow it called it xocoatl, but no doubt it will have a different name now."

"Give me a little more," Gil-galad ordered, raising his cup, as in salute. Círdan stirred the pot with a stick that was attached to the top, vigorously, and poured out the frothy result into their cups. They wished for each other's good health, and laughingly, Círdan mentioned that xocoatl was supposed to be an aphrodisiac.

"Something Yavanna may have brewed to lure Aulë from his forges, you mean?" Gil-galad said, shooting an all too brief look at Elrond. Elrond looked back at him, a certain look in his eye, one that held some promise.

*

Even later that night -- early, the next morning, more like, Gil-galad was being led to his bed, though he was hardly drunk anything, but still his arms were around Elrond's waist as if he was --

"Elrond," he said, speaking into Elrond's hair, noticing for the very first time that Elrond was a little taller than he. Perhaps even more than a little. Had he really never noticed it before?

"Yes?" Elrond was too close for Gil-galad to see his entire face, he only saw a curve of a jaw, a lip, half-bitten and red.

"Say the word and nothing will change. We will be as we always were."

"And if I say nothing?"

"I would kiss you," Gil-galad said, almost disgusted at himself by the trembling sincerity of his words. Elrond stilled and said nothing. Gil-galad stopped, and pushed himself against the wall. Elrond, rather than moving away, however, decided instead to loom over him for a moment, and then, kissed him thoroughly. Then Elrond stepped back, his eyes a little wild.

"That would be a yes, then?" Gil-galad said, when he got his breath back.

"Yes," Elrond said.

*

The morning light stole across Gil-galad's sleeping chamber, and he woke slowly, rolling towards an empty, cool spot of bed. Only that spot seemed occupied by another body. Gil-galad woke up much faster after that. Elrond was still asleep next to him.

So, despite the fact the that night before had rapidly taken on the qualities of a dream, Gil-galad saw before him evidence that it had all been too real. What happened between the second cup of xocoatl and waking up next to Elrond? Gil-galad's heart raced in his chest, but he took a calming breath, then two. Then he got out of bed and washed a little, and dressed. From the sounds coming from the outside of his sleeping chamber, someone was coming up to bring him breakfast. Gil-galad looked back to where Elrond was sleeping -- what a heavy sleeper he was! -- and decided to intercede.

He opened the door and went out to the hall, greeting the little servant who had brought him his breakfast tray, relieved him of it, and rewarded him with a few coins for his trouble. He watched the boy scramble away before going back to the room, closing the door behind him.

By that time, Elrond was awake. He looked at Gil-galad, wide-eyed and a little bewildered.

"Do you want something to eat? They always bring me too much," Gil-galad said, setting the tray on the bedside table.

"Ereinion, I --"

"Come, Elrond, be easy. I don't expect breathless vows of eternal love just yet. I don't think we did anything but tussle a while in my bed. Hardly worth mentioning."

"Do you really think so?" There was plaintive note in Elrond's voice, quickly hidden, before he coughed and nodded. "You're right, of course. Nothing much happened at all."

Gil-galad smiled and couldn't resist but to bend down and kiss Elrond on his cheek -- though Elrond moved his head at the very last moment and the kiss landed awkwardly between his cheek and the corner of his mouth.

They looked at each other, awkward and yet unable not to laugh.

"Maybe, we could try..." Gil-galad said, covering his fit of laughter with a cough and clearing his throat. He composed himself, glanced at the window and saw that the morning was truly asserting itself.

There was so much to be done and his time was not his own.

He looked back at Elrond, who looked quite calmly back at him, any hint of amusement carefully hidden.

"Well, to be continued."

"Yes, I hope so," Elrond said, with a smile.

It seemed that Gil-galad was to be dismissed. He stood still for a moment, resisting the impulse to go. This was his own room, after all! Instead, he followed Elrond to the door and they looked out to see if the way was clear.

“You still haven’t taught me how to swim,” Elrond said with a small smirk, as he brush against Gil-galad’s side and was gone.

