Master of My Blood by Cheeky

Gildor

I am haunted by shards of light. 

Brief, glinting fragments of memory that pierce the dark. Glimpses of the life I used to lead, the life I might have led. Pieces of utopia spiraling past me before vanishing into dust as I reach for them. 

In those pieces of light lays my father. 

I am Elven. My memories are like the pages of a book I can open and pour across every detail, each piece of my life sitting there for me to discover again and again, except for those years with my father. The years I spent bathed in his light. Those years are shattered. My life begins in the dark. I know he existed, I know he loved me. I see glimpses of the time we had together, but my crystal clear Elven memory? It begins when I lost him . . . When he left me. 

I can remember the leaving. 

I was young and yet not young, a gangling boy. Growing until my legs were too long for me, caught between childhood and manhood, an awkward half man/half boy creature, as far from the perfection of my father as you could ever get. 

He was golden, I was dark and non-descript. He shone with light, drawing all eyes towards him. I hid in corners. Some of those who would whisper loudly behind my back would comment on it, our dissimilarity. Is he really the King’s?  they would say. Do you think he has stolen a foundling and claimed it as his own? They were always whispering, sneering, watching. Jealous of the small Laiquendi who might one day be King, eager to find a chink in the story and discredit me. 

Not that I cared about being King,  not at all. I did not wish it, and surely, my Father would always be there. What were they worried about? 

And then one day he wasn’t. 

He sat me in his study. We were alone and he was as uncomfortable as I had ever seen him. My father, who was always stunning in his power and confidence, owner of the most beautiful words, now stumbled over those words as if they all deserted him. 

What he told me made no sense . . . And was horrifying. 

“You are leaving me!” I cried. 

“I will be back,” he said quietly,  but we both knew it was a lie. 

“What will I do? Without you here they will tear me into shreds!” I will crumble to nothing without you, I said to myself but I did not tell him that. “They hate me!” I cried instead. 

“They do not hate you Gildor. You are one of them. Orodreth will protect you from the worst of them. I have charged him to keep you as safe as if you were gold, until I am back.” 

I said it then, what we both knew but he did not say. 

“You will not come back! They will kill you.” 

And he leaned forward to take my hands in his. 

“I am more clever and more powerful than perhaps you know. It is not as dire as you say.” 

He had never, never lied to me before. There is a first time for everything. 

“Why does this man matter more to you than me?”  

“He does not! He does not, Gildor. He is but a foolish, selfish child. You are worth ten of him.” 

“Then why go?” I was ashamed of the hot tears that burned down my cheeks. I wanted to be a man, not a weeping child. 

“I made an oath. I know you do not understand. I cannot break it. I cannot. As much as I might want to. I cannot do it Gildor.” 

It is a hollow excuse to my ears. 

I wanted to run away. I wanted to take to my heels, slamming the door behind me and just go, outside to scream at the stars. But I could not, for suddenly my minutes with him were ticking away, flowing through my hands to bleed upon the floor. I could not waste a single one of them. 

Instead I sat, tears upon my face, while he tried to justify the unjustifiable. 

I wanted not to watch him depart also. I could not bear it. 

but I was there . . . How could I not be? Drinking in every last moment of him. 

“Be good,” he told me as he held me close, “Stay safe.” 

“You stay safe.” 

I knew he would not. 

“Do not listen when they attempt to run you down, Gildor. You are a jewel more precious than any other. I should know,” he smiled gently, “I have several, but none shine as bright as you.” 

He must have lost his mind. He had the Nauglamír. I do not shine as bright as that. 

“None will harm you.” He repeated his reassurances of before. “I promise. They know they will have me to answer to, in this world, or the next.”  

“What about them?” 

He knows who I mean. The silent, brooding Feanorions who came begging for shelter and then tried to take that shelter from us. 

“You are safe with them. You are family.” 

“You are family! That does not seem to matter!” 

He simply shrugged a shoulder as if their betrayal was of no importance  to him. 

Another lie. 

It was one of them who stopped us speaking. One of them who stole those last moments away from me, a hand reaching out to grip my fathers shoulder and turn him so his light, his attention, disappeared from my view. 

“Do not do this, cousin.” Silver hair fell across those flashing eyes, in a face like thunder. “When did you turn into such a fool, Findaráto?”

How dare he. 

“I thought you, of all people, would understand the binding of an oath, Tyelkormo,”

My fathers words were cool, silky smooth and yet filled with ice, “so nice of you to deny me my defences.” 

“Anything to put an end to this idiocy. I was hoping you would come to your senses.”

”Have you?” 

The Feanorion blinked then as if Father had slapped him. Those words hurt. 

“I do not want to be in the position of having to take that silmaril from you. Believe me I will, Findaràto or no Findaràto. I have no choice.” 

“As I  have no choice, Tyelko.” Fathers voice is suddenly softer, kinder. “If I am lucky enough to survive to see it, you can have it. I have no wish for it.” 

I hate that man, that silver haired, dark eyed son of Feanor. Not because he turned my Father’s men against him, because now—with age and hindsight—I can understand that may not have been all it seemed, but because he stole those moments. He entered our goodbye and suddenly it was all about him. 

Did he even know who I was? I am not sure. Did Father ever tell him? Or was I just another boy to his eyes, not a cousin at all? 

For all the love Father bestowed upon me, all the time he spent with me, for all the public knowledge I was in Nargothrond, outside those walls nobody knew who I was. Nobody knew Finrod had a son at all, save Galadriel. 

And it seemed to me he did nothing to change that. 

Of course he never came back. 

I refused the face the inevitable. I imagined his travels in my mind, wondered where he might be, justified the absence although deep down I knew the truth of it. It was a long way to travel, a complex mission, he was indeed powerful as he had reassured me. The lack of his return not mean failure. 

As Orodreth’s face grew longer, sterner, as the ladies of the palace fussed around me —poor orphan boy as I obviously was—I carried on in stubborn, optimistic oblivion, even right through the day I woke up knowing he was absolutely, inconclusively gone. 

It was as if a light had gone out even as the sun shone. That was the day my memories shattered, the day I tried to capture the essence of him, of him and I, in my mind and could not. Still I did not face it. Still I shut my mind to the truth and no-one was brave enough to force it upon me . . . Until Galadriel arrived. 

Galadriel: half of Nargothrond were afraid of her, the other half disapproved of her, but no one could look away. As glorious as my father, she commanded attention without lifting as much as a finger, simply by breathing. 

I loved her. 

She was the only one, of all of them, who looked at my small , dark, ordinary self and saw Finrod. 

As far back as I could remember, all I had to do was enter a room, tilt my head, turn with a smile, all those smallest and most unimportant glances and movements, and I would hear her catch her breath,

“I see you in him, Ingoldo. He is so like you.” 

And Father would glow. 

Perhaps that is why she said it? To make my Father happy. For Galadriel has the power to strip your mind bare. She could see all parts of me. She would know I was not Finrod at all. She is not a fool. Still living in a world full of those who pointed out how unlike my Father I was,  it made my heart sing to hear it. 

She arrived in a blaze of glory, shut herself away with a pale, silent Orodreth, and I hid like a child. 

I did not want her to find me. I did not wish to hear what she would tell me. I would run from it as long as I could. 

But hiding from Galadriel is an impossibility. My attempt was an abysmal failure. She did not even bother chasing me herself. She sent a messenger telling him exactly where to find me. 

“You are wanted,” he said, “in your rooms.” 

Only a fool would not obey the summons, and I was not a fool. 

All I could feel when I entered was her sadness. It was unfathomable and it terrified me. Yet she smiled when I entered as she always did. 

“Come sit with me Pitya-ingoldo.” she said. “The sight of that beautiful face is a balm upon my soul.” 

And so I sat. You did what she told you. 

“I have been talking,” she said gently, “to Orodreth. I have told him a Nargothrond without Finrod is no place for you. He has agreed you can come with me.” 

What? 

“I cannot go with you!” I cried, “and Orodreth cannot send me. He promised my Father he would keep me safe until he returned. He cannot send me away!” 

“He is keeping you safe.” She sighed, “He is not sending you away. He has not forgotten his vow to your Father, but Gildor, Finrod will not be back. I know you know this.” 

I would not listen to this. 

“I will not go with you.” I dug my heels in. “I will be here waiting when Father returns.” 

“Gildor,” there is an edge to her voice, a firmness that was not there before. It makes me wince. It is the voice she used that everyone—save my father—would obey. He would simply laugh. “I know you have felt it, as I do, his absence from the world. He is gone. He will not be coming back and you must face this. He would want you to face it and he would want me to help you.” 

I would not cry. I would not cry. I would not cry.  

That wish was an abysmal failure also. 

The reality of that day I had awoken knowing my world was missing his light—reality I had been so steadfastly avoiding—crashed down upon me like a sledgehammer, crushing my heart to pieces. It sucked the breath from my lungs and left me gasping. It was a loss too huge to understand. 

He cannot be gone,” The words struggled their way out between my sobs, “He cannot be gone.” Although I knew the truth of it since the moment he told me of this foolish enterprise it now seemed too huge too to comprehend. There was not a trace of him left in my world—him, who has been the centre for it for always. I was untethered; lost.

I felt her hand upon my head, fingers gently stroking the strands of my hair. An arm around my shoulders pulled me to lean against her. 

“I know,” she said quietly. “It seems an impossibility the brilliant light of Finrod is lost to us but as much as it breaks our hearts it is true, Pitya-ingoldo. I, at least, still have you.” 

“I cannot go with you.” I repeat it, when her unexpected, uncharacteristic softness has helped me regain my control. “I cannot live in Doriath. I would hate it.” The thought of a life in that sterile world made my Laiquendi soul shudder. I have never understood how the fiery, rebellious Galadriel ever managed it. 

“I will tell you a secret then,” she smiled. “Celeborn and I will be leaving Doriath.”

“Leaving?” For a moment I panicked. Surely she did not depart on a fools errand also? 

“I cannot remain here without my brother, and there is a world to see Gildor. So I shall see it. Some of Celeborn’s people will come with us, and some of yours . . . Of your mothers. We go east, over the mountains. It will tear at my heart to leave you, just as much as every day in this land of Finrod’s without him destroys me. Tell me you come with us?”

It was a different proposition altogether. 

“You are leaving? With my people?” 

“Some of your people.” 

A new world? A place to expore? Despite myself the thought of it excites me. 

“Father wanted me to remain here.” I was certain of that and it was the only thing that caused me to hesitate. 

“Are you telling me Finrod, the explorer, Finrod, friend of the dwarves, discoverer of Men, would not want you to step out into the world and experience every part of it when you had opportunity?” 

She was right. Father often spoke of places he would take me, things he would show me when I was older. Now he never would.

“He asked me to stay safe, to stay here. He asked it of me.” 

“There is no safeness for you in Nargothrond.” Something in her voice sends a chill down my spine. “I have foreseen it.” 

And so it was decided. I would remain at Nargothrond only until Galadriel had arranged her departure from Doriath then I would be sent to travel with her, wherever that would take me. Yet even as the idea of seeing what lay beyond Nargothrond’s walls thrilled me—the possibility of travelling with my mothers people meaning no longer would I be the odd Laiquendi in a sea of Noldor—still it felt like a betrayal. 

And so, when my aunt had left me that evening, I did not fall asleep in my bed, but instead crept quietly down the dark corridor to my fathers room, holding my breath as slowly, silently, I opened the door without so much as a creak. 

As the lamp flared into life, flooding the room with its light, it almost felt as if he might still be there. His desk in the corner was cluttered as it always had been, papers strewn across it, a pen left lying as if he had just finished a letter before dashing away to attend to more important business. 

And my eyes stung with the threat of unshed tears.

If I were to leave here what should I take with me? To walk away and leave all the beautiful things he so loved behind? Betrayal heaped upon betrayal. I knew Orodreth would keep them safe for him, but still, Orodreth was not his son, I was

It was then that I saw it, as I stood, bewildered, in the centre of the room wondering where to start and what to do. 

Lying upon his bed . . . My dagger . . . And a letter. 

Gildor. 

His immaculate, elegant handwriting shaped my name across the chrisp white envelope. 

The dagger I had coveted since I first laid eyes upon it, the very first evening I spent here, freshly brought from my mothers wood, tear stained and terrified. I had slept in this room with my father for many weeks when I first arrived until he was sure I felt safe in Nargothrond. The dagger was small, its hilt bejewelled . . . exquisite. 

“This came all the way from Tirion. A city across the sea in Valinor.” He said softly, picking it up when he saw my eyes alight on it. Tirion meant nothing to me then. I had no idea where it was or what it might be. 

“It sparkles.” I loved the dance of light upon the tiny jewels. I had seen nothing like it in all my life, and reached out a hand to try and catch that light. 

But quickly he snatched it beyond my reach. 

“Too dangerous for you, little one. This blade is very sharp, it might cut you.” 

But as I grew, every time I visited this room I would seek that dagger out. Eventually he would let me hold it, swinging it through the air as if it was a sword, killing the imaginary enemy. It was the perfect size for me. 

“I will give you this one day, Gildor,” he told me, “for your very own to keep, when I think you are a man.”

And here it was, left for me. 

Slowly I reached out a hand, picked it up, feeling that cold heavy weight in my hand. It was a perfect gift. 

He thought me a man.

The letter terrified me. 

I did not want to read it. What would it say? I would be sure to cry. I could not bear to read his last words to me, a goodbye, for what else could it be? I could not bring myself to look upon that familiar hand trying to explain his leaving me. 

I put it in my pocket unopened. One day perhaps, but not today. Instead I curled up on his bed, pulling the blankets around me, lying in the half light, shards of it glinting off my fathers treasures, drinking up the smell, the feel of him, and eventually I dreamt of him sitting at that desk while I nagged him to join me outside, doing something . . Anything . . More interesting than his work. He always complained about my impatience, my inability to sit still, and yet he always gave in with a smile and joined me in the end. 

The opening of the door shattered my dream sending me bolt upright in fright. 

Why was he here? 

I was so angry. How dare he come here . . . To my fathers very room. How dare he. 

“Get out of here! You are not welcome!” 

He simply raised his hands in supplication and walked through the door.

“I did not mean to wake you.” 

My hand curled round the cool, hard metal of the daggers hilt. It was soothing in a way. I may have been only a boy but I could defend myself. Why did he not turn and leave?

“This is my fathers room. I want you to leave.” The shaking of my voice betrayed my uncertainty, much as I did not wish it to. 

And still he did not go.

“I am sorry,” he said then, “for your fathers loss. If it helps, I have disavowed mine. I do not expect you to understand what that means to a Fëanorion. We disavow nothing so for what it is worth I am dead to him now. I do know that is not the same.”

He has disavowed him? I am stunned to silence. 

“I thought we should talk.” He said then as my silence hung in the air. “You are owed an apology from us and my Father and Uncle will not be giving it.” 

“How did you know I was here?” It was a foolish question which had nothing to do with the subject at hand but I was only a foolish boy. 

And he smiled. 

“Everyone knows you are here. Do you not know Orodreth has guards at every corner watching your every step? You are the most precious citizen in Nargothrond. If you thought you could enter the Kings room undetected you were wrong.”

I hated that. I hated everyone’s eyes upon me all of the time. It was something I was looking forward to leaving behind. 

I sat on the bed, arms around my knees, blankets heaped about me and he sat beside me without so much as a by your leave. 

“I am Telpe.” 

His face was open and honest. It made me want to like him as much as I wanted to hate him. I knew his name. 

“I know who you are Celebrimbor.” 

“I would like to know you better, Gildor. The two of us—fatherless, alone in the world, cousins—we should look out for each other.” 

Why did he think I needed him to look out for me? I did not! 

“You do not have to worry about me. I am not alone. I have my aunt. I am to travel with her.” 

My defiance got me exactly nowhere. 

“Oh, I know.” He says lightly. “She asked me to go with you.” 

“She asked you to go?” 

She asked him to come with us? Him? A Fëanorion? One of them? 

“Artanis is my family too. I have known her since I was born.”

“You killed her brother!” 

All my anger slid off him. 

“My father prevented Finrod having the support from his people he needed, Finrod chose to go to certain death. I had nothing to do with either of those things. She understands that. But you can relax. I refused her offer.” 

And then, despite myself,  I was curious. 

“What will you do?” 

“I thought to go to Gondolin.” 

“Gondolin!” He was crazy. “They let no one into Gondolin. That is if you can even find it.” 

He laughed, leaning towards me patting his pocket as if we shared a secret between us. 

“I spoke to Finrod before he left. He has told me where he thinks I should look, written me an introduction I hope convinces Turgon to let me through the front door. I will simply have to hope it works.” 

“Why would Father do that for you?” 

“Because he knew I disagreed with my own father. He knew I was sick of it all, sick of all of them, ruining their lives chasing after pretty jewels, even him. I told him he was a fool . . . Finrod. What was he thinking?” 

And briefly he turned away from me, so I could not see his face, his eyes. Did he cry for my father, or his own?

 When he turned back to me there was no sign of it. 

“So you will see the world with Galadriel and I shall hide away in Gondolin, but perhaps we will meet again, little cousin. I do think I will get bored in Gondolin eventually.” 

And I found myself hoping we would meet again, one day. He was not what I thought he was. He cared for my Father. He hated the jewels as much as I did. 

I wish he had not then gone off and made his own.  

Gildor

Second Age

It is strange how, the instant I set foot out of Nargothrond, all knowledge of my origins seemed to vanish. 

My father had always kept my existence close to his chest. Openly acknowledged amongst his people in Nargothrond the outside world barely knew I existed. I do not know how he managed it . . . Or why. 

So when I joined Galadriel and the eclectic group of people she took with her I became just simply Gildor. One random Laiquendi boy amongst all the others. It was soon forgotten I originated from Nargothrond at all. Perhaps some wondered at the attention I received from her. Everyone knew I was a favourite. She watched me with a careful eye and drew me into her circle. She insisted I sit and study as my father wished me to—knowledge was a treasure to him—but still she left me to run wild with the Laiquendi  where I was happiest. 

She would speak to me of my father often, of how much I was like him, told me stories of her childhood. She kept him alive in my mind. But never . . . Never . . . Did she mention my connection to him to anyone else. Not in my hearing anyway. 

Until Lindon. 

Of all the places I have wandered since Nargothrond none have truly felt as if they were my home except for Lindon. 

Especially the sea. 

I was drawn to it the instant we arrived there. The swirling foam around my feet, the pull of the waves, it’s power, the smell of salt in the air, it all invigorated me. 

“I hope this is your Teleri blood and not an insidious Laiquendi sea-longing,” my aunt frowned at me when she discovered me there that first evening of our arrival. She need not have worried. I never felt the slightest wish to depart to Valinor . . . Far from it. 

I was there by the sea, watching the fishermen, wishing I could accompany them, when the messenger came for me. 

“Gildor of Doriath?” he asked me.

“I am not of Doriath and never have been.” I snapped. “The Gildor you seek is not me.” 

“The Gildor who travels with the Lady Galadriel?” he tried again. “Is that you?” 

That one I could not deny. 

“The King wishes to see you. It has taken much time to locate you. He said it was urgent.” The messenger scowled as if my being one nondescript laiquendi in a sea of laiquendi was somehow a personal insult to his king . . . My king. 

“What?” 

The request startled me for what could the king want with me anyway. 

“The King.” He snapped. “The High King. Gil-galad.” 

“I know who the King is, you fool but I am sure he does not wish to see me.” 

“He was quite explicit in his instructions that he does.” 

“He wishes to see Gildor of Doriath and as I have already told you, I am not that Gildor.” I turned my back on him. I was in no mood for wild goose chases. 

“He wishes to see Gildor, recently arrived here with the Lady Galadriel. I assumed you must be from Doriath.  Is there another?” 

Of course there was not. This stubborn, annoying messenger was obviously not going to leave me alone. I had no choice but to leave the sea and go see his King. 

“Your King” my mind corrected me again as I strode behind him. “My King is Finrod.” I answered myself. “Not any more,” the annoying voice inside me, which never allowed me to forget that, replied.

He was nothing at all like my Father, this King of theirs. 

The messenger ushered me into a study of sorts, chairs by an open fire to one side,  a desk in the centre at which sat the most Noldor of Kings. Not at all my Aunt and Father’s golden beauty but something more brilliant, darker with a sharper edge. In my life since Nargothrond I had had little to do with the Noldor. This one was impressive. 

“Yes?”

He snapped out the question and lifted his head as we entered. 

“Gildor of Nargothrond,” I introduced myself before the fool of a messenger could misrepresent me, and interest sparked in the Kings eyes. 

“Leave us.” He waved the messenger away as if he was no consequence at all, saying nothing until the door shut heavily behind him. Then he turned to me, measuring me up slowly with his eyes. 

“Well you are unexpected,” he said eventually. 

I knew that messenger had got it all wrong. Why on earth would the King wish to see me?

“Forgive me. I did try to tell your messenger he had the wrong man. He would not listen . . . My Lord.” The last was an afterthought when I suddenly realised he would expect it, but to my surprise he dismissed it with an annoyed flick of his fingers. 

“Enough of that. Call me Ereinion or Gil-galad. The choice is yours.” 

I was taken aback. That was surprising. 

“Do all your citizens address you thus?” How odd. 

“Of course not. But all my family do. What there is left of them.”

“I am not your family.”

“Are you not, Son of Finrod?”  He sat back in his chair with folded arms, seemingly amused by my astonishment. 

“Why do you call me that?” 

“Is it not true? Does Galadriel lie?” 

Why? Why did she tell him? After all these years allowing no one to know.

“Of course she does not lie.” 

“Sit,” he told me, indicating a chair in front of him. “Let us talk.” 

I was not used to being commanded and it rankled. Still I sat. It would be churlish not to and I would not let him think my father had not raised me well. 

“So,” he began. “We have heard not even a whisper of your existence here. Why is that?” 

“Perhaps you should ask my father that?” I folded my arms defensively. 

“A somewhat difficult task.” 

I simply shrugged and he sighed as if I was a difficult child. I was not having that.

“To be honest I do not know.” I told him. “My parentage is not exactly the usual amongst  kings of the Noldor. Perhaps Father did not wish to explain it. But I am only guessing. He never took the time to tell me.” 

“Well we can change that,” he answers. “What would you wish for? A rank, a position? I cannot let you go unacknowledged.” 

A rank? I was horrified. 

“I want nothing from you!” I leapt to my feet, moving away from him. “I do not come here begging for scraps from your table.” 

And he stood to meet me.

“You misunderstand me. This would be a recognition . . . of who you are, who your father is.” 

“Who I am is Gildor of Nargothrond, Gildor of the Laiquendi, nothing more. That is all I wish to be. I do not want your rank and position. I do not want to be the son of a King. I have never wanted it!” 

I turned on my heels, pushing my chair away, striding towards the door. I did not even understand why his offer made me so angry, only that it did. 

“Most of us do not want it.” I paused, hand upon the door handle when he said those words behind me, “but someone has to do it.” 

Then I am gone, door slamming most satisfactorily behind me. 

He was persistent, this King of the Noldor, I give him that. 

He sent messengers to fetch me.

I sent them away with a flea in their ear.

Then he sent notes.

I did not read them.

I was determined I would not take even so much as a drop of his ‘recognition’. Staying away was the best way to ensure that. In the end he sent my aunt to scold me, or she came of her own accord. Who can tell.

“Ereinion tells me you avoid him,” she said one evening, her voice heavy with disapproval. 

“I do not avoid him. I just wish nothing to do with him.” 

“Is that not the same thing Gildor?” 

“He wants to give me a position. He wants to elevate me when I do not wish to be elevated. Staying away is the best solution. It avoids a scene.” 

“He wants to give you your birthright.” 

“I have my birthright,” I tell her. “I was born under the stars and there I will stay. I need nothing from Gil-galad.” 

“Have you stopped to think perhaps it is he who needs something from you?” 

I laugh and am met with her gaze that strips the meat from your bones. 

“He is not much older than you and has no support. Uncles, cousins, all dead or 

gone. He rules alone. You could help him.”

“I have no wish to help him. Anyway he has you, Aunt.” 

“You are as stubborn as your father when he was young,” she sighs. “He always had to be right also.” 

“And you were biddable and sensible?” 

She laughed at that and let the subject go. I was the only one who could tease her like that and get away with it. 

In the end Gil-galad came to me. 

He knocked on my door one evening when I was just about to eat. It is quite startling opening your door to an unexpected King. 

“May I come in?” 

“Can I say no? This is your realm after all. I did not think I could turn you away.” He had caught me unawares and I was bad-tempered. 

“I have no guards. Assuredly you can say no but I bring news you may wish to hear.” 

I looked past his shoulder to check but sure enough there were none of the serious guards who usually followed him around so closely. What there was was a cluster of my neighbours pointedly watching and excitedly speculating. 

“Come in.” I dragged him through the door. “See what you have done. They all watch you. They will wonder what ordinary Gildor has done to have the King at his door.” 

“Then tell them the king is your cousin.” 

