The Captain and the King by oshun

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The King and his Court

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Anardil awakened slowly in the morning to a soft but persistent knocking on his bedroom door. Wondering if this was a wake-up call or even a visitor, he managed to choke out a sleepy, “Enter, please.”

“Good morning, sire,” chirped a diminutive Elf, setting a tray of something hot and aromatic on the bedside table and flinging open the heavy velvet curtains to flood the room with sunlight. Anardil recognized him as the Elf who had served them drinks on the terrace the night before.

“I brought you kaffe. His lordship told me that you liked the kaffe we served after dinner last night. I brought cream and sugar also. That is the way a lot of people here drink it in the morning. I prefer tea myself. Thought it might help you wake up. He asked me to tell you that we have guests for breakfast.” He rolled his eyes and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They were not invited for today, but they are all individuals who are usually welcome whenever they show up. So he could hardly send them away. Just warning you. We think they wanted to have a look at you.”

Anardil wondered if this Elf was young or old. He was boyishly thin and small-boned, with a sprightly youthful manner, but despite his faun-like aspect might have been older than he looked. “And who are you?”

“Oh, sorry! I am the King’s manservant, Carvor. I look after his private rooms and personal effects, his clothing, books, and the like. I wake him and run errands. I keep an eye on his calendar. Remind him if he is running late. Scold him if he forgets appointments. That sort of thing. Not significant but necessary. Light work since he is always a pleasure to serve. I’ll be looking after you too. Whatever you need—just ask me. Nothing is too big or too small!”

“Very pleased to meet you, Carvor. I appreciate your help and will try not to impose.” He never had a personal servant growing up. His mother had not approved of children being spoiled—‘unfit for life’ she would say. After his childhood nurse, he had gone to school, and then to sea. Certain things in the palace were done for him, of course. His room was cleaned, dirty clothes disappeared, and clean sheets appeared on his bed. But he learned everything one needed to know about looking after oneself at school and on ships, taking pride in not being an idle noble, helpless as a babe.

He rolled out of bed in his night shirt, refreshed and clear-headed, and helped himself to a cup of kaffe with cream. “Perhaps you could tell me what I should wear for this social breakfast. I don’t even know where my bags are.”

“I’d be pleased to advise you on appropriate dress! I unpacked everything you brought while you had dinner last night. Put it all in that wardrobe and ironed the badly wrinkled pieces. You have lovely garments, beautifully made—everything you will need. Exotic enough to be interesting without looking too outlandish.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Anardil said. They looked at one another and broke out laughing. Carvor was yet another proof that this court was not stiff or pretentious or perhaps he was simply an eccentric guy. He began to understand why his grandfather, a blunt man with a common touch, felt so at ease with Círdan and Gil-galad. His mother had also told him once that a court always reflects the character of its king. So, he thought, in this case it is open, warm, honest, and no-nonsense. He felt an almost sensual flush of heat at the thought of this one’s vibrant king. He was infatuated with the High King of the Noldor. He knew it would not lead to anything but he could enjoy the feeling while it lasted. It would add spice to this whole adventure.

Carvor had already started to flip through the clothing hanging in the wardrobe. He pulled out a turquoise tunic, one of Anardil’s favorites, along with dove-grey leggings, both made of light-weight summer wool. “These are wonderful colors! I get so tired of handling black, dark blue, maroon, forest green so deep it’s almost black, etc. Ereinion. . . ah, the King looks marvelous in a bright red, but hardly ever wears it.”

He could all too easily imagine Gil-galad in red. Splendid indeed! That heavy black hair with its auburn highlights, falling around his muscular shoulders against a clear, rich crimson, the high color of it accenting his sculpted cheekbones. That kind of red would make his silver-grey eyes sparkle like stars! Definitely a crush. No point in denying it to himself.

“Do you think that blue will look good on me?” Why not ask? Nothing wrong with wanting to look better than merely presentable for someone so appealing.

“You’ll look really good in the tunic. A perfect color for golden hair and your dreamy blue eyes.”

Anardil succeeded in not laughing, “Thank you, Carvor. You are very helpful. Can you tell me also who will be joining us?”

“Erestor, good friend and counselor to the King. Lord Glorfindel, the Glorfindel once of Gondolin. Everyone loves him. And the Lady Galadriel close kin to the King—elder cousin of some sort, granddaughter of Finwe, I think—showed up this morning. Pretending not to know you were here. Likely as not needs to find out what she thinks of you and what your visit means. She’s very important. But don’t be intimidated. Her bark is worse than her bite. Just be natural and they all will like you. And remember he is the King. He is the one who should matter for you.”