*

Despite that promise, however, nothing happened for some quite some time after that. Cirdan stayed on for some time, sharing embarrassing stories of Gil-galad’s childhood, to the amusement of many. Elrond smiled, traded joked, was as ever, imperturbable and helpful -- and yet -- no closer a friend to Gil-galad than he had been before.

Perhaps, Gil-galad thought, as he was waiting in the port to see Círdan off again, it was better this way. Surely some romantic entanglement would only complicate things and surely interfere with the smooth running of the kingdom. Perhaps Elrond had the right of it. If only he had shared that insight with his King!

“I hope, my dear boy, I have not complicated things for you,” Cirdan said, creeping up on Gil-galad and suddenly speaking, as he often did. Gil-galad scowled at him, but Círdan only smiled at him benignly.

"Complicated? In what way?"

"I haven’t been able to travel like this in so many years. It is comfort to know that you are here, taking care of things --”

“I am sure Galdor would be happy to hear that I am getting all the credit,” Gil-galad said, returning his foster-father’s embrace. They broke away, each grinning.

“Galdor can take it,” Cirdan said, with a smile.

"Then so can I."

"You've never hesitated to take a challenge, that's true. But if I could advise you in one thing, Ereinion, about Elrond..."

"No," Gil-galad said firmly. "It is bad enough to have the two of you glimpse into the future so often. But I won't let you do it when it's my future as well! Then, I... well, in all events, you needn't warn him off, I know well enough that he is not meant for me."

Círdan frowned. "That is not what I meant at all. The future resists most efforts to meddle -- and it is not something you, or I, or Elrond have have clear view on. I only advise that you -- remember, you are his King, as well as anything."

"I could hardly forget that," Gil-galad said, irritably. "It isn't as if I will exile him if he doesn't return my affections." Although I'm quite sure he does. This he didn't tell Círdan, who seemed to have given up.

He shrugged, sighed. "Forgive me for trying to meddle! You two will do well enough."

"Exactly," Gil-galad said, with the confidence that he in no way possessed.

*

Some time after, Gil-galad was walking out of a council room, when he saw Elrond beckon him forward. It was more exciting than should have been to follow him to an unused meeting room. Elrond was holding a cloth bag, which he was clutching to his chest.

"I'm ready," Elrond said.

"Excellent," Gil-galad said genially. "What for?"

"You said--" Elrond turned suddenly red. "Never mind."

But Gil-galad had just realized. He clasped Elrond's arm. "Of course! Do we have time?"

"Yes, I've checked," Elrond said seriously. "Nothing planned for the rest of the afternoon. Although Oropher’s ambassador is due tomorrow.”

“Ambassador! The absolute cheek of it! You know, Celeborn himself told me that he had no idea who Oropher was, in Doriath. Perhaps minor nobility, on his wife's side, and now he's claimed an area twice the size of Lindon and declared himself king of all the Sindar and Silvan elves."

Elrond made a thoughtful noise, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

They left the room, making their way out of the castle to the gardens, and out to the woods that tangled itself into the more orderly space of Gil-galad's gardens.

"You think I am being snobbish, and unfair to Oropher," Gil-galad said, giving Elrond a side-long glance.

"You are undoubtedly snobbish," Elrond said, "but I doubt anyone would expect you not to be."

"That is unfair. My father was said to have the common touch -- the people loved him -- and everyone says I have inherited it."

"Ereinion..."

"I think the problem lies between me and Oropher," Gil-galad said, leading Elrond down a narrow forest path, which leading to a sandy riverbanks, shaded from the hot mid-day sun with two ancient oak trees.

"Why do you think that is?" Elrond asked, as he began to strip off his clothes.

"It started when we met. He seemed to think I ought to have apologized for the Noldorin presence on Middle-earth. Now, I shan't pretend that I am unaware that the Noldor have had a somewhat deleterious effect on Middle-earth. But we've done good things too, haven't we? And besides, this is a new Age! No need to dig up old hurts... Oh, don't look at me like that."