“Distant cousin, and no!” I snap back. “Tell me this news. If indeed you have some.” 

“Very well. Though you may wish to sit.” Suddenly his face was serious, as if a cloud swept across it. “Cirdan has brought word from Aman. The word is Finderáto has returned.” 

Finderáto has returned. 

He took my breath away. I did sit—before I fell, sinking in to the chair behind me. 

“Returned?” I asked him. Surely I misunderstood. 

And he sat beside me. 

“They say Finrod is back in Valinor. He has returned from the Halls.” 

So soon? How could he be back so soon? 

“He will not be able to come here.” I say it as much to myself as to him but he replies in any case. 

“No indeed.  You could sail?” 

“No.”

There is no doubt in my mind. I do not wish to go to Valinor. 

“I am happy here,” I tell him. “I am not ready to leave. I do not know if I ever will be. Arda is my home.” 

“Not even to be reunited with your father?” 

“My father would not change the course of his life for me. Why should I, for him?” 

“That is harsh but fair,” he says after a pause. “You should only go if it is for your own benefit. Cirdan had the idea of a letter. Perhaps you would entertain that?” 

A letter? A letter to my Father, after all these years what would I say? 

“Cirdan would give it to the next to take the straight road and task them to get it to Finrod.”he continued as my mind whirled. “If he really is there it should be an easy enough task.” 

He sat and waited as I struggled to form so much as one sentence. 

“I do not know.” 

“Well I will leave you to think on it.” He got to his feet and went to the door. “You know where to find me if you decide it is something you wish to do. I will get the letter to Cirdan for you.” 

And suddenly I remember my aunt.

“Does Galadriel know? Have you told her?” Because she will want to know . . . A sudden terror gripped me briefly. What if she decided to sail? She turned down the offer after the War of Wrath but now? Knowing Finrod was there? Then I would truly be alone. 

“I go to tell her now. I came to you first. You are his son.” 

I had no idea what to do with the information he had given me when he left. 

My Father was back? I could not feel him. There was not even the echo of his song in the air. Nothing had changed. Surely I would have felt something as momentous as this. Should I write? Should I not? He would never be able to answer me. 

I tried to stroll under the stars hoping they would soothe me, or at least rearrange my thoughts into something sensible. They did not. 

In the end I went to Galadriel, for there was no one else in my world who better knew my Father than her. 

She was out in the dark also, starlight illuminating the gold of her hair until it was as if she shone of her own volition. But when she turned to look, to see who dared bother her, it was not the poised, commanding, graceful Galadriel I was used to. It was someone else entirely. I had never before seen her composure ruffled, and I never have again, but she appeared lost, bereft, alone . . . And in that moment it terrified me. 

It was only a second. I blinked and that Galadriel was gone, replaced by the Aunt—my security—I had always known. 

“Gildor,” It was the soft, sweet voice she kept for me alone, “Ereinion has seen you?” 

“My father is back.” It burst from me as water evading a dam. “They say my Father is back.” 

“This is good news, Gildor. It is the best news. He is alive and whole and happy across the sea.” 

“Whereas I am alive and broken and unhappy here.” I did not know why I said that. I did not consider myself broken or unhappy, for the most part, but suddenly I was angry and how unfair it was to direct that anger at her. 

“Do not say that.” She took my hand in her smooth, cool one. “I do not believe it is true and he will have had no say in this. Be angry with the Valar if you must. It is they who separate you.”

“No he has separated us.” 

She sighed but she did not let go of me, and she said the same as Gil-Galad.

“You could sail, Gildor. Then nothing would separate you.” 

And I pulled my hand free. 

“Why does everyone assume I am willing to turn my life upside down and take to the sea? Arda is my home. I will not leave.” 

“And I will not,” she said, cupping my face in her hands as she did when I was a child. I did not know how frightened I was of the possibility she may until she said she would not. But she saw it. .my fear. “I will not abandon you, Gildor. How could I ever answer to Finrod for that? I am not leaving you in Arda alone.” 

“You do not have to stay on my account.” I did not mean it, with every fibre of my body I did not mean it, but I said it anyway. 

“I do not. I have Celeborn, we have our plans for our people. I am not ready to retreat to the gilded cage of Valinor. Not even for Finrod.” 

She tipped her head down to lay a kiss upon my forehead, for she was taller than I. She had seen the light of the trees and I had not. She is Noldor—Finwëon— wereas Laiquendi blood dilutes the Noldor in my veins. 

“Cirdan will send letters for us,” she said then. “I was just composing mine when you arrived.” She smiled but I remembered that glimpse of loss she showed me by accident and wondered . . . Just what would be in that letter to her brother? 

“I am not writing one.” I did not know that until the instant the words left my mouth. It took me by surprise. 

“Why?” 

“What would I have to say to him? It has been so long. There is nothing . . . All there was has vanished . . . All that we had. Anything I wrote would only be a lie.” 

And she narrowed her eyes.

“What are you afraid of, Gildor?”

“I am not afraid!” 

“But you are. Look inside yourself. Why will you not write?” 

“I have told you! I have nothing to say.” 

“You have much to say. You have a lifetime to tell him. Start with Nargothrond. Let him know you escaped that.”

“You can tell him.” 

“But I am not you,” she sighed. “I cannot make you write. You are grown and must make your own choices . . . Just . . . Do not regret, Gildor. Be sure you leave no regrets in your life.” 

Of course—in the end—I did as she said. 

Her warnings of regret echoed in my mind until, frustrated and resentful, they forced me to sit, put pen to paper, and write. My letter was brief, it was too the point. I spoke of leaving Nargothrond, of travelling with my Aunt, of returning to my place with the Laiquendi, of Gil-galad and Lindon, of my love of the sea, and that was all. I signed it with love, but I was not sure it was. I was not sure of anything. 

The instant I had finished it I wanted rid of it. Never before had I ventured to Gil-galad’s palace unrequested, it was the middle of the night, but still I went. 

Of course his door was guarded. Of course the guard was displeased to see me. 

“It is late!”

And beneath the contempt I could tell he wondered, Are you mad? 

But from behind the door came laughter. It was not late enough and he was not alone. 

“Tell him Gildor is here. I will be but a moment.” I had no wish to stay and chat. “He will not thank you if you send me away.” I was decidedly unsure of that but took my chances. 

Grumbling he disappeared inside the door. Anxiously I waited thinking, perhaps my letter was not so urgent after all. 

The guard, when he returned, was no happier to see me, despite the fact I had obviously been correct. He left the door open and waved me inside, leaving me feeling I had personally insulted him by being acceptable.

Gil-galad sat by the fire, reclining in a chair—wine in his hand—a guest sat opposite, and instantly I felt out of place, awkward, an intruder, though he smiled as I entered.

“I brought my letter,” I said half-heartedly, dangling it from my hand. “I will just leave it and go.” 

He went to speak, to ask me to stay, though I was sure likely he did not mean it and fully intended to refuse him. What was I thinking coming here? When his guest, with his back to me, whom I could not see, leapt to his feet, spun around and left me speechless. 

“Gildor? Gildor from Nargothrond? That Gildor?” He turned to Gil-galad accusingly. “Why did you not tell me he was here?” 

“Celebrimbor?” 

I did not have to ask the question. I knew it was him, from all those years ago in my Father’s room. He had not changed. Of course he had not. 

And he was across the room in an instant, at my side, hands upon my shoulders. 

“Oh you have grown! Where has the boy Gildor gone?”

“The boy Gildor lost his father and grew up.” I told him, but I smiled. It was so good to see him . . . So good. I should hate this man. But I did not. 

“Come.” Arm around my shoulder he gave me no time to protest, “sit with us.” Before I knew it a chair was drawn up for me and I was sat in it while Gil-galad thrust a glass of wine in my hand. “Tell me what you have been up to.” 

“You know each other?” Gil-galad asked before I could open my mouth, “I am surprised at that.” 

“Oh come, cousin.” Celebrimbor looked injured. “You would have us revisit the departure of Finrod and all that entailed? My fathers betrayal of his? Careless . . .  Careless indeed.” He shook his head sternly and briefly Gil-galad looked shamed, “Shall we dwell on Fingon’s impetuosity as well while we are at, it, discussing our fathers failures?” 

I could not believe his audacity . . .  And then he laughed. 

“You have had far too much wine, Tyelpe.” Gil-galad simply smiled and reached unsuccessfully for Celebrimbor’s glass, spilling red wine over the both of them. 

I felt lost in the midst of this camaraderie. It was strange to me. Did I laugh? Did I not? I had no idea. I had never experienced it. 

In the end I opened my mouth and asked the first question, a most obvious question, that came into my head.

“You survived Gondolin then?” 

The instant I asked it I wished I had not. 

The bright laughter, the dancing eyes, vanished behind a cloud.

“I survived. The end was not pleasant.” He looked away. He did not meet my eyes. 

“I am sor-”

Before I could finish my apologies for my clumsiness his smile was back . . .  softer, gentler.

“Do not worry, little cousin. I have been through worse.” 

Little cousin . . . He called me that when last we met. I liked it. When Gil-galad called me cousin I rebelled but this I liked. 

“Look at us,” Celebrimbor continued, refilling his glass to the top. “We put our grandfathers to shame. Feänor, Fingolfin, Finarfin . . . Yet here we are, a family, sharing a drink and friendship as they never could. It is good, is it not?” 

I was surprised to find it was good. 

Until Gil-galad spoke.

“It is a lovely picture you paint Tyelpe, but I am afraid it is not so. Gildor has taken against me you see.” 

“That is not fair! I have not—”

“Taken against him?” Celebrimbor interrupted my protests when I had hardly begun. “How so? You must give him another chance Gildor. Ereinion can be quite pleasant when you get to know him.” 

“I have not taken against him. I have not taken against you,” I turn to Gil-galad. “I simply do not want what it is you try to thrust upon me.” 

“What does he thrust upon you?”

“Recognition.” I was aware that sounded ridiculous. “He wants me to have a position. He wants to raise me up. I do not want it, Celebrimbor. I do not want to be Gildor, the prince, son of Finrod. I am happy just being anonymous.” 

“I heard you.” Gil-galad raised up his hands in supplication. “I heard you the first time. All you had to say was no. But I have sent offers of friendship, attempted to arrange to meet so we can discover each other and my messengers are returned. My letters go unanswered. What am I to think?” 

“I did not know.”

“Still so prickly and difficult to reach, Gildor?” Celebrimbor grinned. “Give him another chance.” 

“Well, of course, now I know. . . .”

He dropped his voice, leaned forward, placed his hand upon my shoulder. 

“Drop the walls, cousin, and let us in. We are not so bad, you know, your family.” 

Then louder, he raised his glass, “To the future!” 

“The future.” Gil-galad  joined him, me straggling behind. 

“What do you plan to do?” I said at last, feeling a fool for mistaking Gil-galad’s intentions, wanting to move the attention to anyone but me. 

“I have plans.” He is animated. “I have been writing to Galadriel.” Has he? Why do I know nothing of this? “It will take time,” he goes on, “much time. I thought to establish a guild . .  Craftsmen, perhaps beyond the elves. The dwarven crafts in Nargothrond were magnificent . . . If we could work together. It is a plan long in the making. Finrod encouraged it  . . Before—” and he cuts himself short. 

“And what has my aunt to do with this? She is not the crafting type.”

“I wondered if she might join me. Her, Celeborn, the people who follow them . . You. A new land, a new city. I thought perhaps Eregion. Not now, but in the future.”

And suddenly my blood ran cold. 

It was as if icy water had been poured upon my spine, a shiver that consumed me. In an instant I felt ill. 

“Why Eregion?” The words are as lead upon my tongue. 

“Why not? It is perfect. I have yet to convince Galadriel but I will get there.” 

“Somewhere closer to here? Why so far away? Gil-galad would find you a place, would you not?” I turn to him in desperation for suddenly I knew, as clear as I knew my own name. Celebrimbor should not go to Eregion.

“There is merit to Galadriel and Celebrimbor establishing a settlement in Eregion.” He said carefully, watching me carefully with a frown upon his face, “but you could stay here if you wished. Galadriel tells me you have discovered a love for the sea. Perhaps they head too far inland for you?” 

He should not go there. He should not. My aunt? My uncle? Certainly but Celebrimbor should not. 

I drowned in a wave of fear and grief. Why? Where had it come from? I had to get out of there. 

But before I could struggle to my feet Celebrimbor has downed his drink, put down his glass and begun to stand. 

“I have wasted too much of your time this evening, Ereinion. I will leave you to whatever brought you here, Gildor. Until tomorrow!”

“Until tomorrow.” I am numb as I say it, as the ice grips me. 

And the instant the door shut behind him Gil-galad had my arm in a tight grip, tight enough it hurt. 

“What did you see?” He hissed. “Tell me.” 

“What do you mean?” He confused me. “I see nothing.” At least now Celebrimbor has gone I can breathe. 

“Son of Finrod, nephew of Galadriel, of course you have foresight. I should have known it. What did you see.” 

“I do not. I cannot do that. I have never had it!” 

“You were as white as a ghost. I could see your fear. Tell me! What did you see ahead for him?” 

“Nothing!” I am desperate for him to believe me for I have nothing to tell him. “I saw nothing . . . A feeling of dread when he spoke of Eregion. I do not know why. I felt ill. Perhaps it was the wine . . .” I trail off hopefully. “It is stronger than I am used to. I have never had foresight Gil-galad.” 

“There is no reason to think any danger lies in Eregion for him.” Gil-galad muttered, more to himself than to me. “Are you sure you do not have the sight?” 

“I am sure.” 

Then why did I feel as if I sat in a block of ice? 

Why? 

Gildor

Second Age

It is impossible to get used to the disconcerting effect of a King appearing unannounced at your door. 

“Good morning, cousin. Are you well?”

It was early—very early. I had little sleep, and he was entirely unexpected. The end effect was the removal of my ability to speak politely. 

“What are you doing? Are you mad?” 

Behind him the sun was spreading its first light across the dark sky, Earendil probably still up there on his travels. 

But Gil-galad had an annoying habit of completely ignoring me. He pushed past me instead of answering, sitting himself at my table. 

“Not well then? The wine still affecting you?”

“What?” He left me standing in the doorway utterly confused, wondering why he had emerged into the middle of my home before the birds were awake, in such an irritating good mood. 

“The wine . . . Last night, you complained it made you ill.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, “at least that was how you explained your very odd behaviour with Tyelpe.” 

The wine . . . That feeling of ice cold chill that engulfed me. I had only just emerged from it, spending most of the night tossing and turning amidst an unidentifiable feeling of dread. Such nonsense really, though in the midst of the night I had thought to speak with Galadriel about it, now in the cold light of day it seemed ridiculous. 

“I am fine.” I snapped, embarrassed by the reminder of my childishness. “If you came here simply to inquire about my health you can be reassured and leave.” 

“Ouch.” He winced at the cut of my words, and instantly I regretted them. I did not know what it was about him that made me so eternally bad-tempered. “Actually, I remembered this interest in the sea Galadriel spoke to me about and thought to invite you out to fish with me this morning, but if you are not in the mood—” 

Was he serious? An invitation to venture onto those boats I had yearned for since my arrival? 

“Yes! No! What I mean to say is, that would be most appreciated.” I sounded like a babbling fool but he only laughed. 

“Well move then. We have much to do.” 

What did you take with you on a boat? 

He strode through the streets, face stern, seemingly blind to the curious faces staring . . . murmuring as he past, even at that early time of day. I struggled to keep abreast of him. 

“Do you do this often then?” I asked as way of conversation, “go on the boats with your men?” 

“We go on my boat.” He answered and I felt a small curl of disappointment. Not those small bobbing fishing boats then, but something larger, more impressive, the Kings boat. Still it would be better than nothing. Even that was exciting. 

“I go every week.” He continued, “It helps me remember Artanáro.”

“And who is he?” 

He turned to me in surprise. 

“Son of Findekáno.” 

Well that made no sense but if he did not wish to tell me, so be it. 

As we turned the corner, into the narrow streets winding down to the docks things changed. The stares and whispers that followed us faded away and ceased, instead men smiled, called out to him, “Rodnor!” slapping him on the shoulder as he passed. And his stride slowed. It became less focused, had more bounce. He called them by name in reply. 

“Where have you been?” one approached us with a smile. “You are late. Did you sleep in?” 

“Not me,” Gil-Galad laughed. “My companion, however is not a sailor. He has much to learn about rising early to get the best fish.” 

“You have much work to do with him then,” he said, looking me up and down with frank curiosity before moving away towards a huddle of them in the midst of the small boats. “Good luck with that Rodnor.” 

“What is that they call you?” I asked in the end. I could hear them laughing behind me and I was sure it was at the prospect of me on a boat. Perhaps they were right, it was a comical idea. 

“Rodnor?” Again he looked surprised. “It is my name. These are Cirdan’s people—fishermen and shipwrights. I grew up with these men when Cirdan took me for safe-keeping. Rodnor is what they called me— Sindarin for my father-name, Artanáro. It is as I told you before. Here I am Artanáro or Rodnor both. There is no Gil-Galad here. Not as far as they are concerned.”

He came to sudden stop, beside one of the small fishing boats, so unexpectedly I almost ran into him. 

“Here she is!” 

“Here is who?” There was no one there besides the other fishermen. 

“Írissë, my boat.” 

“But it is ordinary!” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I thought—”

“You thought she would be something more fit for a King? Something grander? I told you. Here I am Artanáro. This is his boat. Írissë was my aunt, as Galadriel is yours . . . Except I never knew her, so you are luckier than I in that. From what I have been told of her she would have loved adventuring upon the wild of the sea, so it seemed fitting.” 

I discovered sailing and fishing was hard work. While the boats looked graceful from the shore it involved sheer hard manpower to keep them that way, and the nets we hauled in were heavy. And yet it thrilled me. My hair stuck to my face with sea spray, my skin tasted of salt, my arms ached, and it was all perfect. 

Gil-Galad was a master of it all. While I struggled he made it look easy. He barely broke a sweat. 

“You will have to strengthen those arms,” he laughed at me, “if you wish to manage anything at all next week!” 

“Next week?” What did he mean?

“I come down every week. I thought we might make it a regular appointment.” He said nonchalantly as if he cared not if I came or not. 

“You would catch more fish without me.” It was only the truth. I was a hinderance. 

“I do not come here for the fish.” 

“Náro!” There was a shout from the shore. “Náro!” His head whipped round to look and he sighed heavily, beginning to haul the boat around. 

“It seems my time is up.” 

“Náro?” I asked him.

“It is Cirdan. Either he has urgent news or he simply tells me I have dallied to long. Artanáro is a mouthful to shout across the sea.” 

“Náro . . . I like it.”  It suited this relaxed, sea-faring version of him far better than Gil-galad.

“I give you permission to use it then.” He looked up from his work and smiled. “It is for family only and you are that.” 

“Náro on the sea, Gil-Galad in the palace.” 

“If you must,” he laughed. “Crazy Teleri.” 

I went with him the next week, and the week after that, and the next, until it was as if that was how it had always been, and I loved it. I became so good at sailing it felt as if the sea itself flowed through my veins. Then he invited me up to the palace afterwards once. . . twice . . . every time.. .  To sit, drink and talk. He told me in detail the burden of the kingship, and before I knew it he was asking my advice. What did my people need? How were the Laiquendi coping with the Sindar? the Noldor? What did they need from him as a King? Lindon had become such a mingling of elves, he said. He needed help to understand them all. It surprised me to discover I was happy to give it. 

I was, during those years in Lindon, the happiest I have ever been. Throughout my growing I had never had a true friend, an equal, someone whose company I enjoyed quite as much, someone who I knew had my back always. It was a gem and I treasured it—Gil-galad’s friendship. 

“I have invited a guest today,” he announced one evening to my resentment. I enjoyed our time together. I did not wish to sit through drinks with a tedious stranger. 

“Really?” 

“Come on Gildor,” he laughed at my reluctance. “I need your help with him. He is family. You have heard of Elrond?” 

Of course I had heard of Elrond.

“Earendil’s son.” 

“Yes. He is young, lonely, unhappy. He struggles with the loss of his brother.”

“His brother is not lost!” I knew that much. I had heard the story. “He is King of the Men.”

“Lost to Elrond . . . Or he will eventually be.” 

“How can I help you with him then?” I sighed in the end. I knew he would not give up nagging me to do so.

“He needs a friend.” 

“I am no good at being a friend, Náro.” 

“On the contrary. I happen to know you make an excellent friend. Look . . . ” He leant forward to fill my glass and I was grateful for it if I must try to befriend this strange Noldor. “He does not fit here. He has been trying but he is awkward . . .neither Noldor nor Sindar. His upbringing has been . . . Rather eccentric, you could say.” 

“I have heard he picks fights with those from Doriath and Sirion about the Fëanorions and I am no friend of theirs either. This will not go well, Gil-Galad.” 

“Perhaps those from Doriath and Sirion pick fights with him?” 

I simply shook my head, and he sighed. 

“I know he is sensitive to criticism of Maedhros and Maglor. I know that does not go down well with many. I have spoken to him many times, encouraged him to hold his tongue. But people goad him, Gildor. To all intents and purposes they were his fathers. His parents left him as a small child to fulfil their own purposes. You of all people know how that feels. Maedhros and Maglor—heaven knows I find their deeds atrocious—but to Elrond they were care and security, they were all he had.”

“They are kin-slayers. Of his own kin.” 

“Careful.” He frowned. “I knew Maedhros. I loved him too. Fingon loved him and he was nothing but good to me.” 

The knock on the door saved us from spiralling into dangerous territory.

“Does he know who I am?” I asked urgently, before he arrived amongst us.

“Of course not! That is your story to tell. I would like you to tell him but I will not do it for you.” 

Elrond reminded me of me. 

He stood—when he entered—just inside the door, awkward and uncertain, young— just out of boyhood, and I was reminded of the evening when I first came here unbidden , walking in on Gil-galad and Celebrimbor, their companionship  evident, me on the outside. 

And as he had done then for me Gil-galad leapt in to making Elrond welcome. 

“Elrond,” he smiled warmly, “there is a seat here for you and a drink. Come sit.” 

And Elrond sat, looking very much as if he wished he did not have to be there at all. Fists clenched, shuffling in his seat he was clearly nervous and I realised with a start those nerves were about meeting me. Still to give him credit, he nodded his head and introduced himself before I could.

“Elrond Ma—”

“So this is Gildor, Elrond.” To my astonishment Gil-galad leaned across, cutting the boy off before he had managed to get his name out. It was incredibly rude and quite unlike him. I was taken aback and hurried to cover his rudeness with an introduction of my own. 

“Gildor of Nargothrond. It is a pleasure meeting you.” I threw a frown towards Gil-galad. What was that about?  

“Nargothrond?” Elrond seemed to take the kings rudeness in his stride. His eyes lit up at the mention of my old home. “You escaped Nargothrond?” 

Barely anyone escaped Nargothrond. 

All those I knew perished there, Orodreth included. I carried that guilt with me like an open wound upon my heart. Would any of it have been different if I had stayed? 

“I left well before Nargothrond fell,” I told him. “I was only a child.” 

“Oh!” He had only just sat down yet he leapt to his feet again. “I have something I must show you. May I?” He looked to Gil-galad who humoured him with a nod and then he was gone, off out the door he had just entered. 

And I took the opportunity that presented to challenge the King. 

“What was that?  You barely let him speak. I thought you wished me to look out for him yet you trample over the boy.” 

And he sighed heavily.

“He insists on labelling himself Maglorion. I wished to avoid a confrontation before the conversation had even begun.” 

“He what? Son of Maglor? What of Eärendil? What of—”

“You see.” Gil-galad cut me off also. “This is exactly why I stopped him. To avoid this.” 

“No wonder those from Doriath and Sirion are upset!” 

“I have spoken to him at length,” Gil-galad sighed. “He is determined. I cannot move him on this—”

He stopped himself from saying anything further as the door swung open. 

Elrond had brought us a book. 

He held it tightly against his chest, cradling it if it were a breakable treasure, and Gil-galad laughed. 

“A book! I should have known. Elrond collects books.” He told me with a smile.

“I collect knowledge.” Elrond said firmly as he sat down. “There is nothing more important, cousin.” 

“My father collected knowledge.” I do not even know why I say it. It is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “He had a library full of books. He even wrote some himself.” 

“Oh!” Elrond is excited by that information. “Was he a scribe?” 

Was he a scribe? No. But I could hardly say he was a king.

“Of a sort.” I glared across the table at Gil-Galad. If he thought hearing Finrod described as a scribe at all funny then he had better not show it. 

“I found this book in the market,” Elrond told me. “The man selling it had no idea what it what he had and I have no idea how he came to have it, but you may like to see it.” And with that he laid it gently on my lap, watching eagerly as I opened it. 

Inside the covers was something priceless. It was my childhood.

Page upon page of intricate, drawings lay there. Every detail of Nargothrond from the colour of the hallway stone to the favourite blue tunic of one of my tutors. Their faces were exact in detail. These were real people to me. I could name them all. 