0o0o0o0

The smell of fresh baked bread, bacon, and cinnamon reminded Anardil that he usually had eaten by this hour. He was ravenous. Light flooded the breakfast room through its floor to ceiling bay windows. One could hear the sound of the surf and taste and smell the sea in the air.

The spread upon the sideboard was impressive for the number of guests expected. Porcelain tubs of butter, honey, clotted cream, and assorted berry preserves were clustered artfully around a basket loaded with golden brown, steaming bread rolls. A large plate of cinnamon pastries drizzled with a caramel and nut topping rested next to a silver platter of crispy sliced bacon and plump sausages. There were bowls of fresh fruits, silver pots of kaffe and tea and a pitcher of milk. A warming pan of scrambled eggs covered in melting cheese and garnished with fresh dill and sautéed red onions completed the choices for the diners.

Ereinion strode across the room to greet him with a wide, welcoming smile. “I hope you do not mind meeting so many strangers so early in the morning. I’ve warned them to treat you kindly and not to ask you a thousand questions all at once.”

Looking around the room at the four people who had preceded him, he was suddenly aware that while an individual Elf might be confused for a uniquely attractive Man from a distance, a grouping of them in close proximity to one another never could be presumed to be anything but of Elvenkind. The improbably near flawlessness of each distinct individual clearly distinguished them from Mortals.  However, Ereinion’s masculine beauty, which initially mesmerized him the night before, already had taken on a familiarity that began to shrink what he had previously thought of as an uncrossable divide between Elves and Men.
 
“Ah! Here he is, everyone!” Ereinion announced.

“It’s an honor and a privilege to be here, my lords and my lady,” he replied, bowing from the waist, trying his best to sound mature and not like an impressionable youth presented with heroes right out of an illustrated children’s book. It was overwhelming to meet these brave and ambitious survivors of such a turbulent and violent history. He was almost breathless with excitement and some amount of trepidation. The past seemed all too current here. But he was young and optimistic and hoped perhaps they could share a future.
 
Galadriel was tall—a shade taller than even Glorfindel—slender as a girl and yet appeared to have the strength and agility of a champion athlete. Her neck was long—the expression swanlike came to mind. Her features were finely wrought, lovely as springtime, and yet her striking blue-grey eyes shone like diamonds. She seemed a mixture of all that was hard and bright. She had a strange, numinous beauty that was still entirely human. Powerful—one would not want her as an enemy—but he also sensed she would make a loyal friend. He could not control a smile at the sight of her legendary hair.

Glorfindel had glorious hair as well, but he had tied it back away from his face. Galadriel wore hers wild and untamed. It was not pure gold but a mixture that included shimmering hints of silver. The sunlight shining upon her abundant curls almost made them seem to be moving. He instantly believed the story that he had before thought to be a myth of how Fëanor asked for a tress of that splendid hair and she refused him. That definitely could have happened.

“My lady,” he said, bowing his head, disconcerted but not incapacitated.
 
“Everyone looks at my hair,” she said, her voice deep and gently teasing in tone. “I do not mind. Women are never too old to enjoy being admired. I am sure people admire your hair also. Right, Glorfindel?”
 
Glorfindel frowned at Galadriel’s remark but then switched on a warm smile for Anardil. “She refers to the fact that you and I are both fair-haired as well. Draws attention in these parts. Very pleased to meet you indeed, my lord.”

“The honor is all mine, Lord Glorfindel,” Anardil all but stammered, bowing as gracefully as he could. ‘Ha!’ he thought, ‘Young man meets boyhood hero.’

Erestor was smaller than all of them but not as fine-boned and androgynous as Carvor. He was well-muscled and broad-shouldered, with raven colored hair and large amber eyes with delicately arched brows and long, full eyelashes. Definitely a beauty.

“I’m Erestor, your grace,” he said. “Ereinion tells us you are a ship captain, a prince, and the heir apparent to the throne of Númenor. He says you have barely reached your majority, if indeed you have, and already filled with innovative ideas about how to serve your people.”

“My pleasure.” He bowed to Erestor also. “I hope to learn as much as I can from all of you.”
 
Galadriel interjected in her warm contralto, “Elves are said to be set in their ways. That is only partially true. If things are going well we are unlikely to want to change them. If things do not work well, or we are threatened, it is hard to keep us from acting. We are all happy to hear your ideas. Ereinion has told us very little but what he has shared is intriguing.”