"I truly hope you didn't tell him any of that."

"Well, I told him a very small, inoffensive part of that. Besides, if I ought to apologize to anyone, it ought to be you, surely?"

"Me?" Elrond said, reaching over to unbutton Gil-galad's robe.

"Who else but Elu's Heir's Heir? Undo your braids as well, trust me."

Elrond's hands frozen for a moment, before he began to undo his braids, leaving his wavy dark hair to fall to his waist. His gaze narrowed. "I do believe I know why Oropher took such an instant and total dislike to you."

"Can't imagine why," Gil-galad said, as he pulled his robe over his head, and cast it down on the boulder closest to him. Elrond scoffed lightly, and stood, similarly bare. He began to look a little nervous.

They waded into the waist-deep water, side by side, and the time seemed to melt away. Gil-galad soon discovered that Elrond, rather than being ignorant of even the basics of swimming, seemed only the need guiding hand -- on his shoulder, and occasionally his hip -- to correct his position, to provide the necessary guidance. By mid-afternoon, he had managed to master the breast-stroke, as well as the paddle. The sun, which had been overhead when they started, began to sink behind the trees before Gil-galad remembered his other duties.

He left Elrond to swim a little more, and came to the shore, and started to dry off. He squeezed out the water from his hair, regretting that he would probably not dry by the time he would reach the castle. He heard Elrond splash out of river, and turned to ask if he would mind sharing a towel when he saw Elrond and all words seemed to desert his tongue.

That Elrond was lovely, everyone knew. How could he not be, given his heritage? Those from the Havens said that Elrond took strongly after his mother's people, in looks as well as ability. In the long years of their friendship, however, Gil-galad had barely marked them, except at times like these.

"Elrond," he said in a tone of considerable wonder, "if you haven't noticed yet -- you're quite beautiful."

"Stop, you ridiculous man," Elrond said, and kissed him.

"I was being completely sincere," Gil-galad said, as Elrond pressed against him, water dripping off his skin.

"You have kept me waiting, and waiting," Elrond said, between kisses. "At first, I thought we would no doubt do it soon, but every time I thought I was sure, you seemed to say that we were only friends. Ever after that night --"

What about it?" Gil-galad said, bringing his cock, aching and hard, and rubbing it against Elrond's own.

"The next morning, you invite me to observe your spear practice. I came, thinking that perhaps we would -- ah! We will -- oh, Ereinion, yes, there -- I spent the whole time watching you throw those wretched spears, hard as a rock under my robes."

"I cannot abide innuendoes about my spear. I would forbid it, if I didn't know such bans only encourage such foolishness. I thought you had drifted off to sleep, at the end."

"I could hardly stand to look at you then. Get on your knees."

Gil-galad raised his brows. "You presume much."

"Too much?" Elrond looked at him, wild and mussed and almost detached and Gil-galad felt a jolt of pure lust run through him.

He got on his knees, the sand sinking under his weight. "If anyone should see..."

"They would see two lewd characters in the woods, certainly no one important," Elrond said, almost breathlessly. "Now suck."

Elrond's cock was a lovely thing -- as cocks go, anyway -- plump rather than long, and pink, and already sporting a little bead of precum at the end. Gil-galad's tongue darted out and licked it up. Elrond moaned at the sight.

Gil-galad thought, rather irrelevantly, that he could grow used to the sounds Elrond made, as he brought him off, slowly, carefully, with his mouth. He could not help, as his mouth was kept busy, to reach around and work over Elrond's buttocks, which felt firm and right under his hands.

Elrond, meanwhile, had a good grip on Gil-galad’s hair, and was muttering all sorts of filth that even Gil-galad, who had grown up with sailors, was surprised to hear coming from his mild-mannered friend’s mouth.

Well, his mild-mannered lover’s mouth, who was not so mild-mannered after all. That, Gil-galad realized with considerable delight, would take some getting used to.

Gil-galad pulled away for a moment and grinned up at Elrond. “The benefits of a Fëanorian education?”