“Do you recognise it?” I could feel the nervous excitement in Elrond’s voice as he leaned towards me. “Could you tell me of them? Names . . . Who they are?” 

“I remember these people. I can tell you about them, certainly.”  I could not lift my eyes from the page. 

“If I could write it down, some of their stories, for others to read, Nargothrond would not be quite as lost.” 

And suddenly . . . There is he is. 

I turned a page, moving from one detailed scene to another and my father leapt out at me from the page. His face was perfect . . . As exactly Finrod as I could remember. Better than I could remember because for the longest time he had become just a golden blur in my mind. All of a sudden he was real . . . In front of me, as if he would stride from the pages, swing me over his shoulder and out into the gardens to play. 

“He is glorious is he not?” Elrond said beside me, eyes glowing, “I wish I had known him.” but Gil-galad quietly placed a hand upon mine, as my fingers traced across my fathers features. 

“Gildor?” he asked softly, “are you alright?” 

It was not until I raised my head to look at him I tasted the salt of the tears running down my cheeks. 

“I had forgotten what he looked like.” 

“Forgotten?” Gil-galad did not understand that. Then carefully he lifted the book from my lap, closing it shut on Finrod, handing it back to Elrond. “I think you have had enough.” 

I thought perhaps he was right. 

“I would be happy to talk to you about these pictures,” I told Elrond. “Tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow.” He smiled as if I had just gifted him the world. “Tell me,” he continued, “Do you know this name?” He turned carefully to the front, to the name of the man who created this repository of my memories, and I do know him.

“My fathers chief scribe. I did not know he had such artistic talent.” 

“Your father ran Finrod’s library?” Elrond said it with a hushed reverence as if doing such a thing was a wonder. I do not know what made me do it. Because he reminded me so strongly of my younger self? Because he had just given me the precious gift of showing me that book? Because my father was sitting fresh, his memory renewed, in my mind? 

“My father was Finrod.” 

I do not think I had ever said that out loud. The astonishment upon his face was most amusing and disbelievingly he turned to Gil-galad. I think he thought I mocked him. 

“It is true.” Gil-galad nodded. “Not many of us know this. Family only, Elrond.” 

“How?” Elrond swivelled back to face me. “Why does no-one know this?”

“My father wanted it that way.” I hoped he did not ask any further questions for truly I could not answer them. 

“Keep this to yourself.” Gil-galad told him firmly, putting a stop to any potential inquisition. 

“Well that much is obvious. I am not a child, Gil.” In that moment, a hint of scowl upon his face, Elrond looked exactly that. 

“You should have this.” He said to me then, pushing the book towards me. “Obviously it is destined for you. You have far more rights to it than I” 

But I raised up a hand and refused him. I was not even sure why. That light in his eyes as he spoke of collecting knowledge was so like my father when he told me of the dwarves, of the men, all the strange and exotic places he had been and suddenly I was certain the right place for that book was with Elrond. 

“You keep it. I know you will keep it safe. I may ask to borrow it occasionally though, little cousin.” 

I remembered how comforting it was when Celebrimbor first called me that all those years ago, the feeling of connection it gave me. Perhaps I could pass that on—share some of it with this young man. It felt as if he needed it. Perhaps it would stop him claiming to be a Feanorion. 

I sat with Gil-galad after Elrond left us. He was languid and relaxed as he seldom was, leaning back in his chair, drink in his hand, the firelight flickering patterns across his face in the evening light. 

“Thank you for that,” he told me, “for telling Elrond who you are. He does not understand what that cost you, but I do.” 

I shrugged my shoulders as if it were nothing. 

“It seemed that right thing to do.” 

“To tell the truth,” he swirled his glass in his hand, watching the wine as it spiraled within it, “seeing that picture of Finrod, I do not understand how anyone who met him does not know your identity immediately. The likeness is uncanny.” He paused to take a breath, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “You have his beauty.” 

I laughed, for surely he gently mocked me.

“Oh of course,” I grinned, “I am the spitting image of the glorious Finrod.” 

“You are.” I had to give it to him, he seemed deadly serious. 

“Enough, Náro. Everyone knows I pale in comparison. In Nargothrond they all speculated I was a foundling and not his son at all.” 

“Then they were fools, or blind. I, however, am neither.” 

Deep in the pit of my stomach discomfort began to churn, a flicker of worry. Suddenly I was uncomfortable with the way this conversation was turning without really knowing why. 

“I am ordinary and that is all.” I said firmly. “Someone less like Finrod would be hard to find. Can we change the subject?” 

“You are not ordinary to me.” 

That statement hung in the air as I stared at him. 

“Do not mock me, Ereinion.” 

I never called him that. It was the name for Galadriel, Celebrimbor, the important ones who surrounded him, not me. 

“I am not mocking you.” His voice was soft and gentle when he spoke. “Nothing could be further from the truth.” 

And the penny dropped—the reason for my twisting anxiety. My life . . .  this feeling of home, his camaraderie, friendship, my newfound happiness, shattered before my eyes, as a glass falling to the floor sending shards across the room. 

“No.” I was on my feet then, hands in front of myself as if to defend myself from him. “No. You do not mean this.” 

“I do mean it.” 

It was if we were talking around each other, hinting at, but never speaking out loud, what lay at the centre.

“We are too different.” I sought to dissuade him, anything to stop this. “I am Laiquendi, you are Noldor . . . Too different Náro.” 

But softly he laughed,  “Not different at all, Gildor. You are Teleri, I was raised by Cirdan the shipwright.” 

He would not listen to me and I panicked. There was too much at stake. I had never before had friendship and I would not  lose it. 

“Do you think you are better than Finrod? Finrod, who of all of us, searched out difference and loved it. Finrod who discovered Men and worked with the dwarves. Are you better than he? For he could not make it work. It all fell apart for him and my mother.”

“I am not Finrod, Gildor. Sometimes risks are worth taking.” 

“You cannot do this. You cannot destroy everything like this.” 

“I am destroying nothing.” He reached for my hand but I would not let him take it. I would not have him undermine my resolve. “I am suggesting we build something new.” 

“I have never before had friendship.” I backed away, towards the door, with one last attempt to get him to understand me. “Never. You have no idea what your friendship means to me, how precious it is. I will not risk it. I will not let you take chances with it. I will not.” 

It was not how I imagined the evening would end, my back against the door, desperately trying to exit the room. I thought we were long past scenes like that. 

Long past angry exits as I fled the palace. 

It turned out we were not. 

Gildor

Second Age

In the cold light of day of the morning after, my panic seemed supremely foolish. 

What was I thinking? Had I singlehandedly destroyed our friendship with my over-reaction? 

The more I thought on Gil-galad’s words the more I convinced myself I had misinterpreted them. Really he had said nothing more than the fact he thought I looked like my father. So he thought me beautiful . . . Did that matter? 

It was obvious what I should do. I should go to the palace, ask to see him and we could straighten out the misunderstanding. I would have to apologise, of course, for behaving like a child, but it was worth it to return to the way we were. 

I could not do it. 

I lectured myself, reminded myself how important this friendship was. I had to repair the damage. But try as I might I paled at the thought of seeing Gil-galad face to face. In the end I went to Elrond instead. After all I had promised him, I told myself. Gil-galad himself had asked me to spend time with him. He would want me to see Elrond first. I could deal with our issues later. 

The surprise on Elrond’s face as he opened the door and saw me standing there was most amusing. 

“You came!” 

“Of course I came. We had an appointment did we not?” 

Immediately on entering I can see what Gil-galad meant about him collecting books. His room was like a library. Books on shelves, books in piles, books in corners, I was astonished. 

“Yes, I know,” he sighed, before I could say anything. “I know I have a lot of books. You do not have to point it out to me.” Carefully he lifted a pile to clear a chair for me, apologising as he did so. “Sorry for this, I do not have many visitors, Gil-galad aside . . . Please sit.” 

“I do not mind the books” I smiled, and indeed I did not. 

“As I said last night,” he sat opposite me, “it is the knowledge inside them. Each one has such potential. Opening them is as exciting as unwrapping a present . . . At least that is what I feel . . .” He shrugged half-heartedly. “I am quite aware it seems odd to others.” 

“Those who are ignorant perhaps, but not me. My father loved knowledge. He craved it. It excited him. You remind me of him.” And indeed he did. That light in his eyes and thirst to discover the unknown was my father exactly. 

“Really?” For an instant I thought he might smile, but then he followed up that flash of excitement with a sigh. “Look you do not have to pander to me. I know Gil has likely asked you to. He is insistent on forcing family upon me. I even had to endure meetings with Galadriel. That did not go well, I can tell you.” 

I could not help but laugh. 

“She can be intimidating, I admit.” 

“She looked at me as if she thought I was a fool.”

“Do not worry,” I grinned, “she thinks everyone is a fool. Look, I admit Gil-galad did ask me to spend time with you, but last night I told you who my father was because I wanted to. He asked me to and I refused him. I do not normally share that information with anyone. I am here today because I wish to be also.” 

Because you wish to avoid confessing your foolishness to Gil-galad, my mind whispered to me, but there was no reason for Elrond to know that.  

“Shall we start then?” He laid out the precious book so it sat between us, gathering paper, ink and a quill, setting himself up to write then he looked up at me expectantly. 

Suddenly I felt nervous.

“You must remember I was only a child,” I said, trying to lower his expectations, “so my memories are those of a child. They may be inaccurate. . . ” 

“That is no problem. I will document that, your age at the time.” 

“And perhaps . . . " I followed up with some panic, “you should not attribute them to me . . . I mean, to the son of Finrod no one knows exists.” 

“I have already thought of that. I will attribute them to you, Gildor, for everyone knows you are from Nargothrond. I will simply minimise any connection with your father that might be apparent. You know we do not have to do this at all.” He adds with a frown.

“No, no, I want to.” I truly did. My hands were itching to get hold of that book and the memories inside it. 

He was serious and workmanlike. Diligently he wrote down everything I told him, names, details, stories of the minutiae of life in Nargothrond, all labelled and numbered and set out clearly. I apologised several times for the boring mediocrity of it all but he would not hear of it. 

“This is fascinating,” he insisted despite the fact fascinating was the last thing I would call it. 

When we reached the picture I had stumbled across the night before, the one of my father, I stumbled to a halt. He was so vibrant, so real, I could not breathe. 

“Now that I see him,” Elrond said quietly, “and I know who you are it is so obvious. There is a real likeness.” 

“Not you too!” I snap it at him, much sharper than I wished to be and he flinched. “Sorry,” I apologised quickly before I could do any more damage. “It is just, Gil-galad said something similar last night but I grew up hearing how plain I was in contrast to my exciting father so I do not understand what it is you are seeing.” 

“Ah, Well I do not look like my father either so I am told, Bright Eärendil. . . ” he rolled his eyes. “Hardly me is it. More like nondescript Elrond.”  He made me laugh out loud. 

“The trials of those of us who are burdened with heroic and dazzling fathers,” I smiled, “The rest of the world do not understand it.” 

“The rest of the world do not understand having a father who left you in the lurch while they all think he is a hero.” Elrond muttered, picking the book up and closing it on Finrod’s glorious face. “Shall we do some more of this tomorrow?” He asked, looking up at me, as if we had neither of us mentioned our fathers at all. I wished to tell him that I understood that, but somehow the words strangled me before I could utter them. 

I went back to see him the next day, and the next, slowly working my way through Nargothrond and my memories, all the time justifying to myself why I had not set foot yet into Gil-galad’s palace. There was a long line of excuses. He had not come to see me, he must be busy, likely I would not be able to gain access to him anyway. They were all contrived and pathetic. 

“We shall have to finish early today” Elrond said to me on the third day, “I am supposed to eat lunch with Gil. He asked me to bring you along.” 

It was the perfect opportunity. Elrond would be there so the conversation surely would not be dangerous. I could break the ice, get us back to where we started. The invitation was an olive branch obviously. 

I did not go. 

I intended to. Right up to the moment the words tumbled out of my mouth. 

“I cannot, Elrond. I have promised . . . There is something else I must attend to.” 

Coward. 

I went home instead and cursed my stupidity. 

Gil-galad did not nag me as he had before. There were no messengers, no notes, no requests to meet with him. After that invitation from Elrond there was nothing. 

I awoke at the crack of dawn a few days later—a week since I had last seen him, feeling empty. I should be up early today. It was our day to sail. Would he be out there without me? Of course he would. He spent one morning a week fishing long before he met me. 

The knock on the door made me jump. 

He was leaned against the door frame, casual, smiling, as if he had not a care in the world . . . As if this was just any other day we were due to meet.  

“Are you coming?” He smiled, “or is there something else you must attend to?” 

Did he mock my foolish words to Elrond? 

I did not even know how to reply. He gave me no chance to refuse him anyway. 

“Come on, Gildor. Do not just stand there. I do not fancy the scorn at the docks when I am late.” He grinned as he said it, “You know how they are.” 

And so I was swept along by the force of him, stumbling through the streets behind his purposeful strides wondering what had happened. 

“Elrond cannot cease telling me about you.” He said over his shoulder as we walked, “he is enjoying your visits.”

“He is inordinately fascinated by the minutiae of my childhood. It has nothing to do with me.”  I replied. 

“On the contrary. I said  you were a good friend. I am pleased to see you prove me correct.” 

“I am not —” 

“Enough!” He cut off my protest, stopping us dead in the middle of the street as he turned to face me. “Enough of this not taking the credit due you. I will hear no more of it. The boy was lost and lonely. You have given him a small part of your time, the bonds of family and he is revelling in it. I appreciate it.”

“I only —” I tried to tell him all I have done is share a few memories, nothing more, and only because he asked it of me. 

“No.” He held up a hand. “Take the compliment, Gildor. You are being the friend Elrond desperately needed. I am someone he believes has to give him time, you have chosen to. That is important. Finrod  would be pleased.” 

He spun on his heels, striding away, leaving me standing . . . Staring. 

Finrod would be pleased, had anyone ever told me that? Anyone who wasn’t Galadriel? 

“Hurry up!” he shouted back at me, “You are so tardy today, anyone would think you took lessons from Maedhros.” He laughed out loud and it prodded my feet into action. Did he really joke about his fathers death? The fact he compared me to Fingon’s lover did not escape me either, and a Fëanorion at that! 

He was odd this day and I had no idea where I stood with him. We were about to be together on a small boat for hours. There would be no way I could avoid discussing what had happened the last time we met. There was no way I could avoid stepping foot upon that boat either. 

As it turned out we said not one word about it. 

The wind was up, the waves were high. It was not fishing weather, but Gil-galad steered us out into the sea to the wildest of rides. The wind whipped my hair, the waves tipped the boat this way and that and the work required to keep us upright allowed no time to sit and chat about past conversations. It was utterly exhilarating. 

“I imagine it was like this for Eärendil, sailing to Valinor,” he called to me across the slap of the sails. “wild and chaotic. He knew not even where he was headed. At least we know that! I bought Elrond out here once, hoping to connect him with his father in some way. That was a disaster. Either he did not inherit that Mariner blood or he shuns it as he shuns everything Eärendil, but he hated every minute of it.” 

“Elrond struggles with people venerating a man who deserted him, and expecting him to do the same.” I knew now a little of what went on in Elrond’s head and it was not that foreign to me.

“We, all of us, have fathers who have deserted us. It is up to us to decide what we do with their legacy, Gildor.” 

Was that a jibe at me? Or was I being over-sensitive? Shouting over the roar of the wind, was not the time to ask. 

I waited until he had steered us back to shore, when we busied ourselves mooring the boat in the shelter of the harbour, to question his strangeness of the morning, for very strange he had been. 

“Why did you compare me to Maedhros earlier?” 

He had his back to me, bent over, wrapping a post with rope, and did not even look up from his work as he replied. 

“Because he was late to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and you made me late to my sailing.” 

“But that is not a joke Náro. Your father died because of it!” 

“Actually, if you knew the two of them,  Maedhros being the one who was late is  funny. And I do not hold Maedhros responsible for Fingon’s death.” He stood up then and turned to face me. “I told him as much but I doubt he really heard it.” 

“You told him? When could you have told him? You were with Cirdan then surely.” 

“When he bought us the boys, Elrond and Elros for safe keeping. He asked to see me then, to charge me to watch over them, and I told him. He bears no guilt in my eyes. Not for that. I hoped hearing that from me, Fingon’s son, may help him. I do not think it did.” 

“Why would you do that? Excuse him?”

“Because I loved him, Gildor. Listen, I know you had your experiences with the Fëanorions at Nargothrond. Celebrimbor has told me how angry he was with Curufin there, but Elrond and I know a different side of them. Maedhros and Curufin . . . They are different people. I have been thinking on Maedhros and Fingon this week and the tangle they made of each other. Likely that is why I compared you to him. You may see it as an insult but believe me, it is the highest compliment.” 

“I am not Maedhros Fëanorion. I do not wish to be compared to him.” 

“I know that.” Gil-Galad sighed and turned back to his rope, twisting and knotting it in the complex way only the seamen did. “I only wish you had known him as I did.” 

He was silent then, frowning in concentration as he secured the boat . . . as I stood and watched, and I thought, was this when I should address what had bothered me all week? 

“Gil-Galad?” 

“I wish you would stop with that.” Finished with his knot tying he looked back at me with the slightest of grins. “Just call me Náro. I prefer it. Artanáro was Fingon’s name for me and I have been missing him.” 

So I tried again.

“Náro—” 

But he would not let me finish. 

“Will you come up to the palace for a drink?” He interrupted. “I have invited Elrond so it would be the three of us.” 

Had he asked Elrond to make things safer? 

“Náro . . .” 

I had it all lined up in my mind, what I should say. Apologies for my childish, over dramatic exit. To explain my foolish misunderstanding, to clear the air. He let me say none of it. Instead he threw an arm across my shoulder.

“Say you will come, Gildor. It will not be the same without you.”

“I will come but —”

“Good.” We started to walk along the dock but he stopped us before we stepped from his safe place out into the streets. “Your friendship is precious to me also, Gildor. I want you to know that,” he said quietly. “Let us do nothing to jeopardise it.” 

It was a weight off my shoulders. 

Those years in Lindon were truly the golden years of my life. The diamond amongst the coal. The three of us, Elrond, Gil-Galad and I forged a friendship as strong as any. I had access to the sea, I helped Gil-galad tiptoe his way through the diverse groups of elves under his command, I watch Elrond grow into a healer of high esteem and the source of any knowledge we might need. He never failed to surprise me. Sometimes, as we sailed upon the sea, bent over some plan or other at the palace, or simply laughed together at some ridiculousness I looked at Náro, at the light he shone and wondered . . . Had I made a mistake? Should I tell him so? But he never again showed me even a glimmer of what he spoke of that evening by the fire. Never. 

My aunt moved into Eregion, Celebrimbor following, but I did not go with her. She asked, I declined. I chose to remain with Gil-galad and Elrond in Lindon. I did not want to give up the sea and—though I tried to ignore it—wisps of that darkness I had felt when Celebrimbor first mentioned his plans, clung to the idea of Eregion for me. 

Of course  my contentment had to end. Ever were we to be punished for our fathers’ sins it seemed. 

The urgent request from Gil-galad to meet was unusual. The fact I met a disgruntled Elrond on the way even more so. He had called for both of us. 

“He has dragged me from the healing halls.” Elrond muttered when he saw me. “This had better be worth it.”

“Perhaps he is bored and wishes your sparkling company?” Elrond had always tended to the serious. Trying to prod him into lightness had become my self appointed mission. I was rewarded with the briefest of grins. 

“Yes it is certain to be that of course. My wit is highly desired.” 

At least he could now laugh at himself. I considered it a small victory. 

My smug good mood evaporated the moment we opened Gil-galad’s door. 

He was not alone. An Elf sat with him. Gil-galad smiled as we entered. Despite the message there was no sense of urgency about him. 

“Ah, you are here, come in. There is someone I wish you to meet.” 

And the Elf spun around to see us. 

He was beautiful—if I was truthful, beyond beautiful—his face open, honest and friendly. 

I despised him. 

The moment we entered that room, the instant I saw that pleasant face, I was hit with a blast of hatred. Pure, burning, unquenchable rage  engulfed me like a physical blow. I staggered under the weight of it, enough to cause Elrond to grab at my elbow. 

“Are you alright?” he whispered. 

Gil-galad did not notice. 

“Come, sit,” he smiled. “This is Annatar.” 

Had I a sword I would have run Annatar through. 

I could not stay there. I wished to tear him limb from limb. Then in that moment, that fraction of a second after we first entered, I watched aghast as his attractive countenance changed, warped, altered as I stared, until crouched upon his chair was a huge, snarling wolf, dripping evil as its flashing eyes waited to rip me apart. 

Often since my childhood—since I discovered how my father died, I had been haunted by nightmares of wolves waiting to attack me. Frequently I woke, drenched in sweat and terrified, having run from them. Never before had my nightmares occurred during my waking hours. Fear, hate, rage all entangled to choke me.

Then I blinked and the wolf was gone. Surely madness overtook me. 

“I am sorry Gil-Galad,” I do not know how I forced the words out with any semblance of normality. “I came to say I cannot stay . . . Urgent business . . .” It made no sense and Elrond certainly knew it was a lie. 

“Gildor?” He hissed as I backed away. 

“I am sorry I will not get to meet you. Perhaps another time?” The elf’s voice when he spoke was smooth, silky, wrapped up in sweetness and most alluring. It burned my ears. How I managed to nod to him with some measure of politeness I do not know. 

Then I fled. 

The rage clung to me. It churned inside me until I could hold it back no longer. In the safety of my home I let it lose. Chairs upturned, books shredded , clothes torn, walls smashed, nothing was safe from this need to destroy. It was Annatar’s face I saw as I wrecked my havoc. It frightened me. 

And when finally it ebbed away to a small dark kernel in the pit of my stomach I looked around at the destruction I had wrought and I wept. 

It was Gil-galad who found me. 

He did not knock at my door. He did not wait for permission to enter. He strode in, and from where I sat curled in a corner, hiding from myself I could hear his exclamation of surprise. 

“What has happened here? Gildor?” It was with urgency he called my name. I did not answer but he saw me. 

“Gildor,” his hand upon my my shoulder was most welcome, anchoring me back to reality, bringing light out of the darkness. “Are you hurt?” 

“I am not hurt.” My voice was hoarse for how I had screamed in my rage. 

“What happened? Who did this? Know that they will answer to me and it will not be pleasant!” 

“I did this.” 

“What?” He was astonished—somewhat horrified I thought—at that admission. “Tell me. Explain this please.” 

Where to begin? 

“I wanted to kill him . . . To destroy him.” Still, even with Náro at my side, that was the thought most prominent in my mind. 

“To kill who?” He frowned. Of course he did for it made no sense to me, so how could he comprehend it? 

“Annatar.” I said that name with a hiss of distaste. I did not wish it to linger upon my lips. 

“Do you know him? Have you met him before? He showed no signs of knowing you.” Gil-galad was urgent in his questioning. 

“I have never met him and yet I despise him.” I took a deep breathe to calm my voice and try to wash that anger away. Annatar was not here I told myself. This was Gil-galad. “The instant I walked in your room, Náro, the instant I saw him, I hated him. Worse than hate. I wished to kill him with my bare hands. I cannot explain it to you. I had to leave.” 

Silently he sat himself beside me. 

“I apologise if I have caused you some diplomatic problem.” I said. 

“On the contrary.” He placed an arm across my shoulder and I welcomed it. “He has come from nowhere offering gifts, promising benevolence, but for some reason I do not trust him. There is nothing to hang my suspicions on. I wished a neutral opinion from you and Elrond to see if somehow I carried prejudice which affected my judgement. Elrond concurs. He is uneasy. Your reaction . . .well I think it leaves no doubt, do you not?” He smiled at me as he said that with one of his warm and generous smiles. 

“Do not make decisions based on this. . . . . Madness.” I sighed. 

“Is it madness though? Years ago, Gildor, when we first met. I allowed you to convince me you did not have the sight . . . That darkness you perceived about Celebrimbor? Remember? Seeing this. . . . What other explanation can there be? You are seeing something about Annatar, Elrond and I felt also, only much more clearly.” 

“I tell you, Náro, I have never had any ability —” He would not listen to me. 

“Or you do not recognise your ability. I will not let you dissuade me this time.” 

He pulled himself to his feet and slowly wandered around the room, righting the furniture and sighing as he collected up the things I had destroyed. 

“I think you will sleep at the palace tonight.” 

“No!” I knew I would not  be doing that. 

“Annatar is gone from there. I will see him and send him away from here tomorrow. I intend to bar him from returning. You will not be seeing him again.” 

“There is no need for me sleep up there. I will be fine here, Náro.” 

“Then I will sleep here.” 

He made me laugh out loud despite myself.

“It is hardly the place for a King!”

