A Time to Heal by clotho123

Chapter 1

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“Fëanorians.”  It was a curse.  Gil-galad did not know which of the elves of his guard had spoken, but it hardly mattered.  His horse skittered nervously, reflecting too much of its rider’s mood, and he put out a hand to pat the animal soothingly.  It would not do for the king to seem ill at ease.

 

Fëanorians.  He did not suppose they were here to attack, there was not even a bad reason for it, but he did not know why they had come.  The message from the sentries had told only of the approach.  The guard had been assembled hastily, whatever might be the cause of the strange arrival it was the duty of the king to deal with it.

 

They had halted, some distance from the makeshift settlements that the Elves who had fled to Lindon from the wreck of Beleriand were beginning to construct.  It was not a great host, and Gil-galad could see, even from this distance, how worn and battered they appeared, but his own people and those of Círdan were not very numerous and their condition little better.  Despite the brave banners of blue and silver he did not suppose they made an impressive sight, nor one likely to strike fear into the followers of Fëanor’s sons.  Although he could not think assault was meant, their coming seemed an ill thing.

 

A single figure detached himself from the Fëanorian ranks, and paced slowly forward, standing very straight.  He bore a banner of red and gold, but neither weapon nor armour.  A herald then.  Gil-galad looked down the ranks beside him, where bows had been drawn, and commanded, “Hold”.  Surely no elf of his following would shoot a herald, even a herald of Kinslayers, but it was best to take no chances. 

 

The lone figure halted, near enough for his voice to carry clearly.  He had dark hair and Gil-galad’s perception told him he was young, most likely still in his first century.  He stood proud and defiant before the hostile stares of the king’s guard, and spoke with measured clarity.

 

“Celebrimbor Curufinion, of the House of Fëanor, asks for audience of Ereinion Gil-galad, High-king of the Noldor in Middle-earth.”

 

“Celebrimbor?  Not Maedhros?”  Although surprised Gil-galad pitched his voice loud enough to carry, if the words lacked the proper formality for the moment he did not care.

 

“The sons of Fëanor are not here.”  For a brief moment the herald’s voice was not quite so steady.  “They have gone forth from their people, and we do not expect their return.  Celebrimbor speaks for the followers of his house.”

 

“So Fëanor’s last sons have abandoned their folk.”  Gil-galad allowed bitter satisfaction to show in his voice, the herald’s eyes flashed in anger.

 

“Say rather they have set them free.  Do you have an answer for me, Lord King?”

 

Gil-galad was aware the mood of his guard had changed somewhat.  The guilt of the other host was not confined to Fëanor’s sons, but an embassy from Celebrimbor was a different matter from an embassy from Maedhros.  Yet his answer must have been the same in any event.

 

“The request is granted,” he said.  “Celebrimbor Curufinion shall have safe conduct, and his people shall not be assailed whilst we have speech.”  He would never have intended another Kinslaying, even of Fëanorians, even had he the strength, but so little was the trust here that he had to give the promise.  “May the king ask the name of the one to whom he has spoken?”

 

“I am Elrond, called Peredhel.”  A slight murmur ran down the line, Gil-galad was not surprised, for he had seen Eärendil in the young herald, but he was grieved nonetheless. 

 

“Kinsman,” he said, “You at least have welcome in our ranks, whenever you desire it.  Your father was my friend.” 

 

A slight pause, then the herald replied, “Kind words, Lord, but I am an emissary.  I do not seek sanctuary denied to others.”

 

Gil-galad sighed.  “Very well.  But will you permit at least that I ask after your brother?”

 

“My brother Elros has chosen to be counted with the Edain.  He is not here.”  Pain was in the herald’s voice, before Gil-galad could speak again he had bowed and turned swiftly back to his own lines.  Gil-galad watched him go with sadness, although he was relieved also to know both brothers lived.

 

“They should have been reared on Balar,” he said aloud. 

 

“What has been, cannot be helped,” Círdan said beside him.  Gil-galad wondered what Elrond had meant by ‘chosen to be counted’.  It seemed a strange turn of phrase.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Celebrimbor was not long in coming.  He came on foot, followed only by Elrond, still carrying the red banner, and two others.  They were all unarmed and dressed in plain dark clothing, but with the many-pointed silver star of Fëanor’s house worn as a brooch upon the shoulder.  Gil-galad had dismounted, and stood before his own people, more of them assembled now than just the guard who had first ridden out beside him.  Círdan stood on his left and the Lady Írien, Finwë’s daughter and the eldest of their house in Middle-earth, stood on his right.  For the occasion he wore the silver crown, studded with white gems, that Celebrimbor himself had made for him in Balar.