Elrond gave him a dark look, but before he could reply, they both heard the sound of a branch breaking. He immediately got down on his knee, trying to block Gil-galad with his body.

Gil-galad gave a soft laugh and pushed him away. “It’s only an animal blundering around in the brush. No Elf would be so loud.”

“Unless they wished to make themselves known,” Elrond hissed in his ear and Gil-galad had to concede the point. But it would do no good to just stay there, especially as the sun was waning and the air grew cold. Gil-galad moved first, finding his clothes discarded in heap, covered with leaves. Elrond was slowly, pausing every few minutes to shoot suspicious looks at the greenery.

There was a secret entrance to the castle that led, after much winding passages to the servant's stairs, behind Gil-galad's chambers. There they separated, to bathe and then report for dinner.

Dinner was a rather staid affair. Gil-galad listened with half-a-mind to what was going on around him. Elrond had come in late, just as Gil-galad was rather moodily speared his citron succade with a sucket fork.

Elrond took his customary seat, to Gil-galad's right, and half-muttered that the Greenwood delegation had arrived that evening.

One member of the said delegation looked up -- a fair-haired youth who could hardly be older than a hundred -- and looked straight at him. And winked.

Gil-galad nudged Elrond, and asked, "Who is that?"

"One of Oropher's sons, I believe. The youngest."

"What's his name?"

"Thranduil."

"Looks like trouble," Gil-galad said gravely, and winked back.

The air itself felt like it had been cooked with heat, smoke, and dust, and was too thick to breathe. The sun had risen hours ago, and everyone in the trenches had waited for the enemy to attack. But today, there would be no sudden rush of Orcs breaking against the rockstrewn wastes of no-man's land. Nothing to worry about, except for the projectiles that Sauron's men would occasionally send over their heads, singing as they went, before they landed, sending shrapnel everywhere. Not satisfied with these, Sauron sent over many hails of arrows and heavy stones as well. Every hour, it seemed, there were reports of deaths and injuries from these things -- one of Gil-galad's own pages had taken an arrow to the eye on one of the first days of the siege.

And a piece of a shrapnel had neatly bisected Elrond's left eyebrow, that would perhaps one day give him a permanent wry look on his face. (Though now it only looked like an angry slash through his brow.) When it had happened, Gil-galad had seen Elrond's face, dyed with blood, and had gone temporarily insane.

Elendil's sons still looked at him askance for that.

Gil-galad thought that if he could be everywhere, see everything, he could try. To save them all, if he could. He spent the night trying to talk sense to Thranduil, who threatened at times to take his small band of survivors out of the battle, and at other times seemed willing to be persuaded to stay. Gil-galad's forges, farther down the line, had been working to all hours of the day to cover the the Silvan warriors in something less permeable than boiled leather armor. Thranduil said that his warriors complained that they lost their quickness and agility, under heavy-plate armor, but he did not dispute the necessity for the armor to begin with. The deaths of his father and his brothers still flashed before his eyes. Gil-galad could see it, as plain as day.

He had been much younger than Thranduil, when his own father died. But he recognized the young king's raw grief as if it was his own. Somewhat foolishly, he put his hand on Thranduil's shoulder, and he stiffened at his touch, but did not pull away.

"I am here, if you wish to talk," Gil-galad said. Thranduil looked horrified at the prospect, and Gil-galad bit at his tongue to stop himself from indulging in a bout of inappropriate humor, the sort Elrond would tisk at. Instead, he looked grave and headed towards the door, hardly hearing Thranduil's muttered thanks.

The moment he stepped out of the tent, he was swept away by a tide of activity. Everything needed his attention, his opinion. In some ways, it was a deeply familiar feeling -- he hardly needed to miss Lindon, if his duties had hardly changed. Noon came fast on the heels of a storm, which hung dark and brooding over the plain.

Everyone took out their pots and pans, hopeful for a rainstorm, and with it, fresh water. Gil-galad had broken fast with a contingent of his soldiers and those of Elendil's -- the ranks and races rarely mixed, of themselves, but they were all united in watching the storm.