“When will you desist in this idea you have that I wish for kingly airs and graces? Where does it come from? Finrod’s love of jewellery? I have slept in places far worse than this.” He stood tapping his fingers upon my table as he thought silently to himself. 

“No. I have decided. And because, as you point out, I am King, you have to obey me in this. You will come up to the palace and I will have Elrond look at you. I am not happy about the state of you.” 

“Do not worry about me. Elrond will not be able to help.” Of that I was sure. “I am not injured or unwell.” 

“He learned from Maglor Fëanorion himself. He well knows about power and foresight. He will be able to settle your mind. Then we will write to Galadriel and Celebrimbor. Annatar will likely head to them and I would warn them. And you, you will tell Galadriel all there is to tell about this rage of yours. I would have her opinion.” 

He was at his most kingly. Strong, forceful and determined, and I was exhausted. I had no strength to argue. In the end I capitulated and did as he said. 

I saw Elrond. I wrote to my Aunt. I told of the rage, the anger, the unexplainable hatred that had consumed me. I did not tell them of the wolf however. 

I kept that childish insanity to myself. 

It all fell apart after that. 

The cracks appeared in the carefully crafted happiness I had achieved and it came tumbling down around me. 

Celebrimbor would listen to none of us and Gil-galad was the angriest I had ever seen him. 

“Must he be such a fool?” he cried throwing the letter he had received on the desk in front of him. 

“What does he say?” Elrond and I sat in the strange and unenviable position of trying to calm a raging King. 

“He scorns our warnings, both ours and Galadriel’s. Annatar brings new techniques and much knowledge he says. He accuses us of ignorance and jealousy. Every word is laced with excitement at their collective creativity. It is like Fëanor and Melkor in Valinor all over again.”

“Gil—” Elrond sounded a quiet warning. Criticism of anything Fëanorion always made him defensive, but Gil-galad was not interested. 

“No!” he snapped, “I am having none of that Fëanorion love affair from you today. You wished for Annatar to be gone from here as much as I did. You felt it, the wrongness about him. What do you think Maedhros would say to Celebrimbor now? Had he met Annatar do you think he would have embraced him? I think not!  He would do all he could to stop a repeat of the foolishness of Fëanor. . . Everything. For he was the one who suffered from it the most.” 

Elrond, who could take umbrage at the slightest hint of anti-Fëanorion judgement must have agreed, for he remained silent. Either that or he wisely decided this was not the time to take on Gil-galad. 

“What did Galadriel have to say?” Gil-galad’s eye swung to me , for accompanying Celebrimbor’s letter had been a stinging missive from my Aunt for me. “What did she say about your visions?” 

“I have not had visions.” I would rather not discuss my letter at all. 

“Enough!” Gil-galad was taking no prisoners this day. He was sharing his anger around to all of us. “Stop with the denial, Gildor, and step up to face your inheritance for I tire of your reticence. What did she say?” 

“She is as unhappy with me as you are.” I say with a sigh for he obviously will not let it go. “She wishes to know why I did not tell her of my foreboding with Celebrimbor. She believes it is foresight. . . yes,” I add before he can ask. “She calls me a fool for not coming to her.” 

“Perhaps she is the fool for raising you and not noticing.” He sighs and rolls his eyes, “still there is nothing we can do about that now. If there is anything else . . . And other instances of this foresight you are to tell me! I will have no argument.” 

“So what do we do?” I purposely ignored his directive, instead asking my own question to avoid any more of that uncomfortable disapproval, “What do we do about Celebrimbor?” 

“Nothing.” That was not the answer I was expecting. “What can I do? How can I make a stubborn Fëanorion listen? Fingolfin could not . . . What chance do I  have?” 

“Celebrimbor is not Fëanor.” I told him. “He is, at least, reasonable.” 

“And what do you know about Fëanor?” He pushed the paperwork strewn across his desk to the floor where it fell in a chaotic mess. All I could think of as I stared was the hours it would take him to sort it out. “Seriously, I have had enough of this family,” he snapped as Elrond and I sat wordlessly. “Everyone has a deathwish. I do not know why I bother.” 

Then he was on his feet, striding to the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To Cirdan.” He did not even turn back to look at me as he answered. “At least he has sense.” And the door slammed behind him. For the first time it was Gil-galad, rather than I, who stormed out of the room. 

“Well that went well.” 

Elrond was the master of the understatement. 

“I have never seen him so angry,” I told him. 

“A glimpse of Fingon the—hot-headed and impulsive—Valiant,  I think,” he said with a sigh. “I have to say I much prefer our usual calm and collected Ereinion.” 

“What do we do now?” I was left wondering if I should go after him. 

But Elrond simply kneeled to begin shuffling through the disastrous  pile of muddled papers on the floor.

“Cirdan will calm him down,” he said, and he most probably was right. “The best thing we can do is sort this mess out.” 

Even though there were two of us it took us hours. Still when Gil-galad returned to his study the next morning he would find our neat and organised piles waiting for him. Perhaps it would help. 

He may have decided there was nothing he could do about Celebrimbor but that did not translate into doing nothing at all. Instead Gil-Galadriel  threw all his energy into the Men. 

Our people had been close. The Númenórean, Prince Aldarion, had visited us so often you could say he and Gil-galad were friends. But Men flitted through their lives so quickly, their Kings and Queens came and went  and the bonds were stretched. We became further and further apart until some, it seemed, even resented us. Still Náro threw all he had at them. Their queen would have none of it but he had contacts. Númenórean sailors and merchants would come our way in trade and Gil-galad would wine and dine them, charming them with his elegance, winning their trust and through them the ear of their King in waiting. 

I hated it. I did not trust them, but nor could I convince him to leave them alone. 

“We need all the allies we can get, Gildor,” he frowned when I challenged him. “I need the Men on side. It may be vital.” He would not listen, sighing in frustration as he accused me of old prejudices. 

And Elrond was no better.

“Gil is right,” he said wearily when I complained to him. “We may need them.” 

“But we cannot trust  them!” 

“Why can we not? There is no reason not to trust them, Gildor. They are no threat to us.” 

“They envy us. It is an open secret!” 

“Well that’s as may be, but—”

I cut him off.

“There is no good to come of trusting in a Man. It ends with you battling a wolf to your death locked in a dungeon!” 

“Gildor,” he sighed heavily, “you cannot paint all Men with Beren’s  brush. They are not he.” 

“They may as well be! They carry his blood.” That treacherous blood that made my skin crawl. I could still picture in my minds eye the smug self satisfaction of the hated Beren. 

“You do know,” Elrond said firmly folding his arms sternly across his chest, “that I am more a child of Beren than any Númenórean.” 

I did know that. I just tried very hard not to think on it. 

“You are also a child of Turgon, of Fingolfin. It is not the same.” 

“But so are they!” 

Try as I might neither of them would listen to me. It was Gil-galad, Elrond and the Númenóreans . . .  Against me. At times it felt lonely, and isolating. While things spiralled in Eregion, Celebrimbor falling out with my Aunt and uncle, Galadriel disappearing to the woods and Celeborn leaving Ost-in-Edhil, Gil-Galad continued his focus on bribing, befriending, and charming Men. Whenever he was indulging in his wooing of them I would stay right away. 

So I was relieved, when he summoned me urgently one day, that there were no Men in his study to meet me. 

Círdan was there however and that was very unusual. He sat, still and silent, in the corner, and it startled me, seeing him there. What was going on? 

“Have a seat,” Gil-galad  said indicating the empty chair next to Elrond and so I did, but not without asking why. 

“What is going on? What has happened?” For some reason I felt unaccountably nervous. 

“Celebrimbor has sent us a gift.” 

“What?” Could there be a more ridiculous statement? 

“A gift.” Gil-galad repeated and he reached over, opening the small leather bag that sat on the table between us, tipping its contents out to fall with a clunk upon the wood. 

A pair of rings. 

But not just any rings. These were rings of power. They hummed with it. Their buzzing filled my ears and I was horrified. 

“What are you doing?” I leapt to my feet, anything to get away from them. 

“Sit down!” Gil-galad snapped. “Annatar has no hand in these. They are Celebrimbor’s work and his alone.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Because he has told me and I have no reason not to trust his word.” 

“You are far too trusting by half!” I cried. “First the Men and now this.” 

“Gildor,” he sighed, “you know Celebrimbor as well as I do. He may have been foolish but he is no liar and he is not duplicitous.” He picked up a ring and held it out to me. “Hold this for me.” 

“No!” 

“I want to know what you feel. I want to see if you sense any warning from this.” 

“But surely if you trust Celebrimbor you have no need of my warnings for there will be none.” 

There was no way I wished to touch either of those rings that sat and jangled at me. 

“Just take it, Gildor.” He took a deep breath and I could see he grew frustrated with me. “You have foresight. You may see something Celebrimbor is not aware of. We cannot be too careful.” 

“Give it to Círdan! He will know better than I if anything is wrong.” For Círdan was far, far more powerful than I could ever hope to be. 

“I have held it.” Círdan’s voice from his corner made me jump. “Now we wish your interpretation.” 

I felt trapped in a corner with nowhere to run. Surrounded by the three of them. How could I say no? 

Reluctantly I held out my hand. 

I expected the coolness of metal but it was not that at all. Instead it had a soft warmth that slowly spread to engulf me. The harsh buzzing that had grated on me so, mellowed to a gentle, reassuring hum. This ring had power, oh yes it did, and it was made by Celebrimbor. Gil-Galad had been right about that, for I could feel him. Traces of his song were woven through the depth of the metal. I closed my eyes and could almost imagine he sat in that room with us. I did not realise until that moment how much I missed him. 

The ring wanted me. It welcomed me with open arms. It reached inside, found the traces of Finrod in my veins and magnified him until it was as if his glorious self stood right there before me. Oh how it rejoiced in Finrod. I wanted to keep it. I wished  I could keep it, but it was too strong for me. It would consume me until there was no Gildor left. 

And so I opened my hand and let it drop. 

“Well?” 

When I opened my eyes Gil-galad stood anxiously before me. 

“What did you feel?” 

“I felt no warning. You are right. Celebrimbor is written all over it. There is no trace of another maker. It wanted Finrod. It loved him, it found him within me.” 

He reached over and pushed it towards me. 

“If you want it, it is yours.” 

But I knew I could never wear that ring. 

“No. I do not want it.” 

He picked it up, tossing it in his hand as he thought, before placing it on his finger where it settled as if it was made for it. The other he passed to Círdan. 

“I can think of no one better to have this,” he said. 

“So why has Celebrimbor sent us these?” Still that made no sense to me. 

“To hide them. To keep them safe. He has sent one to Galadriel also.”

“But they are not speaking! Why send her jewellery? And hide them from what?” 

“From whom.” 

Rather than elaborate Gil-galad reached across for the carafe of wine that sat between us and poured a glass, before holding it out to me. 

“Drink this.” 

“It is a bit early for that!” 

“Drink it,” he said. “Drink it all.” 

And so I did. I threw it back and swallowed the lot for he unnerved me. Then he took my glass and poured me another. 

“It seems,” he said as he sat back in his chair, “Annatar has unveiled himself.” 

“Unveiled himself?” 

“Well we all knew he was not what he seemed, and now we know what he is.” 

“And are you going to tell me?” His voice was gentle when he said the next. 

“He is Sauron, Gildor.” 

And my glass slipped out of my hand, shattering as it hit the edge of the table, red wine and glass shards spilling across my lap as Gil-galad’s words echoed around my head. “He is Sauron . . . .He is Sauron . . ”  My fathers murderer had been sat in the same room as me. He had sat there and smiled, and I had let him go. 

The earth tilted upon its axis. Beside me I heard Gil-galad swearing but he was far away.  My head spun. I could see nothing but the smiling face of Annatar in front of me, hear nothing but his words, I am sorry I will not get to meet you. 

“I should have killed him.” I said, “He was right in front of me. I should have killed him as I wanted to.” 

“But then you would become him,” It was Círdan who broke the spell and had me blinking in the light at the sound of his voice, “and we cannot have that.” 

Gil-galad knelt beside me though I did not know how he got there. 

“You have hurt yourself,” he hissed, and when I looked down I saw he was right. A shard of glass has sliced my hand. I could not tell what was wine and what was blood. 

“It is nothing.” I was numb. I had no idea if it is nothing at all. 

“At least . . .” Elrond said beside me as he magicked a clean white cloth out of nowhere to wrap gently around my hand, “At least your extreme reaction to him is now understandable.” 

My reaction to him. That instant fury, that all consumable hate, the killing rage, it all made sense . .. Even . . . Even . . . 

It was as if a bucket of ice water poured over me. A freezing cold, heart-stopping, moment of clarity. 

I had been such a fool. 

When I looked across at Gil-galad I thought for a moment I would be sick. 

“What is it?” He asked with concern.

I could not answer. 

“Gildor?” 

“What did you see, child?” Círdan leaned forward in his chair and his gaze tore strips off me. “Tell us.” 

He knew. There was no way he could look at me like that and not know. 

“I did not know . . . I swear, I did not understand . . .” 

“Tell us.” 

Three pairs of eyes fell upon to me and Gil-galad frowned, disapproval evident.

“Is there something you have been withholding from me, Gildor?” 

It burned my soul. 

I had no idea how to explain myself. 

“Since I was young,” I told him, “I have been haunted by nightmares . . . Imaginings of my fathers death. Dreams of snarling wolves, of being trapped and helpless, torn apart by vicious teeth. They did not tell me how he died when Beren first returned and told them. They kept it from me. But how could you keep something that huge a secret? I found out, of course, by an overheard word, a callous aside.” 

In my mind, as they gazed at me, I was that boy. The one curled in a dark corner weeping at the viciousness of his fathers death. The knowledge almost destroyed me. I could not cease dwelling on how he must have felt at that instant. How horrible was it for him? 

But Gil-galad does not understand. 

“A cruel fate for a boy,” he said, “and I am saddened by it, but how is this relevant?” 

And I took a deep breath, for he would not like this and I was unsure I could bear the anger that would come my way. But what choice was there?

“When I came into your room that day and saw Annatar sitting there, the hatred was immediate. It knocked my off my feet, it was a tangible thing. At first I saw his smiling beauty, but then . . . For a second, a blink of an eye, it was as if a wolf crouched before me in his chair. A growling, snarling beast. It was only a flash. I thought, perhaps I had not seen it at all.” 

And beside me I heard Elrond’s sigh. 

“Oh, Gildor.” 

But there was no sighing from Gil-galad.

“You saw him as a wolf?” His voice when he spoke was tight with pent up fury. “You saw the one we now know was instrumental in your fathers death as the animal who killed him? You saw this and you did not tell me? You did not tell Galadriel either I am guessing.”

I dropped my head for I could not look him in the eye. 

“I did not tell her.” 

“I told you! I told you, if there was anything else, any other visions, you were to tell me!” 

“I thought it a childish nightmare. I thought it nothing. I did not wish to bother anyone with the fantasies of my childhood.” 

“Except it was not a childish fantasy was it! It was a warning. Do you not think Galadriel could have told us that had she known?” 

Oh she would, she would. I have no doubt. 

“I cannot believe you. I cannot believe you would withhold this from me! Perhaps we could have prevented Celebrimbor’s stubborn errors had we known!” 

“Nothing is certain,” Círdan spoke softly from his corner. His voice was low and yet it cut across Gil-galad’s anger. “It is easy to interpret foresight in retrospect. Harder to discern it when you know not what is around the corner. It gives us questions . . . Not answers. What seems obvious now may not have been so earlier.” 

It was but a cold comfort to me. 

The weight of it all . . . Their disappointment, the knowledge of my error, my awareness I had stood in the same room as Sauron . . . Crushed the life out of me. 

“I need some air.” I said. “I am going to walk . . . To think. I am sorry, Gil-galad.”

“Go then,” he waved me off, his unhappiness evident, “Leave me with the mess.”  but Elrond grabbed at my arm as I turned to go. 

“Your hand?” He said, “let me see to it first.” 

“It is nothing.” I pulled my arm free of him. “I will see you later if I need to.” In that moment I could not bear the thought of his sympathy. 

I went to the sea. 

The sea was a balm upon my fea. It untangled my knots. It uplifted me. 

But not this day. 

This day it was stormy and wild. It took my turmoil and magnified it. It whispered in my ear. As I stood, waves swirling around my legs, pulling, pulling me towards Aman, I thought of my father. I thought of his dying. I wondered what he might think of me. Would he be as disappointed in me as Gil-galad? 

He is not far, the sea told me. You can see him, ask him, I will take you. 

It was a tempting thought. All I wished was to be that small boy, away from all this turbulence. He used to put his arms about me and shelter me from the storms that raged around us. Once upon a time he was my only safe place. I wished for that now with all my heart. 

Come with me, the sea sighed, come with me. 

It seemed a desirable escape. I took a step, and then another, wading out deeper and deeper. How far was Aman? Could I swim it? It was nonsense yet it did not seem so. 

And the waves were wild. 

“No!” 

The hand upon my collar startled me. Chest deep already I stumbled and fell as the next wave hit me. White churning water pummelled me but in a second I was up again, dragged to my feet, drenched, bemused, breathless, facing the eyes of Gil-galad, fierce and feral. 

“No!” he cried over the roar of the sea as he held me tight. 

I was caught. The waves pulled at me, the sea called to me, yet I was caught in his eyes, alight and compelling, so close I could touch him if I chose. So close I could fall in to him, if I wished. 

And I did wish. 

Then the moment was gone as he hauled me, stumbling behind him, to the shore. His fury scorched my fëa, and he threw me on the sand. 

“You will not abandon me here! You will not!” 

Words deserted me as I stared up at him. I did not know what to say, and he deflated . . . Collapsing as a stack of cards  to sit beside me, head in his hands. I felt I needed to comfort but I was not sure why. 

“I was thinking of my father.” I said by way of explanation as to why he had found me submerged in a stormy sea. “I just . . . He just seemed so close. I felt I could reach him. The sea itself tricked me, Náro. I am sorry.” 

“I am sorry.” He did not lift his head and his words were muffled. “I reacted badly. It feels as if the world I have built slips through my fingers and we shall lose it all. That is not your fault.” 

“Perhaps it is?” 

“No it is not.” Finally he looked across at me. “Sauron does not even have to be here and he succeeds in dividing us.” He sighed heavily before he said the next. “If you need to sail we will find you a safer way to do it.” 

“I do not need to sail.” 

Wryly he smiled. “Forgive me for saying, it did not look like that.” 

“I needed my father. It was an aberration. It is gone now.” 

And truly it was, that lonely desperation I had felt just moments before. Gil-galad had vanquished it. 

Yet he looked at me as if he did not believe me. 

His hand curled around mine and he dropped his eyes, for Elrond's makeshift bandage was sodden and blood-stained. 

“I will take you to Elrond,” he said quietly, “to repair this.” 

And the million things I wished to say, the wonderings about that moment in the sea, went unsaid. 

He stood me up. He threw an arm about me and pulled me tight, he guided me back to warmth and safety. 

And my questions? My wishes? 

I never spoke them. 

We began preparing for war. 

The idea of it terrified me.  I am not a warrior—one more thing I did not inherit from Finrod—and I was too small when he left me for him to have taught me. But was is not for my sake I was afraid. It was for everyone there I cared for. 

I sat in meetings with Gil-galad, Círdan and Elrond while they moved pieces around maps, talked logistics and strategy and I was useless. Utterly and completely useless. Letters flew between Gil-galad and Celebrimbor, Celeborn and even the Men. Gil-galad wrote to Númenór, calling on all that effort he had poured into them but I had no idea if they answered him. 

Then there was the day I walked in to his study to find a stranger sitting there. 

For a moment,  one terrible, heart-stopping moment,  I was thrown back in time and it was Annatar before me. But this elf was not dark, he was fair, and shone, like my aunt and my father, with the light of the trees. Who was he? 

He turned, as I stood in the doorway, paralysed by the unexpected idea of Annatar, and his face was alight with the most blazing and glorious of smiles when he saw me. 

“This must be him!” he exclaimed. “It could be none other.” 

He was up then, before I could gather my thoughts and move, striding across the room towards me. 

“Gildor Inglorion,” he said, “Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo.”

What was he doing? Speaking quenya? Naming me as family to the High King in Valinor? I looked across at Gil-galad in desperation. What had he been telling him? 

The stranger stood smiling before me in anticipation.

“I am sorry,” It was not my most polite of greetings for he had flat-footed me completely, “you have me at a disadvantage.” 

“Glorfindel,” he said, hand on chest and a bow of his head, “Glorfindel of Gondolin of the House of the Golden Flower.” 

Did he ridicule me? Did he think me a fool? 

“Glorfindel of Gondolin is dead. We all know that story.” I told him flatly, for I was getting angry, and I wanted to know how he knew who I was. 

“Well of course, once dead, but now . . . Alive.” 

“This is—” 

Gil-galad cut me off before I could launch into my tirade. 

“Glorfindel has been sent to us from the west.” He said quickly, “to aid us in our fight against Sauron.” 

And all I could do was stare at him.

“Sit down,” Náro said as I stood there like a fool and the golden elf lay a hand upon my shoulder. 

“It is somewhat daunting to get your head around, I know,” he said softly. 

I searched his beautiful face for hints, signs he was not what he seemed. How pointless it was to have foresight and yet not know how to understand it. 

“How can we trust you?” 

Across the room Gil-galad sighed, “Enough, Gildor.” 

But I ignored him. 

“We have been misled before.” 

“Understandable.” Glorfindel, if that was who he was, seemed nonplused by my lack of trust. “Come and sit like Ereinion suggests and perhaps I can prove myself to you, as I have had to do to him.” So for all his frustration with me Náro has doubted this man too. 

We sat. I was across the table from him, an empty chair beside me, and instead of a tale of justification he reached deep into a pocket, pulled out a letter, held it out for me to take, and so I did, carefully, warily, cautiously. 

When I looked down at it, it burned like a flame upon my fëa  and despite myself, in shock, I dropped it. 

Náro leant forward with urgency from his chair. 

“What is it! What did you see?” He turned to Glorfindel to accuse him. “What did you give him?” 

“What he sees,” Glorfindel replied, calmly as if Náro had simply offered him pleasantries not accusations, “is his father’s handwriting. A difficult thing, I imagine, to comprehend after so many years, yet I only guess. I have not been in the position myself.” He picks the letter up where I have let it fall, holds it out again towards me. “This is yours. I have carried it a long way to bring it to you. It is more than this new life is worth not to fail. I would rather face a Balrog than Finrod if I do not deliver this.” 

A letter. 

A letter from my father, across the sea.

A letter from my father who has been long dead for centuries. 

I do not want to believe it is true but as I gaze at it I know it is. It is his handwriting. I have not seen it since I left Nargothrond but I know it. There is no way Sauron could imitate this so perfectly, surely. 

I am not sure I want it. 

And as I stared at it lying in my hand, running my fingers across the immaculately formed letters in front of me spelling out my name —Gildor—I realised my fathers hand had touched this, not so long ago. He had held it. He had placed the wax upon it and sealed it.  

“You know my Father?” I asked the golden Glorfindel. “He gave this too you?” Then before he could reply, as pieces tumbled and fell into place, “Why is he not here? Why does he send this and not come himself?”

He laughed, it seemed incongruous, and poured himself a glass of wine before he answered me.

“Oh he has raged and fought and argued that it should be him here instead of me. His arguments were all good ones, as always. But the Valar would not allow it. It is they who pick and chose and they refused. He is incandescent with fury but they care not for that. This . . . ” he nodded to the letter I held in my hand, “is his protest, his rebellion. He fights the Valar tooth and nail and they punish him for it. They are disappointed the reborn Finrod is not as perfect as they imagined he would be.”

“Not as—” Before I could get my question out, and I had oh so many more, the door swung open. We, all three of us, raised our eyes to gaze at Elrond who, I thought, had exactly the same reaction as I. He stood rooted to the spot, face pale, and I could almost see the memories of Annatar flickering through his mind.

In front  of me our golden stranger hissed in shock. The hand holding his drink shook, briefly, slightly, almost imperceptibly. I wondered if I imagined it, it was there and gone so rapidly, that sign Elrond had unnerved him. It was as if we were frozen in a tableau. Us looking at Elrond. Elrond looking back at us. 

Gil-galad broke the spell. 

“Elrond, come and join us. Meet Glorfindel.” 

Elrond, far more educated than I, was quicker on the uptake also.

“Glorfindel? . . . Glorfindel of Gondolin? How is that possible?  . . . Yet that is who you appear to be for I have seen pictures . . .  Or are you Sauron, in yet another disguise come to trap us? If so it is foolish for we will see right through you.” 

He was braver than I. 

Glorfindel rose to his feet. Smoothly, elegantly, all equilibrium recovered as if it had never been disrupted.  

“And you,” he said, “must be Earendil’s child. Someone more like Turukáno I have yet to see.” 

“I am Elrond Maglorion and you have not answered me.” 

“Maglorion?” Glorfindel raised his eyebrows at that, “well, well, that is a surprise. Makalaurë himself may be surprised to hear that.” 

