Finellach by Agelast

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Chapter 3

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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.”