 

The only child of Fëanor’s seven sons was said to resemble his grandfather closely in appearance, but Celebrimbor would never have been called a spirit of fire.  He was, and had always been, quiet, grave and gentle in his manner, a strange leader for the fell band who followed.  Gil-galad kept his expression calm, even as he wondered, and grieved, yet again, that when word had reached Balar of the coming of the Great Host Celebrimbor had chosen to ride east with the kindred he had once repudiated. 

 

Fëanor’s grandson walked the last part of the distance alone.  In front of Gil-galad he knelt, not without grace, and bowed his head.  Gil-galad noted the feeling for ceremony he did not remember seeing in Celebrimbor before, it was a thing he had had to learn himself, as he grew into the part of a king.

 

“Lord King, as the leader of the house of Fëanor I kneel to your authority, and ask that my people be received within yours.”

 

Gil-galad was keenly aware of the distrust and hostility within his ranks.

 

“As leader, you say.”  He kept his voice clear and steady.  “Where then are Fëanor’s remaining sons?”

 

“They are not here, and I do not expect their return.  I do not speak on their behalf.”

 

Gil-galad frowned, feeling uncertain.  “What you ask is no light thing,” he said at length.  “The Kinslaying of Doriath, and especially the Kinslaying of Sirion, are not forgotten amongst my people.”

 

“Lord,” Celebrimbor replied steadily, “those who follow me will submit to your authority and to your judgement.  Whatever punishment you choose to lay on those who shed blood they will bear.”  Gil-galad heard with sinking heart, he did not want to have to deal out such judgements.  The eyes of his people were upon him, expectant.  He did not like to bear such weight, and it seemed doubly harsh to have to play out this choice in public, in cold formality.  He wished for a chance to speak with Celebrimbor alone.

 

Yet why should he not do so?  He was the king.  Gil-galad took a pace forward.  “Rise,” he said.  “Before I make my choice I will speak with you apart a time.”  More murmurs arose, but he did not heed them.  Instead he walked forward and somewhat to the right, until he reached a place between the two forces, far enough from both that although seen they could not be overheard.  Celebrimbor had followed.  The eyes of both parties were upon them, but he could not think how to secure a greater privacy for now.

 

“Celebrimbor, where are your uncles?”  Of all the questions this one mattered most. Where were Maedhros and Maglor, last of Fëanor’s deadly sons?  He could not give his answer without knowing this.

 

“I do not know where they are now,” Celebrimbor replied, “But I can tell you they went northwards, to the camp of the Valinorian host.”  His eyes met Gil-galad’s starkly.  “The Oath has not been fulfilled.”

 

“The Oath!  They still cling to that foul blasphemy!”

 

“I do not pretend to understand the power of the Oath of Fëanor,” Celebrimbor said steadily, “but I am thankful not to be bound by it.”

 

“Do they think in their madness to challenge the very host of Valinor itself?”  Gil-galad shook his head angrily.  “Has not there been enough destruction?”

 

“More than enough,” Celebrimbor sighed.  “All I can say is that they went alone and I do not believe either will be seen again among us, even should they survive.  How, indeed, could they return?  To what end?”

 

Gil-galad did not expect reason from sons of Fëanor, but Celebrimbor’s tone of conviction carried weight.

 

“If I were to say that those of the Fëanorian party who have no blood of Elves upon them would be welcome in our midst, what would be your reply?”

 

“I would tell them, although I believe few would be willing to be divided from their fellows.”

 

“And for yourself?”  Gil-galad asked.  “You would be welcome.”

 

“I thank you,” Celebrimbor answered, “but I am the last of Fëanor’s line, and I would not abandon those whose too great loyalty makes them outcast still.  They look to me to lead.”

 

“You have no duty to become a lord of Kinslayers!”  Gil-galad protested.

 

“I have no wish to be a lord of any kind.  But someone must bear the weight.  Would you have it fall on Elrond?  He will not abandon his adopted allegiance.”

 

“He owes no gratitude!” Gil-galad said angrily.

 

“Gratitude is not the question.”

 

“Can you tell me of Elros?” Gil-galad asked, briefly abandoning the matter at hand.  “Elrond said he had chosen to be with the Edain.”

 

“His heart is with men, I believe.  Perhaps you did not know?  The Valar gave a choice, to both the sons of Eärendil, whether they chose to be of mortal or immortal kind.  Elros has chosen to be a Man, although I believe he has been promised a longer life than is customary.”