“Sit down, Elrond.” Gil-galad sighed loudly. He sounded as if he wished he had other cousins, less difficult than us, he could produce to introduce to Glorfindel. “This is indeed Glorfindel. Círdan is satisfied, I am satisfied.” 

“Why are you here? How are you here?” Elrond sat but that did not mean he was quiet. 

“I am here,” Glorfindel paused to take sip of his drink as if we indulged in a cosy fireside chat not an interrogation, “because we have heard our last remaining Fëanorion—your apparent father excepted—has seen fit to follow in the footsteps of his forebears and dance with the dark. The Valor thought, bearing in mind the problems your elders had in subduing him previously, the three of you might have need of me when it came to Sauron. If, of course, I am not helpful I am happy to return and leave you to it. Actually, no,” he muttered into his glass, “it is a staid and boring place. I would rather you could try and find me something to do.”

Even Elrond was temporarily left floundering at that. I saw him make the connections in his mind. I saw the moment he realised exactly what he had sitting in front of him, his most beloved preoccupation—knowledge. 

“You are back from the dead? You are from Gondolin itself. You have spoken with the Valar. What can you tell me?!” 

He thrummed with the excitement of it, reminding me of that young man who presented me with the book of Nargothrond when we first met. He would have us sitting here for days listening to a million questions. Gil-galad obviously realised exactly that. He was having no dissection of the life and customs of Gondolin here. 

“We need to send an army to Eregion,” he cut across Elrond’s babbling. “Will you lead it?” 

“Well I will go, certainly,” Glorfindel replied. “But would the leading not be better done by one of you?” 

“We discussed this!” That certainly diverted Elrond. “We talked about this, Gil.” 

Had we? I could not remember the specifics of that discussion. Did his ‘we’ mean us . . . Or just them? 

Gil-galad looked uncomfortable. 

“I promised Maedhros I would keep you safe,” he said. 

“You promised Maedhros that when I was little more than a child, which I am no longer! He would not wish me to avoid defending Celebrimbor! He would not wish me hide myself away from Sauron! I am well and truly ready for this task, I have been trained in the wilds by Maedhros and Maglor themselves. Do you not think they have prepared me?  . . . Or do you not trust me?” 

“I do trust you. I have seen your skill—”

“Certainly,” Glorfindel cut in,  “Maedhros was not one to hide from the dark.” 

And I realise they have discussed sending Elrond to battle, to lead Gil-galad’s army, without me. 

“And what of me?” 

My words hang in the air. 

“You stay here. That is not up for discussion.” 

I did not want to go to war. I did not want to face Sauron on the battlefield, but I did want him dead. I did want to avenge my father. I did not wish to be cosseted away in Mithlond like a child while Elrond commanded armies. 

“My uncle is there! I do not expect to command anyone but I do expect to go!” 

“No!” Gil-galad grabbed my wrist tight as I dramatically waved an arm at him to express my frustration. “Your reaction to Sauron was too severe. You will not be going anywhere near him when you do not know how to control that power. We will not have another Fingon and Gwindor at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. If Sauron discovered your parentage he would taunt you with it. I learn from their mistakes!”

“You are being unfair!” 

“I am being pragmatic. Círdan agrees. We will say no more on this.” 

“Círdan agrees? Could you not have included me in this discussion?” 

“No. Because you would behave irrationally.” 

“So Elrond is skilful and I am irrational. Is that how it is?” I was so angry, so very angry, with them all. 

“You are proving my point.” Gil-galad frowned as if I was a petulant child. 

“What power is this?” Glorfindel interrupted before I could throw something at my High King. “What is it you cannot control?” 

“He has foresight.” Frustratingly Gil-galad did not even allow me to answer. “Foresight that was undiscovered, untested and untrained. When Annatar was here attempting to deceive us Elrond and I felt disquiet. Gildor however was knocked off his feet an unidentifiable rage, barely made it out of the room, demolished his own home. There is no one here to train him so it remains uncontrolled.” 

“You overstate it.” 

“You know I do not.” 

“Were you not raised by Galadriel?” Glorfindel frowned—how did he know that? “Did she not train you?” 

“She missed it.” Gil-galad said flatly. 

“Will you let me speak!” I cried “when we discuss my own life.” I turned to Glorfindel. “I never had foresight before I came here.” 

“Well of course it would have been there,” he says. “It is not something that just…appears. I could train you somewhat. I have a modicum of power of my own, nowhere near an Arafinweion but it might do at a pinch, clumsy though I would be. But we do not have time for that I fear. I concur. Going anywhere near Sauron is best avoided, Fingon son of Fingolfin and Gwindor of Nargothrond? We do not want to repeat that scenario with Elrond, great-grandchild of Turgon and Gildor son of Finrod do we? It is all too close for comfort.” He turned to Elrond. “Am I allowed to call you that or must I somehow reference Feanor instead?” He laughed softly at his own joke while Elrond spluttered a reply.

“That is fine.” 

“Ah, so Fëanor is the limit of the Fëanorion worship then?” He did not wait for a reply, instead he nodded at me, “you should stay away and be glad of it.” 

“Celeborn is there! I should go to him.” I protested.

“Celeborn agrees also.” Gil-galad responded. 

“So you have written to him about this? Again without my knowledge?” I struggled to my feet. “Oh very well then. I understand how truly useless I am to you all now. I shall leave you in peace to discuss your wars without me.” 

“Gildor, do not do this.” Gil-galad sighed behind me. 

I did not listen. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The letters sat before me on the desk. Two of them; that day’s, and the one left behind for me on my fathers desk when I was a child. I have hauled it out of its hiding place to compare the Gildor that curls across them both. It is the same. Inextricably the same. And when I turned them over the wax that sealed them was the same also. 

There was no doubt the letter was from the hand of my Father. 

The knock at the door made me jump. I knew who it would be without even opening it. Was he here to apologise or argue? 

Neither it seemed. 

“How are you?” he asked, striding in the moment I opened the door. Such an annoying habit.  

“How should I be?” 

“I ask only because you received that letter and I thought—” His eye caught the letters sitting on my desk and he strolled over to them. “What is this? Two? What is the other?” He lifted it up and I gasped despite myself. 

“It is old! Be gentle.” 

“Where did you get this?” 

“My father left it for me when I was a child.” I had to confess it to him. 

“But Gildor,” he exclaimed, “This is still sealed. Have you never read it?”

“What point is there? What could he say that would have helped . . . And now? So long has passed. I am not that child any longer. I do not wish to read the other either. I simply had them out to compare the two, to make sure—” 

He did not let me finish. 

“I do not believe you! Why do you do this? How can you not burn to open these? Both of them? What are you afraid of?” He is almost horrified. 

“I am afraid of nothing!” I cried. 

“Then open them.” 

“ I do not need to. I do not need to see inside them.” 

“You lie,”  He said. “This is insane. Do you have any idea what I would do for a letter from Fingon now? Your rejection of these is almost offensive to me, Gildor.” He had both letters in his hands and he held them out to me. “You will open one tonight, which will it be.”

I would not be dictated to. 

“No.” 

“Then I will. It is you, or I. The choice is yours.” 

“You would not dare.”

“Oh try me.” His voice was almost threatening. “I am sick of this, Gildor. It is not good for you.”

“Since when do you know what is good for me?” 

“I know that it is not this.” He reached for the oldest, moved to open it. I almost believed he intended to after all these years . . . 

“Very well!” I cried in panic, “Very well. Give me Glorfindel’s then.” 

Letter in my hand I tore it open hurriedly, before I could change my mind, before he could open the other. Another, smaller, fell out onto the floor and when I picked it up I saw the name upon it was not mine. The handwriting, not Finrods. Confused I scanned the words while Náro stood . . . And waited. 

“What does he say?” His voice was no longer commanding, no longer forceful. Instead it was filled with soft gentleness. 

It was nothing I had not expected.

“He got my letter.” The one I sent blindly across the sea when we heard he had returned. He had received it. “He thanks me for it. Speaks of how glad he was to hear I am here and well, tells me he loves me. There is not much else.” There was more, but I did not want to tell him. It was mine. It was private. My heart pounded in my chest so I could barely focus on the words. I needed to sit with it and think. And a part of me was resentful of the fact he had forced it on me at all.

Wordlessly I handed him the other, smaller note with his name, Artanáro, inscribed across it. 

“This is for you,” I told him, and he frowned in surprise. “From Finarfin. High King to High King, my father says.”

So he had got his letter after all. 

Chapter End Notes

Using the drafts rather than published works we are going with Finarfin’s mother name being Ingalaurë. Hence when Glorfindel refers to Gildor as Gildor Inglorion he is naming him as a grandson of the High King. 

Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo is the greeting used by Frodo when he meets Gildor in the Fellowship of the Ring. A star shines on the hour of our meeting.

Gildor

Third Age

I used to think I knew loss.

I lost my mother when I was young. I remember my fear. I remember the chaos that surrounded me, the worried faces hovering above me. I remember the void where she should be. I wanted none of their care or concern. I refused their bowls of soup and the sweet cakes they tried to feed me. I only wanted one thing. 

My Father. 

When he visited us he strode through the soft green of my world like a bright ray of the sun, dazzling all. Word would reach us he came and Mother would become all joy and light herself. She was happy while he was here. But her sadness when he left to return to his home broke my heart. Still I wished for the days when he would arrive and shower me with love. I basked in it. 

So when she was gone I found a corner to hide in, curled myself in a ball, and hoped for him. They came to sit with me, to try and talk to me, to cajole me, but I put my hands over my ears to block out their words of comfort and called for him as a mantra, over and over—Father, Father, Father. 

Of course he came.

I imagine they called for him, sent messengers to find him in his palace in the rock. I sat in the dark, where nothing felt safe, imagining the warmth of his light and suddenly he was there. He stood in the door and the room was alight. He took one, two, three long steps and he was before me, arms outstretched calling my name. I launched myself into those arms, I burrowed myself against his chest, for he was my shelter in a storm. He took the dark that haunted me and shone a light upon it until it shrivelled away to nothing in the dust. 

And then I lost him too. 

I used to think I knew what loss was for what could be worse than losing my mother and father both? 

I was wrong. 

I did not realise you could live in a world where all light was put out. I did not realise you could keep breathing, keep moving, keep talking and yet be empty, hollow, a nothingless absence of joy. 

They allowed me to join the Last Alliance. 

Though I had to sit discontentedly by in Lindon watching the Sack of Eregion from afar, even when Gil-galad himself marched out to war, as Celebrimbor fell, and the Men, those infuriating Men came to save us, for the Last Alliance they allowed me to play my part. Not that my part was impressive in any way. 

The intervening years Glorfindel had used to attempt to train me, though I lost count of how often he sighed and walked away, muttering to himself about chaotic Laegrin minds. He spoke of signs that a thought, a feeling, may be more than it appeared. He showed me how to rein it in, exert self control of a kind. He did, in his own words, a middling job of it. They would have sent me to Galadriel to polish my rough edges but she had been taken with melancholy and removed herself to the sea. I tried not to think on that. 

In the end it was Círdan who overruled a truculent Gil-galad after hours of debate and said I should be trusted, that it would be right to allow me representation for Finrod in the Last Alliance. 

So when they marched to Imladris I went with them, and finally . . . To Mordor. 

It was not a quick battle. 

I was dogged by feelings of worry, a sense of dread haunted my waking hours. Glorfindel, when I told him, said yes, it was likely foresight . . . But who for? Perhaps for all of us? This was a war, he said. People die. It is what it is. 

Now I am haunted by my own words instead. 

The warnings jangling in my head almost deafened me that evening in Gil-Galad’s tent. A schism had formed between he and I. He had made a new friend and that friend was Elendil; Elendil who sailed out of the west and was welcomed with open arms. They bonded in Linden over a shared desire to bring Sauron to his knees. I wished for that also, but for Gil-galad, after the death of Celebrimbor, it became an obsession. It consumed him. 

They talked of war, of grand alliances between elves and Men, they plotted together and it all disquieted me. 

“Alliances did not go that well for Maedhros in the past,” I told him. “Must you copy him? Can you not learn from that?” 

“There is no other way we will win this unless we are united. What happened to Maedhros will not happen to me.” 

“And what happened to Fingon?”

He did not answer that. 

There was space between Náro and I, and Elendil walked into that space and filled it. 

So I sat in his tent and listened as they all earnestly discussed tactics. I pearched myself quietly in the corner while Gil-Galad, Elendil, Elrond and Isildur plotted their next move and tried to ignore the growing loudness of my warnings. I tried to do what Glorfindel said, breathe deeply and search for something concrete to hold on to rather just drowning in dread. 

It did not work. It especially did not work when I heard what they were planning. I had to say something. He could not be serious. 

“Have you lost your mind?” 

All four of them turned to face me. 

“We need to force him out and end this.” Gil-galad shot back. 

“Have you forgotten you are a King?” I snapped. “What about your people? You are the last person who should go. Send me instead if you must. Do you think the Noldor can afford to lose you?” 

“I will not be sending the son of Finrod to stand before Sauron!” 

“Oh but the son of Fingon the Valiant is somehow appropriate?” I could not  believe him. I could not believe Elrond also who encouraged it. “Is it you who has a death wish now? Do you want to die in flames as your father?” 

He switched to Quenya then. I do not know why, perhaps he did not wish Elendil to hear us tear each other apart and assumed he would find it harder to follow? 

“Do not speak of my father here!” 

“Why? I answered, “Because you do not want to look in the eye the parallels. Fingolfin, Fingon, now Ereinion Gil-galad. Do you all have to fulfil the same fate?” For I had found my concrete warning. Suddenly I knew with surety he would die. “Would you leave us leaderless? Is that what you want?” 

“Do not talk nonsense.” He retorted. “Elrond is here, or you . . . But we all know that will not be happening, Gildor, don’t we? Do not lecture me about my responsibilities until you can actually face up to yours!” 

Oh that stung. It was as if he had actually slapped me about the face. So that was how he saw me? I was completely unmanned . . . And when I caught my breath, so very angry. 

“So nice to know that is how you see me cousin,” I spat at him. “as a coward. Rather a coward than a fool, for that is what you are. A fool determined on death, who abandons his people . . . Who abandons his friends. What was all the guilt you loaded upon me for, when I misunderstood my visions of Annatar, if when I stand here now,  you ignore my warning!”  

“This is bigger than me. It is not my fault if you do not understand that.”

“So I am stupid as well as cowardly now?” The dread, the chilling dead at what lay ahead of us washed over me and completely loosed my tongue. “I will leave you here then with the Men you are so fond of to throw your life away and learn nothing from those who have gone before us! What kind of King puts his personal need for vengeance ahead of his people’s safety?” 

“What kind of King walks out on a fools errand  abandoning  of those in his care to destruction?” He replied, “Perhaps you do not know what it takes to be a King since Finderáto obviously did not either?” 

It was completely out of character, that insult. Never before had he said a word to me about the fall of Nargothrond or the part my fathers decisions played in that. Never before had he spoken of Finrod in anything but glowing terms. Even for Elrond he tempered his words about Maedhros and Maglor. I do not know what made him say that. I do not know what drove him to it, but then, in that moment, it was the last straw. 

“I am not allowed to speak Fingon’s name but you can tear my father to shreds? I am done with this. I am done with you!”

“”Gildor, no.” Elrond put a warning hand upon my arm, his eyes serious, but I was not having it. 

“What is this about, Elrond?” I hissed as I pushed past, “Why do you encourage this? Do you see an opportunity to step into his place and take it?” 

It was both cruel and unfair.  

Gil-galad and I had argued before. Always he was the peacemaker. He would come and find me, he would determinedly send messengers, write letters, show up unannounced where he knew I would be. That was how it was. I burned a fire and walked away, he repaired the damage and hauled me back. 

Not this time. 

After a night of walking, of thinking and of raging, when the faintest hints of sunrise appeared in the sky and I had seen or heard nothing I realised, this time, I was going to have to be the one to back down and lose face. In the cold light of day I understood my angry words only served to lose me something vital. It dawned on me time was not on my side. I was at his tent before daylight. 

“The King has gone,” the guard told me. 

They had gone without me. 

They had gone without me and he had not even sought me out for a farewell. 

I was far too late, too far behind them, though I rode like a wild thing in their steps I could not catch them. All of the time thinking of my foolishness and stupidity. All the time regretting my words. Why did I do that? Why? When I could ride no longer, I ran. There came a time I could see them, see Sauron . . . He looked nothing like Annatar then, towering above them in the distance, but even then I could not gain ground fast enough. I was tired. I had been chasing for hours, and the enemy insisted on appearing to harass me and slow me down. 

I saw Sauron fall. I was nearly there. The earth shook me to my knees. 

And for a beautiful moment, one pure, pristine, second of happiness I thought they had proved me wrong and won. But when I looked again there was no movement, no celebration. . . . Nothing.

When I scrambled across rocks to emerge beside them, all was still. I saw nothing as I bent over to catch my breath, lungs burning from my chase, except Elrond, looking up at me from where he knelt. Eyes wide, he reminded me of the young boy he had once been when I first met him, not the leader he had become. He was afraid . . . Distraught . . . Alone. 

“I am so sorry, Gildor,” was all he said. 

Sorry for what? Sauron was defeated. They had achieved the victory I had scoffed at. Why was he sorry? 

But then I looked further, beyond his eyes. 

Artanáro’s head lay upon his lap. His helmet was gone and his face . . . Untouched . . . So beautiful. He lay as if he gazed up at the clouds on a summers day, as if he imagined pictures in the sky, but the eyes that looked upwards saw no clouds. As I dropped beside Elrond there was no light within them, no spark of joy, no casual good humour . . . No Náro. 

And there on my knees amongst the rocks I realised . . . 

Artánaro was gone. 

And I had not said goodbye.

Chapter End Notes

Gil-galad is described as being “burnt by Sauron’s hand”  In this version his helmet saves his face. 
Also some apparent inaccuracies re the timeline of the Last Alliance are attributable to Gildor's memories of this traumatic time being not 100% reliable. He is an unreliable narrator in this chapter. 

Gildor 

Third Age 

“You will return with us to Imladris?”

Elrond looks tired. He looks as tired as I feel, and we dance around each other like polite strangers. 

“No.” 

He frowns at my flat refusal. 

“Gildor, you are welcome there.” 

“But I do not wish to be there.” 

“Lindon then? With Círdan?” 

“No.” 

And he sighs heavily. “Must you be so contrary?” 

But I do not wish to be anywhere Gil-galad once was. I do not want to turn a corner and see a place he strode, remember something he said.  Those places, Imladris and Lindon, hold far too many memories. 

“Will you sail?” He tries again. 

“No!” To tell the truth I am tempted. It has been nearly all I can think of. . .  Escape, from this misery. “I shall go to Belfalas.” I tell him, “I shall go to Galadriel.” Belfalas is perfect. It is not far from where we are. The idea of my Aunt is suddenly supremely comforting. It has the sea, and there is no hint of Gil-galad anywhere. 

“Gildor,” Elrond says as I turn to leave, “when things have settled, come back to Imladris. I will miss you.” 

“You will have Glorfindel,” I shrug. The truth is I will miss him too. But Elrond comes hand in hand with a multitude of memories of Náro, of the three of us. I cannot bear to think on it, let alone live with it. Maybe I will never go back. 

“I am sorry,” he says then, “that we went without you. He was only trying to protect you. He wanted to keep you clear of Sauron at all costs.” 

“Because I am so hopeless.”  That hurts. Amongst all the other pile of hurt that really stings. 

But Elrond frowns.

“Because he loved you. You must know that.” 

His words hang in the empty space between the two of us. 

“He loved all of us.” 

“You know that is not what I mean.” Elrond sighs, “you must. We all do . . Have done, for years.” 

He is wrong. He must be wrong. 

“You do know this, Gildor? If Sauron had seen Gil-galad’s heart he would have used you as a weapon against him. Gil knew that. It was why he wished to keep you away from him at all cost.” 

He told me he wished to see if we could build something new all those years ago, but that was not love. That evening he dragged me from the sea? Something . . . but not love the way Elrond says it. All I can do is shake my head. 

“Forgive me,” Elrond holds his hands up then, at my silent denial, “ I did not want to upset you. I just wanted you to know it was not for anything lacking that he left you behind. Rather the opposite.”

It feels too much. It is as if the weight of the knowledge of this something that cannot even be, is pressing me into the ground. 

And all I can think of are those bitter words of mine, calling him a fool. The last thing I ever said to him, telling him I was done. 

“I have to go,” I say, for I cannot stand there another moment and look at him who knows the words I spoke, “I am sorry, Elrond, I have to go.” 

“Write to me,” he says as I turn to leave. “At least promise me that.” 

Perhaps I will. Writing is easier than speaking. 

The Noldor camp feels oppressive. Anywhere I attempt to go I can feel all eyes upon me, drilling into me, wondering about me. I have one night left, can get no rest here and so I leave. I drift across towards the small silvan enclave, hugging the edge of the trees where they pack for their return home, on the outer, never mixing with the Noldor. There are so few of them left. 

Here too I am watched. I may look Laiquendi but I dress as a Noldor. Is there nowhere I can go where I will not be stared at? I fit into neither place. 

Heading for the river that runs along the edge of their encampment I wonder if the song of its water will bring me peace, whatever peace there is left for me? For all that it in no way resembles the sparkling clear waters of my childhood. 

Someone has beaten me to it. 

I know him. 

He used to live in Lindon near me, a refugee from Doriath, family to my uncle, Celeborn. It has been years since I have spoken to him, though I have seen him in discussion with Gil-Galad here, they were not meetings I was ever invited to. 

He will likely not welcome my presence. I know he, and his father, had no love of Galadriel and he will remember I travelled with her. 

“Yes?” He does not even turn to see who it is disturbing his peace as I hover in indecision by the trees. 

“Forgive me my intrusion,” I tell him, “I came seeking solace, not knowing anyone was here. I will be on my way.” 

And he turns, to look at me through narrowed eyes. 

“Gildor? Long has it been since we last met.” 

“Thranduil.” I bow my head. He is a silvan king now after all. No longer the random young Doriath Sindar I knew him as. 

“What brings you here?” he asks. “Do you tire of being a Noldor?” 

“I tire of life. There is no peace for me with the Noldor. I sought something familiar.” 

“Sit.” He nodded towards the bank next to him. “Here is as close to peace as we will get in this forsaken place.” I begin to protest I have no wish to disturb him but he does not listen. “Sit!” 

When did he become so commanding? 

“I am sorry for your loss,” he says, and he confuses me. He must see it in my face. “Gil-Galad,” he clarifies. “I heard something lay between the two of you.” 

He heard? From who? Is there nowhere I can go where people will not accost me with these imaginings? 

“There was nothing between us but friendship!” My tone is more cutting than I wished, but this hurts, these suppositions of nothing. 

He raises an eyebrow as if he does not believe me.

“That is still a loss,” he says in the end, “and I am still sorry for it. I am not my father. I could see Gil-galad led us well, and the loss of his friendship would cut deep.” 

His father broke ranks and got their army slaughtered, but I will not dwell on that in his presence. 

“It does,” is all I say. “It does cut deep.” 

We sit then, the both us, staring into the river, until the silence begins to press down upon me as a weight, a heavy burden imploring me to speak. But I have nothing to say. 

He breaks it for me in the end. 

“Will you be travelling to Imladris then, with Elrond?” He says Elronds name with a tinge of distaste. There is no love lost there, obviously. So distracted I am by that I forget about his antipathy towards my aunt. 

“I go to Belfalas, and Galadriel.” 

He sneers. He cannot cover it quickly enough. I see it. 

“Well you did travel with her to Lindon, I suppose,” he says as if I am somehow lacking because of that. I should defend her against this obvious disdain but I find I simply do not have the energy. 

Instead I change the subject away from me. 

“And you?” A pointless question for it is somewhat obvious what he will do. 

He sighs heavily. 

“I sit here attempting to manufacture the strength to go home.” 

“We all wish to go home.” 

“You do not,” he says bluntly. “Wherever you may call home it certainly is not Belfalas. I have to lead my people back to their forest, and so many of them are missing. So many lost due to my fathers rash decisions. I must return to their families and face that. At times it feels unfair. I have a wife there waiting. She is silvan and now finds herself a queen. She never wished for that and she will hate it. I have a boy, nearly grown. No longer will he be free to do what he wishes. Now he will have duty thrust upon him. I did not want this for either of them.” 

“It is not your forest. You could take them and leave, to a place they had no duties. Back to Lindon?” 

“It is my forest. And I owe something,  my family owes something, to these people . . . My wife’s people . . . My sons people. I cannot just abandon them when all becomes too hard! I will ask them, certainly, what they wish. Do they still want my leadership? I have led them here because we had no option but when we return I will ask. But I fear they will say yes.”

“They have their own leaders surely?”  

“Their own leaders have no status with the Noldor. Their own leaders do not understand this world of Kings and Stewards,  nor do they give it any merit. They do not have the language or knowledge of the Noldor to argue for the Wood with the likes of Elrond and Galadriel as they will have to. But neither are they fools. They know all this. They know they need someone to bridge the gap. And that someone will be me.” 