The first thunderbolt streaked through the sky, and suddenly rain began to pour down, churning up the dust and dirt into mud. By the time Gil-galad had come to his own tent, the mud was almost impassable. It sucked at his boots, anxious for them, but Gil-galad managed to make it to his tent intact -- though in truth, on this part of the line, where the bombardment was heavier -- it was more of a dugout then a tent, with sandbags flanking it, and a tin roof. A palace worthy of a king it was not, but Gil-galad had grown fond of it over the years.

Elrond was coming out as Gil-galad was coming in. They clasped each other on the forearms in greeting, briefly, before Elrond asked him if he had eaten. Gil-galad said that he had, and Elrond looked as if he doubted it.

"Elrond, I--" What Gil-galad was going to say next was quickly forgotten, because his head spun, and found himself being ferried briskly to bed, despite his protests.

"Honestly, Elrond, it's just a bit of lightheadedness. It isn't as if I'm dying."

Elrond's face, which had been creased with worry, smoothed out immediately. "Of course you are not going to die. Who said you were going to die? I never have. Let me get you something to eat."

He was about to make good his escape, but Gil-galad caught his arm. "Stay with me until the rain ends."

Elrond looked as if he would protest, but something in his expression softened, and he nodded. Gil-galad moved over, so Elrond could sit next to him in bed.

"I am going to die," Gil-galad said calmly, and pressed a finger on Elrond's protesting mouth. "No, I do not need any powers of precognition to see it. I am the King of the Noldor on Middle-earth, and this office demands certain things from its holders. History bears me out on this. A sacrifice must be made, and I am glad to make it."

"None of the things I see are certain," Elrond said, wretchedly. "I could not tell that Maglor would be lost, or that Elros would choose to die. And now you are -- Ereinion, please. Do not give up. Everything can change."

"Everything will change, my dear. Now, I have seen you at Imladris -- it is where you belong, where you will be happy, after this war. I know it."

"I will never be happy if you are dead."

"Hush. I know what is to be your future, Elrond. You will marry Galadriel's beautiful daughter --"

"No!"

"And you will have children with her, and you will love her with all your heart -- " Gil-galad pressed his forehead against Elrond's, for a moment, before pulling away. "That is how you love things. And I am satisfied that you will be happy."

Elrond's mouth twisted into a bitter line. "So you command it, do you? That I should be happy?"

"Naturally. I am your king." Gil-galad sobered up, immediately. “No, I would not command you, only -- I think you would be happy with her, long after this. I have never considered marriage myself, to the considerable distress of my advisors. My parents' example did not warm me to it. They married because of duty and they were not happy together. Though the rumors about my father and Maedhros weren’t true.”

“I did not think they were.”

“But I think he wanted it to be -- true.” He watched Elrond’s face, which was thoughtful.

“I knew Maedhros at the very end of his life,” Elrond said carefully. “But I believe the very thought of your father gave him great pain.”

“I don’t care about his pain,” Gil-galad said brutally. Then he sighed. “No, I am being unkind again. I know his pain, for I saw it in my father’s eyes as well, and in my mother’s. They were a duty-bound lot, our kin. It was not possible for them to be happy. And I am the unhappy result. But you -- you must be different. You will choose differently.”

"Ereinion..." Elrond said, at a loss. He sighed. “I don't know -- all of this is for the future.”

Gil-galad smiled, pleased at himself. "Indeed. And I have another request for you."

"Oh. What is it? "

"Call me Finellach, will you? It was my father-name, but I did not use it after he died. I would like someone to use it again, at least for a little while."

"I cannot believe this."

"Why not?"

"Do you remember that time in Lindon, when you thought you could not trust me and almost said as much -- all the time, you had a name no one knew about! Unbelievable."

"It isn't as if no one knew. Círdan knows."

"I -- all right. Finellach. It is a beautiful name."