 

“Mortality – and severance from his kin!”  Gil-galad was shocked.  True, Elros had mortal kindred also, but no close kin he could have known.  He understood now the pain in the voice of Elrond when he said his brother was not present.  “That is a terrible choice, and a terrible sundering.  If I had but been able to bring them to Balar….”

 

“Elros might still have chosen to be mortal,” Celebrimbor said.  “Ereinion, the ships could have reached Sirion no sooner than they did.  Why reproach yourself still?”

 

“I failed Eärendil,” Gil-galad said bleakly.  He had not known his younger kinsman very well, but well enough to like him, to wish for closer friendship, and to regret bitterly he had not succeeded in saving his sons from the Fëanorian sack. 

 

“None of us can save more than so much,” Celebrimbor looked grim.  The two were no longer speaking as lord and suppliant, they had fallen back into the way of former times, when Gil-galad had turned often to the older cousin who had all but dragged him from the fall of Nargothrond and through the paths of the wild to Círdan’s haven.  The kinsman he had clung to, in the shock of knowing all his closer kin were dead, to whom he had looked for advice – although Celebrimbor had never been eager to give it – and who had stunned him utterly by leaving Balar with the Fëanorians.

 

“Why did you rejoin them?”  He could not help but ask.

 

“Because I cannot escape who I am.  Because there are bonds which cannot be broken.  Because I could not hate them, and I knew they had no hope.”

 

“They deserved none!”  Gil-galad said harshly.  “It was not enough for them to bring ruin on themselves, they had to tangle others in their fall.”  Never, never would he understand the fatal glamour of Fëanor’s line, the glamour which had entrapped Celebrimbor, who was of that line, and Elrond who was not, and others before.  Even the High-King Fingon, it was said.

 

“I will not defend the deeds of my house,” said Celebrimbor, “But if you do not wish to cause pain to Elrond then you would do better not to speak ill of his foster-father in his hearing, and the same for Elros if you meet him.”

 

There was so much amiss in the sons of Elwing the White regarding Maglor Fëanorion as their foster-father, but there was nothing to be gained from arguing it over now. 

 

“Kinsman,” Gil-galad said, “what would you have of me?”

 

“You know what I have asked.  If you cannot grant it I will understand.”

 

“It is no easy thing.”  Gil-galad shook his head.  “I must think on it.  Will you return when I ask it?  Until then your people will be safe from mine.”

 

“And yours from mine,” Celebrimbor replied with his first glint of irony.  “I will return.”

 

            ~ ~ ~

 

“Advise me, Círdan.”  Gil-galad felt bowed by the weight thrust upon him.  In elf years he was still young.  Too young for this. 

 

“You are the King of the Noldor,” Círdan answered.  “And my people are not yours.  It is not my choice to make.”

 

“Yet you have advised me in the past.”  More than advised in truth.  In those darkest times, before the coming of the great host, whilst Gil-galad had borne the name of king it was name only.  He had not ruled.  Yet now he must.

 

“You cannot look to another to guide you forever, child of the Exiles.  I advised you as I thought that I should, whilst we all stood upon the brink of destruction.  But you are a king, and you must play the part, if it is your choice to stay in Middle-earth.”

 

“Who else would lead the Noldor?”  Gil-galad was certain of this choice at least.  “The Lady Írien would not accept the charge, and the Lady Galadriel has been amongst the Sindar for too long.  There is no other.  They look to me.”

 

“Then you must lead,” said Círdan.  “This choice is for the Noldor.”

 

“Not the Noldor alone,” Gil-galad protested.  “It is your kin who have been chief victims of Fëanor’s line.  And I would not have the alliance between our people strained.”

 

“The Falathrim will accept whatever choice you make,” said Círdan.  “For other Sindar I cannot speak.”

 

“Many have little love for the Exiles already.”  Gil-galad’s own mother had come of the Sindar, but of the Northern people who had long since joined to the Noldor and were regarded as half-traitors by many of their southern kindred.  Amongst the survivors of Doriath especially it brought him no favour, and he knew it.  “I cannot say that I blame them.”

 

“The Noldor did not bring war, whatever some may say.  War had come already.”

 

“What must I do, Círdan?”  He knew what his heart wished.  He wished to have Celebrimbor and Eärendil’s son among his people.  But a king was not free to follow his own wishes.

 

“You must do as your wisdom tells you,” Círdan said.

