What REALLY Happened; The Coronation of Gil-galad by Cee Cee

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

In which the crown of the High King of the Noldor is passed to Erinion Gil-galad, son of…um…er…

 

 

Balar

First Age:  Year of the Sun 509

 

 

     Cirdan, the ancient shipwright, seated himself on a log at the top of a small hill overlooking a shipyard filled with elves hurrying to build ships that soon would be needed in greater numbers than even he himself could guess.

     Looking after the departing messengers with whom he had just spoken, he had in his sleeve a scrolled message and, in his hands, a beautiful box which he held with great reluctance.

 

     His searching gaze fell upon a tall, handsome young elf carrying a huge oaken beam into the shipyard.

     Cirdan hailed him, caught his eye, and beckoned him with a wave.

     Still carrying the beam, the elf loped easily up the slope to where the shipwright sat.

     “Put that down, for Manwe’s sake, boy.  Come and sit.  I have some news for you.”

     The youth obeyed.

     “Well?” he queried after Cirdan had hesitated for some time.

     “The news is very bad, Gil.  I’m sorry. What we have long suspected is true. Your father is dead.”

     The younger elf regarded him in confusion.

     “Which one?”

     “Both, it seems,” said the shipwright, “News has been slow and spotty these years.”   

     “Oh,” Gil-galad responded, “I’m sorry, naturally, but the fact is, I never really knew him.”

     “Which one?” Cirdan asked.

     “Both.”

     “Ah, yes.  You’ve been with me nearly all your life.”

 

     Cirdan turned his attention to the box. 

     “Messengers brought the crown saved from the ruins of Gondolin. Here it is in this box.  It’s yours now.  You are the new High King of the Noldor.”

     “Who, ME?” Gil-galad’s beautiful, noble baritone rose nearly to a squeak.

     “Yes, YOU.”

     “NOOOO!  I don’t want it,” he cried, “That thing is cursed!”  He rose and turned away.

     “Sorry,” Cirdan said firmly, “It goes to you now.  You are the only eligible one left.”

     Gil-galad turned to face his foster-father.

     “What about Celebrimbor?”

 

     The ancient elf smiled.

     “Apparently no one can find him.  Not that they’re trying very hard.”

     Slowly Gil-galad returned to the log and sat again.

     “But—“

     Cirdan chuckled.

     “Well, I guess you haven’t heard what happened. Some years ago, Celebrimbor renounced his entire clan and went off to live with the dwarves.”

      Gil-galad stood abruptly.  "He what?"    

      Cirdan laughed.

     “Exactly,” he said, “So you’re it.  Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

     Gil-galad slumped down onto the log, moaning.

     “Oh, bug—“ Suddenly he brightened.

     “What about you, Cirdan?  You’re under the Valar’s protection; you’re wise and respected, and everyone likes you. You’d be perfect!”

     “I’m not a Noldo.”

     “Oh, right; I forgot…well, darn.”

 

     “Now, now. Chin up, my boy. Why don’t we go find a mirror and see how the crown looks on you? You’re tall, beautiful, and strong as an ox.  People like that in a king.”

     “I ought to be strong,” responded Gil-galad, “You’ve had me working in shipyards since I was a little boy.” 

     “And see how much good it’s done for you?  Even now, you almost have to use a club to beat the maidens off…and when you’re High King—“

     Gil-galad fidgeted somewhat nervously.

     “I don’t like girls,” he muttered.

     “I hear you,” the old elf said, “But that is best kept a secret.  Every noble family with eligible daughters will support you without question; then you can keep them all hoping you will choose a wife from their clan.”

     Gil-galad looked horrified.

     “I don’t want a wife!”

     “Never mind that now.  Try on the crown.  You’ll look a perfect king.”

     “I’ll look a perfect fool,” riposted the youth, “At least, I’ll feel a perfect fool.  Anyway, isn’t there supposed to be some kind of ceremony?” 

     “My boy.  In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war going on. Our people are scattered all over; and how would we ever find enough food or time for a coronation feast?  That simply will have to wait.  Now, put on this crown and let us have a look at you.”

 

     He opened the box.

     “See?  It’s beautiful.”

     Gil-galad rose.

     “It’s horrible!  NO!  I won’t take it!” 

     Raising his palms in a gesture of rejection, he began to back away.

     Cirdan, bearing the open box, followed him relentlessly.

     “Now, look.  See these stunning gems?  And this metalwork is exquisite!  The dwarves made it.”

     “Then let them have it back!” Gil-galad shouted.

     “ERINION!” Cirdan thundered.

 (Uh, oh.)

     “Twice around the island with that beam, then drop and give me fifty!”

     In a flash, the youth snatched the crown from the box and stuck it firmly onto his head.

     “You can’t order me about now, Cirdan,” he cried, “I’m the High King!”

 

          

THE END