“It is quite beautiful, coming out of your mouth,” Gil-galad said, and demonstrated that this was so by pressing a kiss on Elrond's mouth. Elrond sighed and leaned into him. They hadn't done this in so long, not since the war had started, not since Elrond had left Lindon to establish Imladris. The old way of doing things, of whiling away the time with kisses and touches, however, would not do now.

The rain, which had been making a steady tap-tapping against the tin roof, grew heavier now, the sound louder. Somewhere, there was a leak. Elrond turned his head, to follow the sound but Gil-galad caught his chin lightly and turned his face towards himself.

"Later," he said. "Now, undress."

No matter how often they did this, Elrond blushed like a maid when he would undress, with enough hesitations and looks to make Gil-galad press him to hurry. There was not much to take off -- and impossible to be naked, now, when any moment they could be interrupted. But still, Elrond pulled down his breeches, and the white of his thighs showed well against the dimness of the room.

Impatiently, Gil-galad did the same, throwing his clothes to the closest chair. Elrond went digging through one of his many leather packs, full of phials and potions of all descriptions, before he drew forth a little tub, sealed with an piece of oil-cloth and string.

"I've been working on this," he said, with barely contained excitement.

"Indeed?"

"Yes! It is water-based, won't stain clothes or bedsheets, isn't scented, which I like, despite Lalvien's protestations --"

"Elrond, we haven't time."

"And it has legitimate medical uses!" Elrond finished triumphantly.

"Consider me impressed," Gil-galad said, palming his groin. “I would clap, but my hands are otherwise occupied.”

Elrond made eloquent expression that conveyed his lack of surprise at Gil-galad’s response, his own considerable anticipation and something quite like annoyance. However, he did come quickly, taking Gil-galad’s hands away and dabbed some of his concoction on Gil-galad's hardening cock.

"Cold," Gil-galad hissed, reaching out and grasping Elrond's shoulder and squeezing.

"It will warm with your skin," Elrond said, leaning in to kiss him, a kiss with a bite.

"Eru, I want you," Gil-galad said, with a half-sigh.

"Then have me," Elrond said, straddling him.

They did it roughly, and quick. Elrond pushed away his hands and instead concentrated on lowering himself on to Gil-galad's cock. He winced, a little, but would not yield, and Gil-galad felt so much love for him that he thought his heart might burst. But instead, he gripped Elrond's hip tight and worked patiently into him.

Elrond threw his head back, his throat working on a groan. Soon he was gasping, panting anyway, spitting out curses, his voice rising with the strength of Gil-galad's thrusts.

"Quiet, remember," Gil-galad said in a low voice, with a lazy thrust of his hips.

His lover looked down at him with a dirty look. Gil-galad gazed back, a smug smile on his face.

"I need more," Elrond gasped. "Ereinion -- Gil-galad -- Finellach, Eru, you have too many names."

"Only need the one, love," Gil-galad said, dipping his fingers into the little tub of lubricant and brought them away, wet. He pressed a finger into Elrond, then two, along with his cock. Elrond cried out and Gil-galad could not find it in his heart to reproach him.

*

Outside, the rain had stopped and the camp began to come alive again. The sounds filtered into their little world and Elrond stirred first. "It isn't enough,” he said at last.

Gil-galad opened his eyes and stared unseeing at the ceiling for a moment. “It would never be enough. Of time, or of love.” He sat up and looked down to Elrond and smiled.

“But we go on. Come, we have a war to win.”

Elrond sighed and nodded. They cleaned themselves and dressed quickly and went out again, to see the evening deepen into night. Unbidden, a memory came to Gil-galad, of when he had been small enough to fit into his father’s arms, as he braided Gil-galad’s hair. They looked up to the stars, high over the watchtower in Barad Eithel. They had not spoken, there had been no need for it. Only his father’s hands, and the stars overhead.

I know you now. Gil-galad felt a loss so deep that it went beyond any pain. I hope I can face my end like you faced yours, Atar.

“All right,” Gil-galad said, with a deep breath. He saw that Elrond was waiting for him. “Onwards and upwards.”