 

            ~ ~ ~

 

Gil-galad did not feel wise.  He felt too young and too well-aware he had been hailed as King of the Noldor after the fall of Gondolin more in an act of desperation than from any belief in his right to rule.  Son of Orodreth, grandson of Angrod, late-born scion of a junior line, his only virtue that he was alive and not of Fëanor’s house.

 

There was anger amongst his people at the Fëanorians’ approach, he felt it and did not know that he had any right to counter it. 

 

“Do not forget the streets of Sirion, sire!”  It was Galdor who spoke, one of those who had survived the fall of Gondolin, then faced the swords of his own people in the Third Kinslaying. 

 

“I do not forget,” Gil-galad replied.  “Nor do I forget there are some who renounced their allegiance, at Sirion or before, and yet rejoined the Fëanorians at the last.”

 

“Grant pardon to them, if you will,” said Galdor, “but there are murderers and traitors in that host.”

 

“I know it, Galdor.”  By what authority could he decide?  Could he even dare to trust?  What did he truly know of the Fëanorian followers?

 

They had lived for a time on Balar, in the last bleak days before help beyond hope had come out of the West.  They had been hated, never accepted, yet admitted, for Círdan had said that when the last foes of Morgoth had their backs to the wall it was no time to be asking if they should seek out different walls.  Galadriel’s words had been more stark, if Morgoth came then the best place for the Fëanorians was between his host and the other survivors.  Why should they not take the first brunt?  The Kinslayers had kept apart, accepting their outcast standing.  Gil-galad had seen a little of their leaders but almost nothing of the rest.  It might be time to change that.

 

            ~ ~ ~

 

He took two of his guard, and ordered them to keep their swords sheathed.  This was a visit, not a challenge.  They crossed the empty ground afoot, without ceremony, and Gil-galad knew they were watched all the way. 

 

It was not quite a war camp.  He could tell they had settled their chosen ground with long practice, making as little visible change as they could.  There were light shelters, no more than clumps of tree and bush to an unseeking eye, there were horses, there were sentries watching, all but invisible.  Gil-galad was not challenged, but more and more elves moved from shadows to stand alert, not hostile but careful, poised.  He felt pride in the eyes upon him, and pain, and a kind of grief.

 

He did not think they were all Noldor.  It could be hard to tell at a glance a Noldo born in Middle-earth from elves who were not of Aman, or were of mixed birth like Gil-galad himself.  He was reasonably sure however that there were Green-elves in the company, and some of the North Sindar, and again he wondered at the lure of the Kinslayers.  All of the company were elven though, those Men who had followed the Fëanorians must have taken their leave, perhaps to go with Elros. 

 

“Does the High-King wish for the hospitality of our camp?”  asked one of the watchers, a tall Noldo whose eyes held the Light of Aman.

 

High-King seemed to Gil-galad a foolish title.  It had had a meaning once, when the Noldor in Middle-earth were great, but for the lord of a worn-down remnant it was close to absurd.  The speaker’s voice had not held scorn, but there was no reverence either, indeed there seemed little feeling of any kind.

 

“The king wishes to walk among those who would be his subjects.  If it is indeed the wish of all here to join my people.”

 

“To what other kennel may we turn?”  This was another elf, younger than the first speaker he might have been Noldo or Sinda and his voice was bitter. 

 

“To Valinor,” Gil-galad said mildly.  “Or to the east, to find new realms.”  His kinswoman Galadriel had already crossed the mountains, so had many who had once been of Doriath.

 

“A realm of outcasts?  And what is Valinor to us now?”

 

“Enough, Formir,” the elf who had spoken to Gil-galad before said sternly. Lean and grim, his bearing suggested some authority.  Gil-galad did not recognise him.  “Lord, we come as a remnant, to be united to those we once lived and fought beside, if that may be.  We would join our strength to those of our kin, who have suffered and grieved and fought long against Morgoth, to find purpose as we may.”

 

“A better purpose than Kinslaying,” Gil-galad said evenly.  The other elf might have been braced for the challenge.

 

“Those of us who bear guilt will not deny it.”

 

“Do you speak for them then?”

 

“All who are here come of free will.”  Celebrimbor had come up during the exchange, it was he who spoke, deliberately calm.

 

“But not all have the blood of kindred on their swords.”

 

“Erestor has followed my house since we marched from Tirion,” Celebrimbor answered the unspoken question.  A Kinslayer indeed.

 

“Any who were unwilling to accept the authority of the king would not be here,” Erestor said steadily. 