“That someone does not have to be you.” 

“It does. If they ask me, and they will, then it does. So I will go home, I will face the distress of my family and the sorrow of my people, then I will pay Orophers debt and do whatever I can to protect them, for as long as they ask it of me.” 

I am in awe of his determination, despite his unease, to do this.

“I cannot help but admire you.” I tell him.

“Admire me for what? What doing what is right? For fulfilling my obligations. There is nothing admirable about that.” 

“Some of us are not so good at finding the strength to uphold our responsibilities.” 

Gil-galad’s words circle within my mind. Do not lecture me about my responsibilities until you can actually face up to yours!”  He thought me weak, lacking in character, and he was right. They cut like a knife, those words. They burn like a brand. 

But Thranduil laughs and it is a bitter one.

“What responsibilities do you have to uphold?” 

I do not know why I tell him. There is no reason to. But suddenly there is also no reason not to, and I am tired, so tired, of keeping someone else’s pointless secrets. 

“Finrod Felagund is my father.” 

The look he gives me is a sharp one. 

“Do you mock me? Do you think me completely uneducated?” 

“I do not mock you. My mother was Laiquendi. When she died he came and took me to Nargothrond. When he died I went with Galadriel. Gildor Inglorion is who I am.” I use the name Glorfindel gave me. Somehow it seems to fit where others have not. 

Thranduil leans forward then and fixes me with a stare. It is as if he strips away my defences and looks right into the heart of me.

“I met Finrod once,” he says eventually as he finally sits back and breaks his gaze. “in Doriath. I was very small but I have not forgotten it. How can you forget meeting someone so glorious? I do see a resemblance, now that I know to look for it. A strong one.” 

“So says everyone that knows. I do not see it myself.” 

“And who knows this?” he asks, “for we have heard nothing. Even in Lindon I heard nothing.” 

“Círdan, Elrond, my aunt and uncle obviously, Glorfindel . . . Gil-Galad . . . “ 

Even saying his name is painful. 

“Then why are you telling me?” 

“Because,” I tell him, “there seems no reason not to. All in Nargothrond knew my heritage—there were some not very happy with it, but outside . . . The instant I left with Galadriel, no-one knew. I do not know why it was a secret but it was. And she continued that. She never announced my background. My father wished it to be like that. Your guess is as good as mine as to why. But now . . . What is the point.” 

“What is the point of any of it?” he agrees. “Well, I shall keep your secret. None shall discover the truth of Gildor Inglorion from Thranduil.”

“So you see, I have responsibilities. I have just avoided them.” 

“It is hardly the same,” he frowns.”How old were you when you left Nargothrond? Still a child? How many of Finrod’s people are there left for you to be responsible for?” 

“Not many. A handful. They are mostly in Lorien, but some are with Elrond, in Imladris.” 

“So safe, then. They have no need of you.” 

“I have not asked them if they have need of me!” 

“Go to Imladris, then, and do that,” he says, as if it is the most natural, easy thing to do. “The others are Galadriel’s responsibility. She is also a child of Finarfin, older than you, more powerful. It is right she has their care.” 

“I cannot go there!”  He raises an eyebrow at the vehemence of my response, but does not argue.

“Well I do not blame you for that,” he says in the end. “I have no wish to go there either.” 

“So you see why I admire your strength. Something I have always been lacking,” I sigh. “My father was a warrior, a King, erudite, charming . . . Glorious, as you said and I . . . I am none of those things. I cannot even bring myself to lead what is left of his people.” 

“They do not need leading. And if my Silvans did not wish for my leadership I would not lead them either. However if your father’s people came to you, and asked it of you, then would you turn away? I think not.” 

And I think he does not know me well.

He does not know me well at all. 

Chapter End Notes

The son Thranduil mentions here is not Legolas. My Legolas was born after the Last Alliance. 

Belfalas

My Aunt watches me. 

Everywhere I go her eyes are on me. She lectures, she cajoles, occasionally she attempts to order me. None of it works. 

I have discovered it is possible to exist within nothingness, to drift, day to day, putting one foot after the other, eating, drinking, talking as if you are alive and yet not be alive at all. I am a ghost. 

Galadriel does not wish me to remain as one. She pokes, she prods, she pressurises, but all to no avail. 

She bans me from the boats and I am furious. 

“I came here to the sea because it helps me!” I cry, but she is unmoved. 

“It can help you from the shore.” 

“I am not a child you can restrain. You have no right to do this.” 

“If you cease behaving as a child, Gildor,” she sighs, “Then I will cease treating you as one. If you wish to sail we will take you to Círdan and he will arrange it . . . Properly. No one will hold it against you. It would be understandable. But I will not have you taking a fishing boat, sensing a whiff of Valinor on the breeze and disappearing forever. There are too many people I must answer to for your care to allow that, least of all, myself.” 

Secretly I am relieved. I do wish to ride upon the waves. I wish it with every single part of me, but my memories of sailing are a tangle of Gil-galad and our weekly fishing in Lindon. I have been to the boats and the thought of setting foot on one terrifies me. But I will not tell her that. I will show her my fury instead, and I have plenty of it for I am angry at the world. 

“Instead of raging,” she says. “You could try talking.” 

Galadriel, of course, has no need to talk. She can reach inside my mind and help herself. I have seen her do it to others. She often has no qualms. But if she has done this to me—ever—I have not felt it. She is either surreptitious or she restrains herself. At the moment I would rather she walk across my mind and discover it’s secrets herself than drag them out of me with conversation and I tell her so. 

“Help yourself!” I say. “I know you can. You have my permission. Take whatever it is you want to know, just do not make me speak on it.” 

“Then that would not be helpful.” Her calmness infuriates me. 

“I do not know what it is you want to know!” 

“Why are you so angry, Gildor?” she asks gently as if we simply discuss the weather. 

“Because you will not leave me alone.” 

She ignores me.

“Could it be that you have lost yet another you care for and it seems unfair, because it is unfair.” 

“Do not start that.” She hits a nerve. “Not you, as well as Elrond, and Thranduil of all people. Do not make Gil-galad and I out to be something we were not. I am sick of hearing it.” 

“What were you then? For I said only that you cared for him and your reaction seems somewhat . . . Overstated.” 

She is right. I have overreacted to a simple statement. Why is she always right?

“We were nothing.” I tell her. “At the last we argued and parted with harsh words lying between us. He thought me foolish and a coward. It just took him all those years to confess it to me.” 

Still she does not take the bait. 

“I know exactly how Ereinion saw you for he has spoken to me of you often. Neither of those words describe it.” 

I know my Aunt, almost as well as I know anybody. I know her weak points better than anyone save Celeborn. I want to end this conversation and I want to hurt, and so I do. I pick her vulnerablity and I attack. 

“Do you know what he thought of Finrod?” I ask. “I am sure he has not told you that, but he did me, the night before he died. Finrod was no king at all, he said. Finrod abandoned his people to destruction for his own foolish ends. Finrod did not know how to be a King.” 

I land my blow. I see the hurt flit across her face. If you want to attack Galadriel, use Finrod. I remember that glimpse of her grief I saw all those years ago in Lindon. The instant the words are out of my mouth, the moment I see that flash of hurt,  I regret them. Why did I do that? 

But still she does not react. I have failed.

“So,” she says, “he wished to make you angry. Why was that?” 

“What do you mean?” 

And despite myself I find I am speaking about the one thing I did not wish to. 

“Does that strike you as being in character?” she asks. “To criticise your father like that when he knew his own was not without fault. Have you not asked yourself why he did that?”

I have. I have asked myself over and over why. 

“Because he believed it.” 

“Or . . . Because he wished to separate the two of you. He wished to push you away. What better way to do it?” 

Realisation washes over me and it is ice cold. 

“He argued with me on purpose.” 

I am not sure if that makes it better or worse but I know she is right. He did not want me to go with them. He knew, he knew, I would walk away and if he did not chase after me I would be too late coming back. 

“He is not wrong,” she says quietly, “Finrod made errors. But Ereinion is not the kind of man to throw those errors in your face .. . Unless he felt he had to.” 

I feel manipulated and it is awful. 

“This is not helping,” I tell her. “I feel worse, not better.” 

“You need to look this in the eye, Gildor. You need to ask yourself why he did that. You need to ask why Elrond, and Thranduil, who barely knows you, say the things they do. The answers may not be the ones you want to hear.” 

But I do not want to. 

There is one thing in Belfalas that brings me joy. One thing that cuts through the grey that surrounds me to light the sky. 

She is Celebrian. 

It is impossible to spend time with my small cousin and not feel joyful.  She is light itself. 

I barely knew her when I arrived. Time and distance have separated us since she was born, yet I adored her from the first moment. I want to protect her always for she is so precious, so lovely. I would like to cup her light in my hands and keep her safe like a firefly behind glass. I will be her champion and her defender. I wish I had known her when she was small, for now? She is all grown up and ready for the outside world. 

At least she thinks so. 

When Galadriel and Celebrimbor decide it is time to return to Imladris and I resolutely refuse, it is Celebrian they send to fight that battle for them. 

She seeks me out, finds me and sits next to me, sweet, soft and kind. 

“Gildor, Mother says you will not come to Imladris with us.” Those beautiful eyes are sad. 

“No. Imladris is not somewhere I can go right now.” 

“But I have only just discovered you.” She rests her head upon my shoulder. “Would you abandon me so soon? I have no brother or sister. It has been good to have a cousin.” 

“I would go if I could, Celebrían. I do not abandon you. I will still be here.” 

“Here alone though?” Her forehead creases in a frown. “That will not do. I will worry.” 

She makes me laugh. In the midst of all this pain she alone can make me laugh. 

“You do not need to worry about me.” 

“Will you not come. Is there truly nothing I can do to change your mind?” 

I still cannot bear it, the thought of going back there. But she is not good at taking no for an answer. People wonder at how different she is from Galadriel but they do not know her. She is strong and she is stubborn. 

“Elrond wants to see you,” she says next. “ He is hoping we will bring you.” 

“Well Elrond—” suddenly I turn to look at her. “How do you know what Elrond wants?” 

“From his letters.” But she ducks her head so I cannot see her eyes. 

“Elrond writes to you?” 

She lifts her head again and looks me in the eye as if laying down a challenge when she answers.

“Does he not write to you?” 

“Well yes, of course, but we have been friends for centuries, whereas you . . . ” 

“We are friends also.” 

“Friends?”

“Yes friends.” But she blushes and I know . . . There is more to this. Why has Elrond not told me? 

I take a gamble.

“Celebrian,” I tell her, “you are as transparent as a piece of glass. I can see right through you.” 

And her blush deepens. 

“What?” She cries dismissing me with a wave of her hand. “I do not know what you mean. You are most odd today, Gildor.” 

“So I am odd and you are coy and so obviously in love. This is no secret if you blush as rosy as a winter apple.” 

And she gives up. Her resistance, that which it was, collapses. 

“Do not tell my parents!” she says.

“So they do not know? Do they know he writes to you?” 

Wordlessly she shakes her head.

“The messenger brings me my letters first.” 

“Such duplicity,” I smile. “And why? Does Elrond not feel the same? Is this not reciprocated? What objections could they have?” 

“Nothing was certain when we left. It was just . . . A small thing. A possibility. Then he went to war and I was terrified. His letters . . . Things have changed between us . . . It has grown into something I should tell them, but I do not know where to begin.” 

“Well you will have to tell them before you get to Imladris if your acting skills are this poor or it will be completely obvious!”

“Oh tell me you will come with us Gildor!” She clasps my hands between hers and implores me. “I need your help.” 

“You mean you need me there to distract your mother so she is more worried about my welfare than your love life!” 

She smiles her bright sun filled smile and she does not deny it. 

Still, I want to keep her safe. And while I know Elrond is honourable I want to know how he feels for myself. He has said nothing to me. It is obvious I will not find that out sitting alone in Belfalas. I remember Thranduil’s words . . . That I would not turn away if someone actually asked for my help. 

I write Elrond a letter that evening, sending the messenger off at the crack of dawn so it is bound to reach him before we do.

I know all, it says, and I will expect your detailed  explanation as to why you have not told me if you wish for help with Galadriel. I know deep down he is terrified of her. 

And then I grit my teeth, search for strength, and prepare to travel. 

Imladris is a sea of pain. 

We paused here for a long time on our way to battle and Náro is everywhere. Even though we were tense and not at our best while we were here, because the hated Elendil came between us, he haunts each and every corner for me. By the time we arrive in the main square and Elrond strides out to greet us I am a tangled mess of nerves. How will I ever survive here?

Still it is lucky for Celebrían and Elrond I am here for the both of them wear bright and dazzling smiles, Elrond’s so unlike him, and their foolishness would be spotted a mile off except for the fact my Aunt watches me like a hawk, her eyes burning into the back of my neck, so perhaps they slide past her usual astute watchfulness. 

“Try not to look so utterly joyful,” I whisper to Celebrían beside me and she flashes me the most unimpressed of scowls. “Yes , that is better,” I grin despite myself and she rolls her eyes, but still perhaps her smile is the slightest bit less intense when it reappears. 

Elrond dances around me like a frightened deer. If I was not so strained by the attack of memories I would laugh. 

“I am so pleased you are here,” he says as he greets us. 

“Oh I am certain you are.” I slide my eyes across to my aunt who looks, at the moment, at her most intense and imposing. 

“No,” he stumbles under her gaze. To my eyes he looks so guilty. “I mean, to return here. I know it is difficult for you. It will be healing, Gildor, I promise.”

That stifles my burgeoning amusement. 

“I do not need healing, Elrond! I need leaving alone.” And he sighs. 

“Well I have missed your friendship in any case, healing or no healing, and I am pleased to see you because of that.” I get sick of those sighs, from him, Galadriel, Celeborn, heartfelt sighs when they deem I am obstructive and not submitting myself to the care they attempt to lavish me with. The only one who never sighs in frustration when she sees me is Celebrían.

Dinner is a nightmare. 

I sit, ensuring Celebrían is as far away from Elrond as I can possibly get her for they fall over themselves to be discovered. 

“You really must speak to Celeborn and Galadriel tonight,” I hiss at her. “The pair of you are lovesick fools and they will spot it a mile away. It will not go well for you then. They will be hurt.” 

She knows I am right. 

“Elrond is terrified by my mother,” she says, eyes downcast. 

“Well I know that. He will have to get over it. He has led men into battle and Galadriel is just one elf, after all.” 

At least I make her laugh.

“Galadriel? Just one elf? What a fool you are Gildor!”

“Yes, she is, and she is no more fearsome than you can be when you wish it. How is he ever going to cope with you? He must pull himself together.” 

“I am not my mother,” she sighs heavily. 

“You know that is not true.” We have spoken about this before, she and I. “We both suffer from appearing somewhat ordinary to others in the face of our most glorious parents but I know the real Celebrían remember!  She is strong and determined and can light up the world with her smile. She is light itself, and Elrond had better not be relying on any of those mad Fëanorion lessons he may have been taught to control her!” 

It always feels good when I make her smile. 

During dinner I am accosted by memory everywhere I look. Evenings spent with Gil-galad in this hall, at this table, laughing, making all at ease as he did . . . A King. He would sit where Elrond is now and the attention of all would be on him. He commanded a room simply by  being in it. If I close my eyes I can almost imagine when I open them I will find him there, and he will catch my eye across the table and smile. 

Elrond talks to Celeborn. They are in deep discussion and he taps his fingers on the table to underline some point or other. And on one of those fingers is Vilya. It sparkles blue in the lamplight. 

Gil-galad wore that ring. 

I was angry with him when he gave it away. 

“You need that!” 

“Elrond needs it more,” he said. “We have Círdan’s here in Lindon.” 

But what would have happened had he been wearing it when he faced Sauron? Would it have made a difference? 

Seeing it, in that place, where he sat, where I can almost feel him, is too much. 

All heads turn towards me as I push back my chair and stand. 

“Is something wrong?” Elrond asks and I am suddenly drowning beneath a wave that threatens to choke me. Of course something is wrong. Náro is not here and will never be here. Never . . . It stretches out interminably. 

“I need some air.” I say, and I do not even know how I get the words out. I will not collapse and crumple here. “A walk under the stars. I will see you later.”

“Stay,” Elrond replies. “You have hardly eaten.” I do not wish to argue with him and it is Celeborn who comes to my aid, placing a restraining hand on Elrond’s arm with a shake of the head. Always he has been there,  Celeborn, quietly fighting on my side when I have needed it, since I was a boy.

I do what I have told them I will do. I get out of there. Out into the crisp night air where I can breathe, taking deep gulps of it as if it will wash it all away. It does not. 

Even the stars do not help me. It is too raw, too near, too soon. There is a weight in the pit of my stomach that will not ease, a heavy lump of loss. I find a tree, I sit beneath it, I bury my head in my knees so I cannot see the stars that fail me, and I weep. 

It is first time I have done this but it only reminds me of Náro. Of the day he discovered me, a mess, in the midst of my own destruction, when I had fled from Annatar, who killed him in the end. He will not be coming to find me today. 

Someone does though. 

“May I join you?” I do not know why he bothers to ask. He throws himself down on the ground beside me anyway, even as he says it. 

So I do not answer him. 

“Memory is a painful thing,” he says. “What was it that did you in?” 

I lift my head then to stare at him. 

“Why would I tell you that?” 

“Because I asked. Because it would be helpful for you if you spoke of it.” 

I consider simply getting up and walking away, leaving him sitting there, but somehow I am not brave enough for that. You do not give the cold shoulder to Glorfindel. In the end I feel I have no choice but to tell him. 

“The ring.”

“Ah, Vilya. Sitting upon Elrond’s finger. Yes I see how that would be painful. Still it was a wise move from Ereinion to give it to him.” 

“Was it though?” I ask him what I have just been thinking. “It may have saved him on the battlefield.” 

“Tell me about that,” he says, “the battle.”  He really is quite frustrating. Powerful, confident, logical, it is quite impossible to deny him. 

“You were there. I have no need to tell you.” 

“But I was not there where it counted.” 

“Well neither was I!” I cry. 

“Ah, yes. Elrond told me.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “I am most unhappy with Ereinion about that.”

“What?” That response was not what I expected. “Not happy with him, why?” 

“Because he treated you badly.” He replies, as if it was obvious. “The ends do not justify the means. He gave no thought to the burden you have been left with. Believe me, Gildor, I will be having words with him about this when we meet again in Valinor.” 

He leaves me almost speechless. 

“You will have words with him on my behalf?” I am not sure I want that. 

“However right he may have been to keep you well away from Sauron—for several reasons, engineering an argument was not the way to go about it.”

“So you believe he did that?”

“Do you not?” he snaps right back at me. 

“I am not sure. Galadriel thinks so. But I started it, Glorfindel. I was so worn down with foresight. I had to warn him and he refused to listen.” 

“You may have started it, but he continued it and he finished it—”

“No I finished it,” I cut in. Those words . . . I am done  . . . Will echo around my mind for the rest of my life. 

“He finished it, with words of Finrod he knew would rile you. And then you left, as he intended. It was cruel and I shall tell him so.”

He is a rather intimidating person to have as a champion. 

“Do not get me wrong, Gildor. I think very highly of Ereinion, as a leader and as a man. He has seldom put a foot wrong. But in this he has erred . . . Badly.” 

I stare at my hands, avoiding his eyes for I really, really, do not want this to be true, but he is so certain, as my aunt was certain. 

“I feel manipulated.” It is a whisper for I am almost ashamed to say it. 

“You were manipulated. Gildor—” he hesitates. Pinning me with the longest of looks as if he tosses something about in his mind, “I feel you should know this, if you do not already. I feel it may help you, but I break a confidence and that sits badly with me. However . . . Ereinion has some wrongs to right and this may go partway to helping. He has spoken to me about you.” 

“What?” I do not want to hear this but he gives me no option. 

“No matter what he said to you, no matter what insults he hurled at you at the last, he believed none of it and you should hold on to that. He loved you, deeply, and that was why he argued so hard with Círdan that you should not even be there with us. We discussed it at length, he and I.” 

“Why did he discuss anything about me with you!” 

“Because even a King needs a confidante and he did not feel you would be open to speaking on it.” 

“I . . .” I do not know what to say. I do not even know where to start with this. 

“You need to look this in the eye, Gildor,” he says firmly. “I know others have told you this.” 

“Is all you people do here indulge in gossip about me?” 

“That is enough!” It is a tone not to be disobeyed and I flinch. For a moment in time we are caught in each other’s stare, but he is resolute and unblinking and I will never match him. 

I look away. 

“Child,” he says gently then, and it is a long time since anyone has called me thus, “I know this is not what you wish to hear and I know you are hurting and Ereinion is partly to blame for that, but he is gone, and he will pass through Mandos’ halls and come out the other side healed and new. Believe me, I know. You, on the other hand have the harder struggle, and you will have to find your own healing. So when you find him again you are more prepared. It will be a disaster otherwise. You have time now . . . Possibly a long time, to think on what myself and others have told you and decide what it is you wish to do with that knowledge.” 

“I do not want to know it at all” I wish he had not told me this. 

“And that,” he says, “is part of the problem. Perhaps I should send you to Finrod instead.” 

Send me? He cannot do that surely.

“You can try to send me but I will not go.”

“Because that is another reunion you run from I think.” 

I am sick of him being right, but even I know he is in this. I yearn for my father and yet the idea of meeting him ties me in knots when I think on it. 

“What is it you are afraid of?” He asks me. “He waits for you there, desperate to see you. Ereinion is no longer holding you here.” 

“Gil-galad never held me here!” Finally something he is wrong about. I will forget about that day Náro hauled me from the sea crying abandonment for those were his issues, not mine. “I stay for my Aunt who helped raise me and I stay for myself! This is my home. He has no right to expect me to leave it on his behalf.” 

“And he does not expect it. But still, he waits, somewhat impatiently at times.”

“I do not know what it is he waits for,” I mutter. “Likely we will not know each other anyway.” 

“Is that what you fear?” He frowns. “Boy, he is still Finrod. He is still the same, though the Valar may not think so. They simply did not look carefully enough before.” 

“But am I still Gildor? The one he waits for?” 

“Oh yes, you are that! I say it without hesitation for he has described you to me in exact and accurate detail. I have uncovered nothing he has wrong yet. He knows your heart, Gildor and though you are older and wiser and more disillusioned perhaps,  that is still the same.”

He rises to his feet then, suddenly, unexpectedly, reaching down towards me with his hand to pull me up also. 

“Enough of this. I have given you enough to think on for one night. Come, Elrond has need of you I think, for he has been enchanted by this cousin of yours and the thought of discussing it with Galadriel quite undoes him.”

“You know?” I say in surprise as I take his hand. Of course he does. It seems he knows everything. 

“Elrond thinks he hides it from me but the boy is so transparent it makes me laugh. I have heard you can wind Artanis around your little finger. Or is your father wrong in that?” 

He said that? I am taken aback.

“He is not wrong.” 

“Good. Come work your magic, child of Finderáto, or at least teach Elrond some tactics.” 

That is not going to be easy.

Elrond has turned Imladris into a sanctuary. The Last Homely House, they call it. He says he wishes it to be a refuge. A place of safety, calm and quiet. He has done a phenomenal job . . .   But it is never really a refuge for me. I go there often, because Celebrían is there, whom I care for, and Elrond himself—my friend—though things between he and I are never quite the same as in Tirion. 

I am restless. I can settle nowhere despite everyone’s pleading. From Lothlorien to Imladris to Círdan at the Havens I wander, moving on when it becomes too difficult to stay. I have tried . . . I really have tried to find a base, a home, but none are the same as my time with Gil-galad in Lindon and the fact they are not only reminds me of him. 

I come to Imladris this time when Galadriel, who I have tarried with an unusually long time in Lothlorien,  begins to lecture me on my distancing myself from my friend. 

“He could do with your help, Gildor.” 

“Help with what? He has the great Glorfindel.” 

“Help from your presence, as a friend, as his oldest friend. Leadership can be lonely.”

“Do you suggest he and Glorfindel are not friends?” 

She sighs and rolls her eyes, and eventually the continual nagging nudges me to move, if only to have a break from it. Lothlorien is the one place it is easy to linger because it is as if time stands still there. It is not living however. I do little more than exist there. 

Elrond is always pleased to see me. He is always welcoming and it is genuine. Every time I arrive in Imladris my spirits rise and I am boosted by the enthusiasm with which he and Celebrían embrace me. It never lasts, that is the thing. Always, eventually, I am melancholy and moody, planning my escape, no matter how hard they work to keep me. 

And this day I am exceptionally moody and exceptionally melancholy. I do not want to sit in Elrond’s study where Glorfindel might find me and lecture me on my behaviour. I do what I always do when sadness takes me in Imladris. I head to Elrond’s library and hunt for my book. 