Ereinion interrupted to insist that they fill their own plates—how egalitarian, Anardil thought—and eat their fill before beginning any serious discussions of trade and politics. Galadriel decided that this meant it was open-season for asking the prince about his family, his interests, and his education. He did not mind answering those kinds of questions although he would have preferred not to be so pointedly the center of attention.

Galadriel asked, “Were you spoiled rotten being the eldest and only son with two sisters?”

Glorfindel, who had spoken little to that point, tucked his chin into his chest, and lifted his eyes to the lady with a tone of mild challenge. “Were you spoiled rotten, my lady, being the only girl in a house filled with boys?” He had been a noble in Valinor who remembered her as a child.

For the first time, Anardil could almost imagine the mild-mannered Elf with the lazy smile as the mighty Lord of the House of the Golden Flower in Gondolin so generously celebrated in legend and story.

“You know I was, you wicked man. But anyone who has known me half a day might guess that was the case. For me it was less birth order or even gender and more a question of personality. I am told I was a difficult child.” Everyone laughed aloud except Anardil. She apparently took no umbrage. “I want to know about how our guest was raised. It is not like we have visitors from across the sea that often.”

For brief moment he experienced a wave of nostalgia and longing focusing on his childhood. He felt a rustle in his mind as though a draft moved among dormant memories stirring long forgotten emotions and incidents into vivid intensity—giving them urgent and perplexing significance. It was almost as though Galadriel had touched his mind stirring those embers into flame.

Gil shot his cousin an irritated look. “Don’t play mind games with him.”

Suddenly, even as these thoughts still ran through his mind, Anardil broke free of the feeling of compulsion. He chuckled and smiled at Gil, feeling a little skip of his heart when he met his concerned eyes. “It’s all right. I’m not delicate. I have no secrets. Anyway, if I tell my story, then I expect the rest of you to share personal information about yourselves with me.”

Erestor appreciated that remark and laughed aloud. Even Galadriel shrugged amiably. Glorfindel said, “Just remember the rest of us have been in the same situation with her. You do not have to tell her anything you do not wish to share.”

“All right  . . . I’ll try to remember that. I had a peaceful and sheltered early childhood. My first ten or twelve years were pretty ordinary.” He felt mortified for saying that to these people who had all lived through tragedy and worse. “I mean, what would be ordinary, or better than ordinary, for nobility in a safe and prosperous land. My parents loved me and were happy with one another.”

“When my sisters were born I was fascinated by them. But, as time went by, much more was asked of me. I did not mind any of it until recently.”

He sighed and shook his head. “My father acceded to the throne reluctantly. His heart’s joy had always lain elsewhere. I suppose we are more alike than he is willing to admit.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “He wanted only to study the stars. His greatest love was mathematics and its application to the movements of those objects in the night sky. It broke his spirit to have to step away from that work to take on the duties of kingship. It left him not a bitter man but a disappointed and less tolerant one.”

“I see,” Glorfindel commented, “this is why he has been impatient for you to spend less time at sea and more time adapting yourself to idea that you will have to give it up when you take the throne.”

“You must have heard that from Círdan and my grandfather!”

“Oh, yes. Your reputation precedes you. The two of them have great sympathy with your passion for the high seas and exploration.” Glorfindel said. “If they could decide, they would think one of your sisters should rule and allow you to sail the ocean to your heart’s content.”

“Of course they would! I agree women should take their place in the line of succession. That, however, would still leave me the eldest. I could imagine Ailinel wanting to rule and doing a good job of it! Almiel would rather be cast adrift in the middle of the ocean in a row boat without an oar! My father is wrong about one thing. I have never been reluctant to rule, I simply desire to do so in a less traditional way than he has dared to imagine.

“I came here to speak with Ereinion Gil-galad, and listen to your counsel as well, if you should offer it, in the interests of my people and my land.” He stopped to catch his breath feeling like his heat had betrayed too much intemperate passion. He felt vaguely disloyal that he did not actually represent his father and a little reckless that he dared approach this world that his people supposedly had left behind. Yet, he did feel it would be rasher not to try.

“If he keeps talking, his food will turn cold before he is able to eat.” Ereinion said, in an accusatory tone, lowering his eyebrows at Galadriel. He touched Anardil’s hand briefly causing his cheeks to burn.

“Thank you, Gil,” Anardil said, capturing his eyes in which he read tenderness and approval. He hoped that no one would notice he had used the king’s nickname. Perhaps, despite the seeming informality of the gathering, that might appear lacking in discretion.