 

“And those who bear no such guilt?  Do they hold by you?”

 

“Why else would we have come here?”  The elf who spoke now had the accent of the Green-elves, that retired and wary folk who yet had trusted Fëanor’s sons more than the other Noldor, save perhaps King Finrod.  “Those of us who joined our allegiance to the foes of Morgoth will not turn aside.  Were it otherwise we would have gone east, with others of our kin.”

 

“Why are you here, Ereinion?”  Celebrimbor interposed.  He was wearing a sword now, and he kept twitching at the hilt, an odd habit Gil-galad remembered from before.  Celebrimbor could use a sword well enough if he had to, but he never looked comfortable wearing one.

 

“To see for myself those who wish to come under my rule,” said Gil-galad.  Suddenly he decided to be as straightforward as possible.  “To see whether they can be trusted.  To see whether there is any possibility of admitting them into my following without disaster.  It is a hard thing to ask of my people.”

 

“For the first,” said the elf named Erestor, “many things have been said of us, with truth, but not that we are liars or breakers of given word.  Those who take faith with you will keep it.”  A harsh pride rang under his words.  Gil-galad sensed its echo in the host, a bleak and fallen people, come to bend the knee in submission, and yet proud still.  It struck him that in this they were barely different from those Noldor who had submitted again to the will of the Valar after the great host came from the West.  The degree of guilt was different but the choice the same.

 

He stood now in a half-circle of watching elves.  Reaching deep into his own perception he found bitterness in the minds that surrounded him, and something akin to cold despair, but also a kind of longing.  They were not his enemies, nor wished to be, and whatever anger they felt was not for him.

 

“If you come amongst my people than you will find anger,” he said.  “You will find bitterness.  You will find yourselves called traitors to your own”

 

Someone laughed.  “Think you we do not know all that?”  It was a woman, wearing a sword.  She had silver hair and the accent of the north.  A Sinda.  “Most of us have been accustomed to it.  My people came to the plain of Himlad long ago, against the will of Thingol whom we had once called king.  Think you we have not heard such words before?”

 

“Think you we did not hear the scorn of our kin in South Ossiriand, who knew little of the terror of Morgoth?”  That was the same Green-elf who had spoken before.

 

“The anger of kindred is not new to those of us who dwelt for a time by Mithrim,” said Erestor.

 

The reconciliation of Mithrim was a story from Gil-galad’s distant youth.  From Nargothrond before the death of Finrod, from the days when the union of the Noldor still held true.  A tale of forgiveness and renewed hope, which in the end had come to darkness and despair.

 

“Yet have you lived with the anger of kindred day by day, not for a season, but for all the future you can foresee?  Have you thought on what it will be to bear the hard names from those whose lives you share?  For so it will be, if you join with my people.”  His eyes dwelt on the young elf called Formir, and saw that he was flushed.  Then suddenly Gil-galad was aware of Elrond standing among the crowd, and the hard defiance in his face.  He sighed.

 

“Why would you choose to face this?  What do you think to do, among my followers?  Angband is broken, there are no more battles to be fought.  What would you do, people of war?”

 

“What do you mean to do?” Elrond had taken a few steps forward, standing now before the crowd.  “What do you intend, that keeps your folk in Middle-earth?”

 

“We mean to amend, if we may.  We mean to heal, and bring fairness back to these lands and those beyond.  We wish to see growth and flowering.”

 

“Think you we do not wish for these things?” Elrond asked. “Does the king believe we desire only to destroy?”

 

“The king knows but little of you,” Gil-galad said, controlling his thoughts.  “He does not wish to decide by report alone.”

 

“Then will the king receive the hospitality of our camp?” said Celebrimbor.

 

“No,” Gil-galad said.  That would seem too much like acceptance.  “But he will walk among you.”

 

He did do so, but it told him little that he had not already seen.  These were a hardened and a practical people, they knew how to live from the land, and he noticed the preparation of food, both gathered and hunted.  One elf was repairing some leather work, another making arrows.  He stood for a while watching one who was tending, with quiet concentration, to some young trees that had had orc marks hewn in their trunks.

 

“The land has been much wounded,” the speaker was the Green-elf, whose name Gil-galad had learned by now was Lindir.  The words were true of course.  Lindon had escaped comparatively lightly, but still the marks of Morgoth’s servants were everywhere. 

 

“It will heal,” Gil-galad said, “and it will be fair again.”

 

“But never the same,” said Lindir.