The collection of books Elrond used to live with in Lindon, the ones that covered his floor and piled across his furniture in that room of his so none of us could sit down, have grown, and grown, and grown, into this library that is full of them and more . . . So many more. 

The elf in charge looks up when I enter. He knows me and he knows what I want. I only ever read the one book when I come here. 

“It is in the back, my Lord.” 

I did not know why he insists on calling me that. I am no-ones Lord. Still I thank him, despite my bad temper. He has done nothing wrong after all. 

I know exactly which shelf to go to and exactly where on the shelf it is. 

The Book of Nargothrond. 

Whenever I am at my lowest I gravitate towards it. The pictures are so vivid, the people I loved, who used to love me, step out of those pages as if they are real and here with me. Even Elrond’s neat and careful pages of transcription of my own words attached to every page, are comforting. I enjoyed those days of telling him my stories. 

I sit at a table, at the back of the library, tucked into a corner where no-one will bother me, and I lose myself in Nargothrond. 

I am so lost in the memory the rustle to the side of me makes me jump. 

Someone else is here in my hidden alcove! But when I look around I see no-one. Now I am aware and looking however I can feel them. 

“Who is there?” 

I receive no answer and it is irritating. 

“Whoever you are, show yourself! Do not make me get up and search for you. I know you are there.” 

I can feel my irritation growing. This is my retreat, where I hide on my own and I need this. As irrational as it may be I am angry someone else would invade it. 

Silence. And then the smallest of sounds as someone shuffles beneath the very desk I am sitting at. It is a large desk with plenty of space underneath but I am not at all prepared for what I find when I bend over to inspect it. 

It is a boy. 

Dark curls, wide eyes, he sits, curled in a corner under the desk, a book clutched to his chest. One of Elrond’s boys. 

I know them, of course, but I have not had much to do with them, despite Celebrían’s pleading. 

“I know nothing about Noldor boys!” I told her. 

“But you were one,” she argued. 

But I was never a Noldor boy, not as these two growing in Imladris. I was Laiquendi, growing in the trees. I cannot even tell them apart, they look so alike. I do not know who this one is.

“What are you doing under my desk?” I ask angrily but he is not cowed. He sticks out his chin and answers me with a challenge. 

“It is not  your desk. It is my fathers. And this is his library too, and his books!” 

He is not wrong, but still . . .

“You will not be worried if I tell Parmadur you are here then,” I say, nodding in the vague direction of the scribe at the front desk. 

Instantly his demeanour changes. 

“Please,” he begs, “do not tell him!” and he clutches his book even tighter. 

It is a strange reaction for Parmadur the scribe is an entirely harmless fellow, even to a small boy I would imagine. He makes me feel sorry I ever asked the question, yet now I am curious. 

“How did you get in here? If he does not know?” 

The boy shrugs a shoulder. 

“I sneaked in. It is easy.” 

I remember those days, of sliding around Nargothrond’s corners and corridors, keeping my head down to get myself places I should not be. But I want to know what book it is he has. What kind of book makes a child surreptitiously enter a library? It is uncomfortable, bending down as I am to speak to him. 

“Come out into the light,” I tell him, “and show me that book you have.” 

But he is closed and determined. 

“No.” 

Now I am sure I need to see it. 

“At this moment you are making sure I will alert Parmadur.” I warn, but he is a stubborn creature, and obviously courageous. 

“You do not need to see my book.” 

“But I do. I need to make sure your mother will be happy you are reading it.” 

He hesitates. 

“She will be,” he says in the end. 

“Then you will not mind if I see it also.” I have out manoeuvred him. 

He is a picture of reluctance as he crawls out from under the desk and the look he gives me is not a kind one. He may have given in but he does not stop fighting. 

“Here!” He says angrily as he slams the book down in front of me. “I do not like you!” 

Surprisingly that hurts, but I do not bite.

“I am sorry about that,” is all I say. “I do not think I am that unlikeable usually.” 

“Well you are to me!” I decide discretion is the better part of valour and choose to ignore that. Instead I reach for the mysterious book. 

To my surprise it is not exciting at all. Flipping through I look for anything hidden within the disappointingly boring pages, something illicit that would interest a small boy and cause him to hide. There is nothing. 

“This is a very boring book,” I tell him in the end. “Why do you hide with it? Why did you not want me to see it?” 

“It is not boring!” He cries. “It is exciting. This is about Tar-Aldarion. He was a King. He had such adventures. He sailed everywhere!” His eyes shine with enthusiasm as the words tumble out of his mouth. He truly is energised by this most mundane of Númenórean books. 

“Oh I know all that.” I matter-of-factly put the book back down upon the desk. “I knew Tar Aladrion.” 

And the boy is transformed. 

“You knew him?” His eyes shine and all traces of his previous antagonism vanish. “Can you tell me about him?” 

Of all the Men Gil-galad courted with his diplomacy Aldarion was the most companionable. I did not mind him. I do have some tales this boy may like. But surely . . . 

“Has Elrond not told you of him? You should ask him for he knew him as well. He knows just as many tales as I.” And the boy’s eyes slide away. 

“I have not asked Father.” 

That seems strange to me if he has such an interest in things Númenórean. Still, small boys as a whole are often strange. So I tell him. We sit together, his eyes upon me as if I am an oracle . . . Perhaps High King Finarfin himself . . . As I speak of Aldarion and Gil-galad in Lindon all that time ago. He hangs off my every word, and when the thinking of it, of Náro in his diplomatic element, wears me down, I find I do not want to lose his company so I turn to my book, lying in front of me. 

“Enough of long dead Númenórean kings,” I say, “What do you know of Nargothrond?”

And he scowls. 

“I know it was an Elven palace, hidden like Gondolin. They are so boring.” 

“Oh it was not like Gondolin at all!” I exclaim, “What have they been teaching you? Did you know it was dwarven built? The dwarves made it for Finrod, carved into the stone.” 

“Like a cave?” I have his attention. 

“Yes exactly like a cave.” 

“I should like to meet a dwarf,” he says. “A cave would be fun.” Eagerly he peers over my shoulder at the pictures on the page. “Do you know these people? Can you tell me of them? Did you live in the cave?” So many questions. 

“I did live in the cave when I was your age.” He reaches out to turn the pages, stopping, as I did the first time I saw it, at the glorious Finrod stepping out of the page. 

“He looks important.” 

“That is Finrod. He is your uncle.” Surely they have told him all about Finrod! 

“Well I know that. I know who he is.” So they have then. “He looks like Grandmother.” He says as he stands, head tilted in thought gazing upon my father. “Did you know him?” His fingers brush across the page. “If he liked the dwarves perhaps he might have been interesting.” 

“I did know him. I can tell you about him if you wish. He did love the dwarves, and the Men.” 

“The Men?” His head jerks up to look at me in surprise. “Can you tell me about that then?” 

“Well—” I am about to begin when he cries out in alarm, a hand flying to his mouth and hurriedly he shoves his precious Númenórean book into my lap. 

“I have forgotten the time! I am supposed to be with Erestor. Elladan will have to be pretending I am with Mother or some such thing and he is so bad at it! Can you put my book back for me? There on the bottom shelf,” he gestures behind us, “is where I keep my books . . . Please . . .” 

“But wait . . ” I mean to tell him I will come with him to Erestor and explain I have delayed him, but he is off, so fast I cannot get a word out. I am left with his book in my hand, and when I bend down to the shelf he showed me I discover a random collection of others, all about Númenór, their buildings, their history, their ancient Kings. They should not be there. It is not at all their place in this carefully collated library of Elronds. It is obvious he has squirrelled them away here in this hiding place by himself. 

So odd. 

In the end I do take myself off to Elrond’s study, still thinking about that strange boy of his as I do so. Elrond, Celebrían and Glorfindel are there, talking—perhaps about me, when I enter. I chide myself at my paranoia. Of course they have other reasons to sit and chat than discussing me behind my back. 

“Well this is a surprise.” Glorfindel welcomes me, quite sarcastically I feel. He can be cutting when he wishes. “I thought we were dealing with the introverted and melancholy Gildor today.” 

“Glorfindel!” Elrond hisses at him and his disapproval almost makes me laugh. 

“I have been in the library.” I say pointedly. “Is that a crime? There is no point in Elrond collecting it if we do not use it.” 

“And was it scintillating?” Glorfindel will not be cowed. 

“It was interesting, certainly.” I turn to Celebrían. “I met one of your boys there.” 

“Oh, Elladan,” she smiles softly as she says his name. “He would love to spend time with you, Gildor.” 

“No not Elladan.” For did the boy not say his brother was Elladan, the one left explaining his absence? “The other one.” 

“Elrohir?” Elrond says it somewhat quickly with no small amount of surprise. “Elrohir was in the library? You must be mistaken, Gildor. They can be tricky to tell apart if you do not know them well.” 

“No it was definitely Elrohir, he told me his brother was Elladan.” I decide for the boy’s sake I will not elaborate with explanations of lateness and small boys covering for each other. 

“Why would Elrohir be in the library?” Elrond muses to himself. “I hope he did not bother you. He can be . . . ”

“He can be rambunctious and energetic,” Celebrían interrupts him with a smile. “And finds himself in trouble even when he means well, but reading and study are not his strengths so to stumble across him in a library is somewhat unexpected.” 

“Not his strengths?” That seems an odd way to describe the animated and deeply interested boy I saw, who hides in corners in secret to read and arranges his own historical collection of books. 

“We cannot all be scholars.” Elrond says somewhat defensively. “Elrohir is agile, good with his hands, he will excel at the sword, but sitting still studying is something he struggles with.” 

“People love him,” Celerbían continues, “when he will let them. He burns brightly and lights the room whereas Elladan is softer, gentler, but it is Elladan who is the scholar.” 

Do I tell them then, of the secret shelf of books? The hiding under a desk to read? Something about the boy’s determination to keep his book to himself, his fear of discovery, keeps my mouth shut. I will have to ask him more about this before I spill his secrets. It is not as if the book he was reading is in any way dangerous. 

“Well he seemed interested enough in Nargothrond.” I say instead. “He wished me to tell him of Finrod.” 

“Did he?” Elrond is astonished. “Erestor says he cannot hold his attention to anything!” 

“Then perhaps the problem is with Erestor and not the boy?” 

Elrond leans forwards towards me then.

“If you have the magic touch with him would you teach him something, Gildor?” 

“Teach him? Me?” He makes me laugh out loud. “You know I am no scholar. I will tell him of Nargothrond and Finrod certainly but I can hardly educate him on anything else. I would have to learn it myself first!” 

“Well we will start with that.” Elrond sits back content, as if it is all organised. “Thank you. I must say I have been concerned about his lack of studiousness.” 

“Were you are Elros similar?”  I say it without thinking. Throughout our long friendship I can count on one hand the number of times Elrond and I have spoken of Elros. I know that loss still causes him pain and I avoid it. I see him flinch now, brief, fleeting, but I see it. 

“Similar?” 

Well I have started so I may as well finish. 

“Your boys, you say, are different. One studious, one not so much. Was Elros more practically gifted as you say Elrohir is?” 

“Who would know.” Quickly he shuts me down. “You do not see yourself as others see you when you are a child. And our childhood was not . . . Usual. I cannot tell you.” 

I am sure he can tell me. Perhaps I strike too close to the bone? 

Still, that aside since Elrond staunchly ensures it remains a closed book, it seems I have somehow acquired myself a student. How my father would laugh, I was always terribly inattentive myself. 

“I am pleased you have noticed that boy.” Glorfindel says quietly to me when the time comes for us to leave. “Some time with you can only do him good.” 

And I look across at him in surprise. 

“I am not really a tutor. If you wish him to be educated I truly am the wrong choice, but he was excited about my father’s love of dwarves so I will try and hold his interest if I can. Is he really such a problem as they make out? He seemed bright enough to me . . . And enthusiastic.” 

He chuckles then. 

“Oh Elrohir is enthusiastic, certainly. The boy attracts trouble by simply breathing. Reminds me of Fingon. It is as if all that hot-headed impetuosity skipped over Erenion and somehow found it’s way into this descendant of Turgon. Strange how that could be. Though the others sigh heavily over his propensity for mischief, I do like him.”

I wonder if I should tell Glorfindel of Elrohir’s secret stash of books. 

But no. Whatever foolish, boyish reason the child may have for his subterfuge I will keep his secret . . . For now anyway. 

“At least you will give poor Erestor a break from him,” Glorfindel laughs. “The child fair wears him out. He has no idea what to do with him.” 

And I begin to wonder exactly what it is I have gotten myself into. 

That night at dinner I choose to sit by the boy. 

Glorfindel has piqued my interest. I want to see if I can spot any Fingon in this boy. Not that I ever knew him but, surely Gil-galad had some Fingon about him. 

The boy sits beside his brother and when I slide in to the seat next to him he looks at me in surprise. 

“That is not your seat!” He exclaims. 

“Well it is for tonight.” I smile in an attempt to win his confidence. “Did you get into any trouble with Erestor?” 

“I am always in trouble with Erestor,” he sighs and his shoulders drop. But then suddenly he lifts his head, his smile wide and bright. “Still Father says I do not have to go to Erestor tomorrow. He says you will teach me. . .  About the dwarves and your cave.” 

Already? Tomorrow? Well Elrond has wasted no time in arranging this but he might have told me. Still I can hardly refuse this child. 

“If you like, yes I will tell you some of that,” I say. And he interrupts me just I begin to explain the fact I am not much of a teacher. 

“Will you . . . Do you think . . . ” he drops his voice low for the next. “When you have finished with that do you think we will have time for more tales of Tar-Aldarion?” 

“Well perhaps—” I tell him. 

“I shall bring my book then!” He gives me no time to finish and his eyes shine, but beside him his brother frowns. 

“Elrohir!” he hisses under his breath. 

But Elrohir will not be dimmed. 

“It is alright.” He says to his brother, “I promise.” 

I suppose they worry about extracting it from the library but that is easily solved. 

“I will bring my book on Nargothrond,” I tell him, “so I can collect your Tar-Aladrion book at the same time. I know where it is.” Actually I think I can do better than that. The book he has selected is not the most interesting. If I spend some time there I am sure I can improve upon it. 

“See!” He turns to his brother, alight with triumph. “It is fine, Elladan.” 

The boy called Elladan watches me with silent, serious eyes. I believe he does not trust me one bit. Biting his lip he sizes me up unblinkingly. Even a smile does not get him to crack.

The problem with Elrond’s dinners is that they are long. The food is delicious and there is so much of it but there is also always talk, endless talk. Sometimes I wonder how they all find so much to speak on especially when I am not in the mood to participate. It seems the boy beside me struggles with it too. While his brother sits still and silent he jiggles and wiggles on his chair, fiddling with whatever he can get his hands on. 

When I turn to look at him I see he has been building, an elegant structure composed of cutlery and the odd piece crockery. He has stolen my spoon, amongst other things, while I was distracted. It is all quite impressive. I see why Elrond said he was good with his hands. 

“That is good!” I tell him in surprise. I can see the influence of those books he has been reading. “A perfect Númenorean tower!” 

“Really?” He looks up at me positively glowing at the praise. “You can tell it is that?” 

“Certainly!” 

And then it all descends into chaos, for as I speak to the boy—as his head is turned towards me distracted—quick as a flash the silent child on the other side of him whips out a hand and destroys it all. Crockery, cutlery, spill across the table with a crash. Glorfindel looks up in surprise as a spiralling  fork lands in the middle of his meal. 

And Elrohir turns to his brother in dismay. 

“What did you do that for?” he cries. 

“Elrohir!” There is no time for the child to answer his brothers question. Elrond, it seems, is unimpressed. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Sorry, Father.” He drops his head and I wait for the protests that it was not him at all. They do not come, instead, hurriedly he attempts to gather the mess around him. 

“You are too old for this.” Elrond sighs. “You are not a baby,  Elrohir. You should be able to sit still through a meal.” 

“Elrond. . . ” I will attempt to defend him since it seems he will not defend himself. But Elrond is not listening. 

“Go to your room,” he says sternly, “since you cannot sit quietly here.” 

“But Father,” the boy protests, “we have not had pudding.” 

“No pudding. You have had plenty of chances, Elrohir.” 

Will the other boy, Elladan, allow his brother to take his punishment? It seems so. He sits, eyes downcast, staring at his hands and says nothing. If he feels my disapproving eyes upon him he does not acknowledge it. 

“Elrond, things are not—” I attempt again to set the record straight but Elrohir will not let me. Quick as a flash he is on his feet, stopping my speech before I have even begun. 

“Sorry, Father,” he cuts across me. “I will not do it again.” 

And with that he turns, shoulders slumped, to walk from the room leaving his pile of debris behind him.

And Elrond sighs. . . heavily. 

My glare at the remaining boy is not a pleasant one. Perhaps it does some good for he leaps up before his brother has even left the room. 

“May I go also, Father?”

“Elladan,” Celebrian says quietly, “you do not have miss pudding for Elrohir’s sake.” 

“I am not hungry.” 

A lie I am sure, but perhaps his guilt gets the better of him? It is the strangest thing. Why did the child Elladan destroy that tower? Simply to get his brother in trouble? Why then did Elrohir not protest? I have my own half siblings back in the woods. I remember our childhood quarrels but  we never behaved like this. Is it a twin thing? A Noldor thing? 

Whatever it is I need to find out. 

I get to my feet.

“I will go for a walk, I think, Elrond.” 

“Stay,” he says. “I apologise for my uncontrollable offspring.” 

“There is nothing to apologise for. I simply find I am not hungry either.” 

Glorfindel gives me a questioning look as I leave. He knows where it is I go. 

I go to find those twins. 

I know where their rooms are and when I lean towards the door I can hear the urgent whisper of childish voices. I should knock . . . But I do not, for to knock will only give them warning and they will likely hide. I can remember how small boys think and I do not think these two are so different from the child I once was. 

They sit upon the bed, heads together, urgently discussing some such thing, and their faces, as they turn towards me when I enter, are a unison of horror at my arrival. 

The still silent one finds his voice first. 

“You cannot come in here!” He cries. “These are our rooms. You should ask permission.” 

“You should lock the door.” I reply with a smile, for they do amuse me, and I ignore his indignant resistance to sit myself upon the bed. 

“Father will not allow us a lock upon our door.” Elrohir glares at me sulkily. He really is good at being truculent and I wonder where that has come from. Neither Celebrian or Elrond are quite as belligerent. 

“With good reason, I think.” I tell him. “Still . . .” Folding my arms in what I hope is a firm and unbending manner, I try to channel my father, as he was when he wished to drag confessions from me. I do not know if I will be able to succeed. “Enough of that, I am here to discover what just went on at dinner.” 

“Nothing went on.” Elrohir is obviously their spokesperson. I must not let that continue for I want to hear from the other boy. “You saw,” he says. “I made a mess of things and Father was angry.” 

“Except you did not make a mess of things.” I frown across at the other twin. “Why did you do that, Elladan? And why did you let your brother take your punishment? That is not honourable.” 

He has obviously used up all his resistance protesting my entry to the room for I get none now. 

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know it was not honourable.” And he drops his head. But while he may be cowed and submissive, the boy, Elrohir definitely is not. 

“Do not say that!” He cries, “Elladan is always honourable. He is far more honourable than me. He always does the right thing! Do not say otherwise. He was just trying to protect me!”

“Protect you? By placing you at the centre of your father’s disapproval? By destroying your tower for no purpose? That is not the right thing.”  

“But there was a purpose.” He protests. “I should not have built that tower . . . And if Father had seen it—” 

“If he had seen it he would have been impressed, as I was. He has already told me how proud he is of your skill with your hands.” Suddenly I am hit with inspiration.  “Is that why you did it?” I ask the other boy. “Were you jealous?” 

Elrohir interrupts us before his brother can even open his mouth to reply, and suddenly his eyes shine. He is such a changeable little creature. 

“Did he really say that?” He breathes eagerly. “Did he really say he was proud of me?” 

“Yes indeed. He spoke about how talented you were, how good a swordsman he believes you will become.” Something about his obvious joy at being told this unnerves me. Surely he knows this already? He does not need me, a virtual stranger to tell him. My mother and father both, would tell me over and over of their pride in my accomplishments when I was small. 

“You know Father thinks you skilled, Elrohir. He has said that often. ” Elladan says softly beside me—so I am right, Elrond has told him. 

“Because he has to.” Elrohir protests, “but if he has told someone else, when I was not even there . . . ” 

I do understand his reasoning. Praise given when you are not there to hear it can carry more weight than that said in front of you. 

“You have it all wrong anyway,” the boy Elladan says to me then. “I am not jealous of Elrohir. It is because you said he had built a Númenorean tower I knocked it down. Because Father would have been unhappy if he had seen it, and then Elrohir would be unhappy, and I will not let Elrohir be unhappy.” 

“Elrond would be displeased because it was obviously Númenorean? Is that what you think?”

Where do they get these strange ideas from? What has Erestor been teaching them? 

“You do know they are his people, as they are your people. It is just as important you know of the Númenorean as it is you know of Elven things.” 

This I can understand, the difficulties of balancing two heritages, learning both, giving importance to both, while living amongst one …. Or the other. It can be a tug of war. 

“I do not think your father wishes you to only learn about the elves.” I finish off firmly. 

“It is not that.” Elladan sighs heavily as if I am the foolish child. “Father wants us to learn of all things. But Elrohir loves the Men. He always has. He loves everything about them. It makes Father sad when he sees it and Elrohir does not wish to make him sad.” 

“He thinks I will leave Elladan, but I will not!” Elrohir cries passionately. “I will never do that! Never!” 

And slowly the pieces of their wild, boyish understanding of the world fall into place in my mind. 

“You think he worries about this because of Elros.” 

“We know he does.” They say it in unison. 

“Has he told you this?” 

Surely he has not, surely. Elrond would not put that upon these children, no matter how real a concern it might be to him. And I can see now, suddenly, why it might be. 

I am taken by surprise at how relieved I feel at the simultaneous shaking of heads. 

“Of course he has not told us.” Elladan says, “but we can tell anyway.” 

“Perhaps you are wrong?” 

But he frowns at me in response and it is obvious neither of them will listen, at least not right now. I need to talk to Celebrian about this . . . Celebrian and Elrond I suppose, but at the moment just Celebrian seems the easier option. 

As for these boys, perhaps I should use distraction? 

“How about some pudding?” I say stretching my legs in front of me. “I am sure it is most delicious and am beginning to regret my foolishness of refusing to stay for it.” 

“I am not allowed it,” Elrohir is the picture of despondency as he sighs. “You heard Father.” 

“What if I get some for you and he never knows?” I lean forward to whisper it to them, as if it is the greatest of battles we plan together in secret. 

“You cannot do that!” As Elrohir’s eyes light up at my suggestion, so Elladan reacts in horror. 

“Just watch me.” I smile as I get to my feet. “The cooks love me. If I ask they will give it to me.” 

“Can you make mine a big bowl?” Elrohir is an eager accomplice to my subterfuge, but Elladan is less so. 

“What if Father were to find out?” he sighs, “He would be disappointed in us.” 

“In that case,” I tell him, determined to extract some lightness from this seemingly eternally serious child, “I will tell him I forced it upon you despite your protests and he will likely set Glorfindel upon me to discipline me.” 

I am rewarded with the briefest, the tiniest of smiles, but I will take it. 

I am not lying when I say the cooks love me. They do, for some unknown reason. So with a charming smile and some light chit chat it is easy to extract three bowls of pudding from the kitchen, somewhat harder to carry them, precariously balanced, through the hallways. 

And my heart sinks when I turn a corner and walk straight into Celebrian. She knows what I am up to immediately. 

“Gildor! Oh, have the boys wrapped you around their little fingers already?” She sounds as disappointed in me as Elladan predicted Elrond would be in him. 

“Shush. You protest as much as someone who has never put a foot wrong before and used her beauty to dazzle those around her into forgetting. Remember I am your cousin. I know better!” I remind her, and she sighs. 

“It is not as simple as that.” 

“You have been pleading with me to spend time with them, to get to know them. Let me do this. What better ploy to get two small boys to trust me?”

At that she smiles. 

“I am so  pleased you seek them out,” she smiles softly. “You have so much to offer them. But I am on my way to see them and put them to bed. I always do. They will be expecting me.”  

“Then give me a few minutes,” I plead. Suddenly I am certain it is important, especially in the winning over of the silent Elladan, that I do this. “Just a short time to sneak this in, eat with them, and be gone. Be a few minutes late this evening.” 

Her resistance is a pretence and I know it. It takes no time at all before she acquiesces. 

But as I watch her go I know I must do what I hate most and confront her with my new knowledge of her boys. I hate turmoil and upset with a passion but those twins need me to do this. I do not imagine it will be pleasant.

“Celebrian,” I call out before she disappears out of sight, and she turns back and laughs at me.

“Get going Gildor! You will miss your opportunity if you tarry.” 

“Can you come and see me, when you have finished your bedtime ritual. It is important.” 

She is surprised at that and concern flits across her face.