“Whenever this group comes together, I feel like we need a neutral mediator,” Ereinion said in a serene voice. “And Círdan makes it ten times worse because he lectures me and I snap at him! Our circle has perhaps grown a bit inward looking.”

“Ah! Well, then, If we are not allowed to brow beat Anardil, then it must be the Lady Galadriel’s turn to tell about herself,” Erestor exclaimed, with a note of self-satisfied glee. “She won’t starve. I notice she has already wolfed down two of the cinnamon rolls and most of the bacon.”

Anardil glanced around the table with no more twinges of anxiety. This was a family, of blood and choice, and they had elected to, at least temporarily, include him.

Galadriel imperiously lifted her chin, pointedly not addressing Erestor, but giving Anardil a sweet smile.

“My early childhood was much like your own. Our household was remarkable amongst the Noldor for its harmony. Not so our extended family. As you have probably heard I am the only daughter of the youngest of King Finwë’s sons and the granddaughter of King Olwë of Alqualondë—indisputably royal but not near enough the top of the line of succession for it to have mattered much to me as a very young girl.”

Riveted by the details, Anardil thought this was exactly the type of fascinating first-hand knowledge he had hoped to learn about these people. She gazed tolerantly at him, as though to allow him to finish his thought, before she continued.

“The specter that crept in to spoil my early tranquility had nothing to do with the infamous family strife amongst the Finweans. It was the more general societal expectations placed upon the female sex. I was expected to speak demurely and sweetly at all times, to take more of an interest in fashion and homemaking than in sports or intellectual endeavors. By the flower of my youth, it had become transparently clear to all concerned that I was no ideal woman and never would be.”

Erestor snorted inelegantly and then exclaimed. “I can assure you that is an understatement. I knew her as a child.”

Galadriel gave him an indulgent look. "Perhaps, Erestor, but then that cuts both ways. I also knew you."

Erestor colored slightly. "Well, I guess that brings us to your story then, Erestor," Ereinion said mildly.

“That is cruel! I had a difficult childhood. I came from a broken home. You are not usually a cruel person, Gil. But then perhaps you never heard the sad story of my life in Valinor.” Everyone laughed.

“He is not inventing that part,” added Glorfindel. “His father, the brilliant son of a simple stonemason, became one of Finwë’s favored architects and married a beautiful heiress of a noble family, who herself was a popular illustrator of children’s books. They went on to furnish scandals for the gossip mills of Tirion until halfway through Erestor’s adolescence, when they finally parted.”

“That’s an excellent summary, Glori! I would have spent a lot more time describing how I soaked my pillows with my tears and was teased in school.” Erestor gave Galadriel a beatific smile, making her giggle. “I was your stereotypical poor-little-rich-boy. And I predictably made a long series of terrible choices, spending years as a loyal follower of Fëanor, hanging on from one horror to the next. Then we ran across Elros and Elrond. At a certain point, helping look after them was more or less to lead to my redemption, if one could call it that.”

“They both loved you a lot,” Ereinion said. “Elrond still does. And you are invaluable to me.”

Anardil’s stomach growled loud enough to be heard, an embarrassing punctuation to the conversation. He mumbled an apology and started savagely cutting into one the aromatic and juicy spiced sausages.

Ereinion touched his arm. “Anardil, you do not have to eat those sausages cold. There are plenty of hot ones on the warming plate on the sideboard.” The king stood up took his plate and refilled a new one with all of the same choices, returning it to him warm and steaming.

Finally, Anardil was able to satisfy his ravenous appetite while listening to stories of Valinor, the First Age, and invaluable family anecdotes. After everyone had finished eating, they went for walk on a path that led toward the water from the private side of the palace. It curved and followed alongside the beach, manicured grass on one side and sand on the other. The beautiful day had turned grey and cloudy with a brisk breeze coming off the ocean. Unlike the previous evening the scents of the sea were much stronger than the smell of flowers. He loved that about coastal settlements. Their entire character seemed to change with the weather. 

Almost as a group, they halted in place looking out to sea. Erestor came to stand alongside of Anardil looking out at the growing white caps and the waves foaming against the shore.

“I love it when it gets likes this,” he said, exotically beautiful with his heavily-lashed amber eyes squinting against the wind.

“Me too!” Anardil laughed.

“I figured as much. But I think we ought to go inside and find a place to comfortably talk. My advice, young captain, is ‘strike while the iron is hot.’ You have them in the palm of your hand. Don’t lose that moment.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

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Chapter End Notes

This story could never have been finished without the help of Ignoble Bard, Beta, nickpicker, handholder, and dear friend.