 

“There is no way back to time unspoiled,” said Celebrimbor.  “But it may be that we can make the lands that live more fair than before, and create works more glorious than those which are lost.  Why should we not become greater than our sires?  We have time.”

 

Yes, thought Gil-galad, they had time.  All the time they could need, freed as they now were from the shadow of death which the presence of war had cast for all his life.  They were deathless again, true to the intended nature of their kind.  They had Ages ahead of them.

 

They had time to heal old griefs.

 

He returned to his own people deep in thought.  Celebrimbor bade him a formal farewell and Lindir and the Sindar woman, Lithwen, walked with him and his followers half the distance.  It might almost have been a meeting between allies.

 

The chance was his to build anew.  His, and his alone, Ereinion Gil-galad, High-King of the Noldor, could make his kingdom what he would.  Now was the first great choice of what he wished to shape.

 

            ~ ~ ~

 

Gil-galad stood before his people.  He wore his crown, modelled after the crowns of Finwë and Fingolfin, although it was itself a new thing, and he wore a mantel of blue and silver, which was the finest garb he had.  Behind him Arminas upheld the great banner of the House of Finwë, and the gold and red of its blazon flamed in the sun. 

 

“Hear now the judgement of the king.

 

“Wrongs suffered and committed may not be forgotten or made as if they had not been, nor would it be right to attempt it.  The grievances borne by many against those who now sue for admittance into the king’s authority may not be abolished by royal command, and no such command will be made.

 

“Yet there are other matters which must be remembered if a right choice is to be made here.  First that our people have been ever strongest when we stood together.  From union came our triumphs, and division and resentment, no matter how caused, led ever to bad ends.  If we would grow strong again it is better we be united.

 

“Those of the Noldor who stand with me must know also that all of our people transgressed when we chose to march from Valinor behind the banners of those who shed the blood of kin.  Those who did not draw their swords that day took nonetheless a share in the blood-guilt when they did not renounce the deed but held their course unchanged.  For this, pardon has been extended by the Valar and those who would sail West again may do so.  Those who accept pardon should not be too slow in extending it, or at least in forbearing from hatred.

 

“It is in my mind also that the life of Elven-kind is as long as Arda, and we have age upon age ahead of us, wherever spent.  For lives to be lived out forever in anger and bitterness is a thing that seems to me not right.  We must all live out Arda’s span, better to do so without barriers of grievance.

 

“The word of the king is this:  the House of Fëanor and all who adhere to it shall be admitted amongst our people.  No penance or punishment is laid on them save that they do not seek to evade or conceal their acts of old, and any who ask their history with an honest heart shall be answered, for griefs must not be left to fester.

 

“The king does not order any among his people to forget or to forgive, for those are things beyond his power.  He urges acceptance, for the sake of all who would rebuild, but further that that he may not go.  However he will not permit violence or the deliberate stirring of trouble. 

 

“Those who kneel now to be accepted amongst their kin will accept his word and his power, any not prepared to do this may depart now.  Those who accept will be assured of treatment as fair as any other of his subjects in all things that befall in future.  Any who are present and do not agree with the judgement of the king may speak now.  Those who are silent accept the choice.

 

“Do any wish to speak?”

 

None spoke.  Behind him Gil-galad could hear the heavy flap of the great banner in the breeze.

 

He walked forward, and Celebrimbor came to greet him and be the first to kneel.  Gil-galad raised his kinsman, and motioned to Celebrimbor to stand beside him as the others moved forward.  Elrond was second, and although his eyes were still defiant as they met the king’s Gil-galad could sense relief in him as well.  There would be time enough to gain Elrond’s trust.

 

It took a long time for all to kneel, but Gil-galad stood straight throughout.  He did not suppose the time ahead would be easy.  He and Celebrimbor and others would have much work to even begin to heal old rifts.  Today was a beginning, no more.  Yet he was confident that he had chosen right. 

 

When it was done he turned to face those who had stood behind him and said, in a loud voice, “Now let our people be one!”

---

Chapter End Notes

Whilst there is no proof that Celebrimbor rejoined the Fëanorians at the end of the First Age there is equally no proof he did not.  That there was a close relationship between Gil-galad and Celebrimbor is my speculation, but if Gil-galad grew up in Nargothrond they must at least have known each other.

 

There is an odd ambiguity about the Green-elves in The Silmarillion, they appear to have worked closely with the sons of Fëanor, yet we are also told they accepted the lordship of Beren.  I’ve chosen to explain that by assuming a geographical divide with those who lived nearer Angband being more inclined to the Fëanorians and Beren’s lordship confined to the south.