“Of course. Is all well?”  There it is, that constant worrying about my wellbeing I hate so much from all of them. 

The flash of annoyance within me prods me to go further than I intended. 

“All is fine with me, but this is still important. Can you bring Elrond?” 

“He chats with Glorfindel and Erestor by the fire. Perhaps you should join them?” 

“Perhaps I should not. Perhaps you and he could come to my rooms where we can talk.” I snap back. This will not go well if I cannot reign in my bad temper. 

“Well of course,” she says gently then. “I will extract him if you feel it is that important.” 

“It is that important!” 

But as I walk off towards the twins carrying my delicately balanced pile of dessert, I wonder exactly how I am going to manage this. 

By the time they arrive I have a plan but I have no idea if they will accept it. 

Elrond looks as if he thinks I am about to announce my departure to Valinor. He has on his serious and concerned demeanour. 

“Gildor—” He begins almost as soon as we are seated in front of the fire, but I cut him off. 

“This is not about me,” I say and he blinks in surprise. 

“What is it about then?” He speaks as if there is nothing I could be involved in that does not include my misery. 

I must close my eyes and get this over with. An image of Náro floats into my mind. You need to do this Gildor, he says to me. I want you to look out for those boys. He will be disappointed in me if I cannot see this through. 

“It is about your boys.” 

“That scene at dinner?” Elrond sighs. “Elrohir is spirited. I apologise for his misdemeanours but really—” 

“You will be pleased to know then that Elrohir committed no misdemeanours at all. You punished the wrong twin.” I tell him. 

The surprise on his face is quite amusing and both he and Celebrian exchange a look that suggests they think me mad. 

“Perhaps you struggle to tell them apart,” Celebrian smiles. “It is quite tricky if you do not know them well.” 

“Oh no, I know exactly which boy I was sitting next to. I will be honest, Elrond. Your meals here, while delicious, can be quite long, and certainly exceeding long for a small boy. Elrohir was bored. He built himself a tower and it was indeed, clever and creative. I was impressed. But as I told him how skilful I thought him, how you, yourself had praised his abilities with his hands, his brother knocked it down. Elladan knocked it down.” 

Celebrian frowned then as she considered my story. 

“But that would mean Elladan allowed his brother to take a punishment meant for him and that is not in his nature, Gildor. I know my children!” 

“I am sure you know them, cousin but they keep secrets from you, from the both of you.” 

“And yet they tell you these secrets?” Elrond chimes in, “though you barely know them?” 

“Yes they do. Because I went looking for them.” 

“You paint yourself as a doyen of parenting, Gildor, and I do not believe that is true.”

I have offended him. I must cut to the chase before neither of them is willing to hear me. 

“Let me tell you what it is they have imagined for themselves then,” I begin. “I was in the right place at the right time and by some stroke of luck asked the right questions that is all. I am no expert. Elrohir’s tower was Númenorean, of that there was no doubt. And when I congratulated him on its likeness that is when the other boy knocked it down. Because he did not wish you to see it.”

“Why—” 

I do not let him speak. I must get this out before I lose my nerve. 

“Because it would upset you, would it not? That is their belief anyway. Because you look at Elrohir, who loves the world of Men and see Elros, and it terrifies you!” 

“I have never said that!” He protests. “I have never led them to believe that! Did they tell you this?” 

But I see it clear upon his face. That flit of pure fear when I mention Elrohir and Men. The briefest of pallor at the mention of his brother. 

“There it is!” I cry. “I see it, Elrond, written upon your face and so do they!” 

“This is ludicrous!” He draws himself to sit upright and fixes me with his best elflord stare. “I have never told my boys they may not learn of the Númenoreans. Why would I? I have never led them to believe that would be wrong!” 

Seldom, if ever, during our long friendship have I pulled rank on Elrond. I do not like to be noticed. I would rather sit behind the power than partake in it. Elrond has chosen to be a lord, but I would be King of Nargothrond if it still existed. Elrond is Finweon as I am, but I sit closer to Finwe in the generations than he. He is the son of Earendil . . . But I? I am son of Finrod Felagund, grandson of Finarfin, High King in Valinor. 

So I pull rank on him now. 

“Do not use that ‘Elflord of Imladris’ nonsense on me! You forget who you talk to, Elrond.” I am giving him no chance to reply. “I told you I met Elrohir in the library. Do you know what he was doing? Hiding. Under the desk I was reading at. And why was he hiding? Because he was reading about the Númenoreans and did not want you to know. He has a secret stash of books there. Did you know that? Books he has secreted away on Numenor and Tar-Aldarion. Hidden from you. Quiet, serious Elladan knocked down that tower today to protect you from your sadness . . . And to protect his brother from the hurt he feels when he makes you sad, just by being who he is.

“Now I understand why this causes you concern. I can see why his love of the world of Men would worry you, why you would fear it. But you cannot deny it! You must listen to me. It is hurting them!” 

Then there is silence. 

We all three of us sit . . . Stare at each other . . . And say nothing as my words echo around the room. 

And as I sit, and as I stare, I wonder . . . Why have I never discussed this with Elrond before? Why have I never thought to sit with him and speak on his missing brother? Have I been guilty of allowing my grief and my losses—my parents, Gil-galad—to blind me to his? What kind of friend am I? 

“I have a plan—”

The both of them jump as I shatter the silence that suffocates us. 

“—if you will accept it.” 

And Elrond sighs. Does he always sound so tired?

“And what wonderful plan is this?” 

“Elrohir is fascinated by Tar-Aldarion. He lives and breathes him. What if I were to go to the Havens, to Cirdan. He has all of Gil-Galad’s correspondence there and there must be hundreds . . . Hundreds of letters or documents involving the two of them. It will be a real treasure trove for the boy. I will look through them, sort them, bring the best back for him, then you could go through them with him, Elrond, fill out the stories. You had much more to do with Tar-Aldarion than I. It would cease this feeling they have of it being taboo.” 

I think it is a grand plan but Elrond looks absolutely horrified, and Celebrian also. 

“You cannot  do that, Gildor!” she cries. “Have you lost your mind?” 

“I am not sending you to search through Gil’s papers, Gildor.” Elrond is just as adamant. “What do you take me for? I am not that cruel. Not even for Elrohir will I ask that of you!” 

Too late I realise they believe I will be unable to cope. 

“And at the Havens as well!” Elrond adds. “Galadriel would have my head.” 

Well I have had enough of this. 

“I want  to go! I am quite capable of doing this task for your boy . . . for you. I am not an invalid, Elrond, and I am able to read through a few old letters without completely falling apart. Anyway Cirdan will be there, and Galadriel is not my master. I do not answer to her!” 

“Have you told her that?” 

Elronds wry, more than slightly sarcastic, remark stops me in the tracks of my indignant anger. Have I told her that? 

He makes me laugh out loud and just like that the tension between us splinters into shards of nothingness.

“No I have not told her that. Do you blame me?” 

“And you expect me,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “to happily tell her I sent you off to the Grey Havens to trawl through Gil-galad’s possessions, on your own, rather than go myself? Oh, did he hop on a ship to Valinor?  How did I not foresee that?”  

He mocks himself telling my aunt of my imagined desertion and it makes me laugh the harder. 

“I will not be sailing. How many times must I tell people that?”

And in an instant Elrond is all seriousness. 

“I have seen the sealonging and it is not logical or controllable when it grabs you by the throat. Unless you want to end up in Valinor regretting every step that took you there you should respect it, Gildor, for I tell you, at the moment you are an easy target.” 

“I am Noldor. It will not bother me.”

“You are Teleri also. For Elbereth’s sake, Gildor. This is me you speak with. I have seen you on the boats.” 

He is right. I know he is right, there is risk, but I do not wish to admit  it, not even to myself. 

“Look,” he sighs, “your plan has merit. It is a good idea. Using Gil’s letters would make it easier for me to sit with Elrohir and discuss this. It is obvious something must change and I promise you I will change it. But I will not send you off to do this for me. I do not want that on my conscience, nor on Elrohir’s. I will send a message to Cirdan. The next time we are together he can bring the documents with him, or it can wait until I am visiting the Havens myself. In the meantime Erestor can change the content of the boys lessons. I can bring Elrohir’s books to his room, not hidden in the library. There are other things we can do.”  

He does not understand. Suddenly, passionately, I want  to do this for him. I want to feel I am useful, I want to help both Elrond and his boys. It is so long since I have wanted to do anything at all and I do not wish to miss the opportunity. And more than anything I find I want to see Gil-galad’s things. After years and years of avoiding anything to do with him, any reminders, I want to read those letters. 

I could go anyway. It is not as if I do not often go to see Cirdan for brief periods when I need to wander. But if I disappear now Elrond will send messages ahead of me and I will arrive in the Havens to a Cirdan who will let me nowhere near Gil-galad’s things at all. 

Then I am struck with the perfect solution. 

“Send Glorfindel with me.” 

“What?” 

“Let me go with Glorfindel if you worry I may spend too long by the sea or leap on a passing boat. He will make sure I do not. My father has tasked him to watch over me. He will call an end to our expedition if he feels it unsafe.” 

Elrond is about to refuse. I can see it in his eyes, until Celebrian places a gentle hand upon his arm. 

“Perhaps ask Glorfindel. See if he is willing to go or thinks it sensible. If Gildor is keen to do this, we should try to find a way.” 

So she understands. 

How good it feels to finally have a purpose to drive me after years and years of drifting aimlessly through nothing. 

I feel alive. 

“I do not understand why you want to put yourself through this.” Elrond says then. “It will be unimaginably hard for you.” 

He is right. It will be. 

“Because you are my friend,” I reply, “and perhaps I have not been the best friend I could have been. Because I find, despite the fact he tells me he does not like me and orders me out of his father’s library, I like that wild boy of yours.” 

And Elrond smiles, but it is drenched in sadness. 

“That is Elros,” he says quietly. “He would argue back, even to Maedhros if he felt he was cornered.” 

It is the first time in our long friendship he has ever mentioned a detail like that about his brother to me. 

How did that happen? Why did I not notice this? What can I do about it? 

Well I will start with this. 

We are not even an hour out of Imladris before I regret asking Glorfindel to join me. 

He is at his most cutting , his most confrontational today. 

“So why do we do this.” He begins. 

“You know why. So I can search Gil-galad’s letters to find something helpful for that boy . . . And for Elrond.” 

“And why, suddenly, do you wish to do that?” he replies. “It seems most out of character.” 

“What do you mean?” Stopping my horse dead in its tracks I stare at him accusingly. “It is out of my character to help a child? How dare you!” 

“It is out of your character,” he says smoothly, “to notice anyone needs help at all, let alone offer it. At least lately.” 

“That is not true!”

“Is it not?” He rides on leaving me staring after him. 

“So why did you bother coming with me then?” I call out to him, “if I am so selfish?” 

“I did not say you were selfish.” He is so infuriatingly composed, but at least he waits for me to catch up. “I said at the moment it is not like you to offer help. As for me, I have promised your father I will watch over you. This is me watching. Elrond would not have allowed you to do this without me. I wish you to do it. Here I am.”

“You wish me—” he cuts me off before I can even finish my question. 

“And by the way,” he says cooly. “Elrond’s concerns about the sea are valid. You will not be climbing aboard any boats, or going near the docks, unless I believe it is the best thing for you.” 

I have no wish to go near the docks or the boats but . . . Who does he think he is? 

“And just how will you determine that . . . What is best for me, that you think you know so much better than I?” 

“The same way I always do when it is to do with you. I imagine I must justify my decisions to Finrod. If I am still standing when I have finished, it is in your best interests. If he has flattened me, it is not . . .  It is a high bar.” 

He turns his horse again and heads on his way and I am left to gaze after and wonder . . .  is he joking? 

“I am not joking.” 

Damn these Valinor born elves and their ability to reach inside your head! 

He does not let the subject rest, simply waits, until we are sitting and eating, and begins again. 

“You did not tell me why we do this.” 

“I did. Stop your games, Glorfindel. I am not in the mood. What is with you today?” 

He ignores me.

“Why do you want to help the boy.” 

“You were the one who told me to!” I cry in frustration. “You said you were pleased I had seen him and he needed help.” 

“So you help him because I told you to.” 

“No!” He is driving me insane. “I help him because he needs help. Because . . . ” I find myself stopping to consider . . . Why is this small boy I barely know suddenly so important? “Because Gil-galad would wish me to.” I say in the end and it is true. “Because he would be disappointed in me if I did not.” 

And Glorfindel gives me a long, considered look which is, frankly, quite uncomfortable. 

“He would be.” He says in the end. 

“Well thank you for making me feel so good about myself.” I snap. “It is good to know you agree he would have such a low opinion of my actions!” 

“I did not say that.” Truly, his calmness only makes me wish to punch him. I begin to wonder how Elrond copes with this at Imladris all the time. “I said, he would be disappointed if you had seen the boy and then not done something. You have not done that. You have seen him, and you act.” 

“Do not change your tune now, Glorfindel. I am no fool and you were the one earlier today who pointed out I am so neglectful of those around me. I have come to realise Náro would have been disappointed in me for a long time.” 

“He would have been sorrowful, for a long time, that you have been in pain,” he replies quietly, taking me quite by surprise, “as I have been. He would be pleased and proud to see you step outside that, to risk yourself to care for one who needs you. As I am, as Finrod would be.” 

Why does he always do this? Lashing you with cutting sarcasm one minute, soothing with calm understanding the next. The effect of his unexpected care is to allow the buzzing thoughts ricocheting around my head to spill out into the light of day. 

“I think I have failed Elrond.” I blurt it out and Glorfindel raises an eyebrow. 

“How so.” 

“He spoke to me of Elros. One random, domestic detail of an argumentative boy amongst the Fëanorions—nothing special, and I realised, he has never told me any of that. I know none of it. We have never discussed his childhood, his brother, nothing, in all these years. That is wrong, Glorfindel.” 

“Why?” He asks. “Why have you not spoken of it ?” 

I have been thinking on this. I know the answer. 

“When we first met, he was young, the both of us were lonely, Gil-galad insisted we should be friends and we both needed friendship then, but Elrond wore his Fëanorion upbringing like a badge of honour. He was in endless fights about it. And I . . . my fathers death, his betrayal by Celegorm and Curufin . . . It all felt so fresh and painful. So Elrond and I, we never discussed it, but we both of us knew if we spoke of them we would never be friends . . So we did not. And he has always been reticent about Elros. With the Fëanorions off the table, Elros was too. They were all too entwined.”

“And after? When your friendship was well established and could weather such storms?” 

“It just . . . Seemed easier not to.” 

He sighs, as if I am inordinately frustrating to him. 

“Gildor,” he says, “You have many fine qualities and I am pleased to have had the chance to know you, but we all have weaknesses and yours is to too often take the easier path.”

I should be offended but I know he is right.

“I am not so much my father’s son, am I,” I hang my head. That shames me, and the look he gives me is stern. He does not let me off the hook.

“Not in this, no.” 

It stings and prods me to retort but he has not finished. 

“But you can change that.” He says firmly, “and you are, for this thing you do for Elrohir is certainly not the easy choice, and when you return to Imladris you can speak with Elrond about his childhood, no matter how hard that may be.”

“He will refuse. He will simply change the subject and avoid it.” 

“Then your job is to persist, until you can take him with you down that harder path. You can do it, Gildor Inglorion, son of Findaráto.” 

When he says it like that I almost feel I can, but I am sure it will not be that easy. It never is. 

                                           . . . . . . . . . 

I am always unsure of myself with Cirdan. He is imposing, and yet not, powerful, and yet not at all, formidable yet still personable. 

I am always ever so slightly on edge . . . How to be, what to do, so I manage to retain some small measure of respect? I have no clue.

Gil-galad loved him. 

He was always there, in the background, for Náro to turn to whenever he was uncertain. And he has welcomed me with open arms whenever I have landed here on my wanderings but still, I am always nervous when I first see him. 

He looks at me now, as Glorfindel and I warm ourselves by his fire, and I wonder why I ever thought Glorfindel’s look were uncomfortable .. . This one is ten times as much. 

“You want to search through Ereinion’s documents?” He raises his eyebrows in disbelief then turns to Glorfindel which is somewhat of a relief, “and you agree with this plan?”

“Absolutely I support it, yes. I can see huge benefits.” 

Glorfindel is somehow, not remotely fazed.

“Hmm . . . “ Cirdan drums his fingers on the small table in front of us and I wait. “Tell me, why do you wish to do this?” It is like Glorfindel all over again but this time I am ready. 

“Because Náro would wish me to.” 

There is a long pause, and finally those tapping fingers stop. 

“You are right.” he admits, “and they are Artanáro’s possessions so I will acquiesce. I will take you tomorrow.” It is a relief to clear this last hurdle and gain his permission. Still he is not done with me. “I am not convinced you realise how hard this will be,” he says firmly. 

But he is wrong. I do. I absolutely do. 

Usually, when I visit the Havens I stay well away from any of the areas I frequented with Gil-galad. Anywhere we sat, we walked, he lived, we dined, is off limits. Instead I visit my Laiquendi people, the ones who traveled all that way with Galadriel and then decided no further. They flit around the outskirts of the Havens, in the trees on the edges of town. Some of my siblings, my grandparents, most of my family is there. Sometimes I wish I could quiet my soul enough to remain with them for I do love them, but it is no longer a life that fits me for long. Because I so rarely venture to the centre of what was Mithlond on my own accord it is a surprise, the next morning, when Círdan escorts me to stand outside the door leading to what once was Gil-galad’s study.

“Here?” I am somewhat taken aback. 

“I told you this would be hard.” he replies. “Where else did you imagine his correspondence would be kept?” 

“A library. . . A storeroom . . .” To be honest I had not considered that at all. 

“It is here, where he left it.” Círdan says firmly and pushes open the door. “I realise you wish to run from all your reminders but some of us instead keep them close.”

It takes all the courage I have to walk through that door, and when I do I discover . . . It is just the same. 

It is as if Náro has just this minute up and left. As if it is the morning we set off to Imladris before facing Sauron at the Last Alliance. As if someone has picked me up and deposited me back all those many years ago. I can imagine him, sitting there, at that desk so clearly I could almost touch him. 

“I have taken the liberty to bring out the boxes from the time of Tar Aldarion.” Círdan says behind me as he indicates several boxes sitting beside the desk. “It will make things quicker . . . And easier for you.” 

Staring, I wonder at his composure, because the way he has preserved this room . . . Have I made mistakes here as well? I have never properly considered his feeling at the loss of Gil-galad, and he was there . . . At the very end, unlike me. Have I made a misstep with him as well as Elrond? It is a realisation that does not feel good.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” he asks and I nod, although I am less sure by the minute. “Call me if you need me, then,” and he turns, and departs, leaving me alone . . . With the ghost of Náro. 

I do not wish to sit at that desk. It seems a sacrilege, an insult. I never would have while Náro was alive, so I sit, on the floor beside Círdan’s carefully stacked boxes and will myself to open them. The first page is the hardest. Squeezing my eyes tight I pick it up, terrified to look at the writing that may lie upon it. But I have made such a fuss about doing this. I have to see it through. 

To my relief, when I gather my strength to take a glimpse it is not Gil-galad’s neat script that sits there but Aldarion’s. I have selected a letter from him about the building of Vinyalondë, full of planning and logistic details. The boy, Elrohir, will love this! 

I can see him in my minds eyes, burning bright with the excitement of holding an actual letter by his hero in his hand, discovering the thought processes behind the foundation of that settlement. This is definitely something to take back to Imladris. Carefully I place it beside  me to be the beginnings of my pile. 

After that it is easier. The next I select is actually addressed to Elrond. Why has it ended up in Náro’s study amongst his papers? In it Aldarion calls Elrond Uncle, which takes me aback somewhat, but when I think on it I suppose it is true . . . I do not read it beyond a cursory glance. It is Elronds private correspondence after all, but on to my pile it goes. What an opportunity it could be for Elrond and his boy to bond. On and on I search, with what can only be described as a gathering feeling of excitement, so by the time Náro’s writing appears I am carried away with my imaginings of Elrohir and Elrond and what good my carefully growing pile of documents will do them I hardly notice. I do, of course, but it does not sting as I expected and I plough on. 

It is the letter to Tar-Meneldur that undoes me. 

I remember Náro writing this. It is a draft, of course, one of many he wrote and discarded as he tried to get the tone exactly right. He spent hours on it and insisted we discuss it though I resented every hour he spent on the Númenoreans.  We argued over this letter. I felt him a fool, his desire to cooperate with them; dangerous. He accused me of paranoia and jealousy. It ended with me leaving, asking him why he had bothered to ask my opinion in the first place. It is a painful reminder of that wrongness that existed between us that only got worse when Elendil appeared on scene. 

Yet here, scrawled all over his draft in what is definitely his hand, are all my objections in intricate detail. Rewrite this, he has said beside an underlined section, Gildor warns it is too open to misinterpretation. And further down, a circled sentence . . . Gildor says no to this. 

What is he doing? Did he actually listen to me? 

I put to one side in confusion for it makes no sense to me, but a handful of papers further in there is a trade agreement of sorts I also remember him making me read with him. A session that ended in a very similar way with shouting and accusations. It too has his notes scattered across it, my name everywhere. Gildor foresees trouble, he has written alongside one paragraph which has been elegantly crossed out, remove this. Why would he seriously listen to me on the subject of trade? I knew nothing. . . . Literally nothing about it. I never understood why he invited me into these discussions in the first place. 

“Had enough?” 

The voice of Glorfindel behind me makes me jump a mile. 

“Why are you down on the floor?” he asks as he walks around behind the desk to drape himself across Náro’s chair. 

“Because that is Gil-galad’s chair,” I tell him pointedly to no effect at all. 

“And a fine one it is too,” he smiles. “Do not let it go to waste. What are you doing?” He leans down to peer at the papers in my hand. “A trade agreement? Hardly scintillating stuff.” 

“Yes, but look.” Thrusting the papers at him I gather up the letter to Tar-Meneldur as well. “Look at these!” 

“Ah, Ereinion’s begging letter,” he laughs, “well it did the trick.” 

“Look at his notes,” I snap in frustration. “On both of them, look at what he has written.” 

And so he reads over them, quickly and quietly. 

“The pair of you discussed these obviously,” he says in the end. “Has finding them upset you?” 

“Yes we did discuss them . . . If you can call raised voices, insults, and name calling a discussion. I did not trust the Númenoreans. He believed me paranoid. Any discussions we attempted ended in disagreement and me leaving.” 

“And so? . . .” Glorfindel tilts his head as if he is waiting for a revelation of some kind to emerge. 

“And so why has he done this?” I point to one of Náro’s notes, “and this. . . . And this? Why write commentary on all the things I said as if he actually agreed with me, when I know he did not!” 

“Because he was an astute leader?” Glorfindel lays the papers back on the ground beside me. “Because you left, he calmed down, thought on it and realised you might have a point worth conceding? Because he valued your opinion, and . . . Apparently . . . Your foresight.” 

“I know nothing about trade, Glorfindel and even less about diplomacy! I never understood why he insisted I discuss any of this with him.” 

And Glorfindel leans himself back in the chair, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. 

“Ah, Finderáto,” he cries, “these bounds you place me under are so frustrating!” 

“What do you mean?” Why does he bring my father into this? 

“I mean,” he says, picking up the papers once again, pushing them into my arms, “you Arafinweons will be the death of me! Take these, Gildor and try to see the worth Artanáro saw when he looked at you. I have told you this, Artanis has told you this and I know Elrond has told you this though you choose to be deaf to all of us. Look at these papers and see the weight he placed upon your opinion, the importance you carried in his life. Open your eyes!” 

Then he stands. 

“What have you found for the boy so far? Bring it.” He waves a hand imperiously. “You have done enough for one day. Come and eat.” 

There is no ignoring him. He brooks no argument. 

And I find myself wishing yet again, I had left him in Imladris. 

Círdan is making me nervous. 

All evening he has been watching me as Glorfindel and I sit with our wine and the warmth of his fire. It should be a pleasant interlude before we depart for Imladris but his eyes upon me make me squirm with discomfort. 

“You have done well, Gildor,” Glorfindel smiles, seemingly indifferent to Círdan’s watchful eyes. “We will be returning with plenty that will spark that boys interest and enable Elrond to talk.” 

“There is still more there.” I reply for truly Náro’s correspondence is an absolute treasure trove. 

“You have done enough. The rest will wait.” Círdan gets to his feet scraping his chair across the flagstones. “I am impressed, Gildor,” he says then. “I know this has not been easy for you.” 

“Indeed.” Glorfindel distracts me with his opinion so I do not see what it is Círdan fishes out of the drawer behind him. “I will be making sure Elrond knows that, and respects your sacrifice.”

“You do not have to do that. Elrond knows,” I protest, for Elrond, more than most, knows Gil-galad and I. “Leave it. Do not make him feel guilt over this, please.” That is the last thing I want. 

Círdan sits himself back down across from me  pushing a creamy envelope over the table towards me as he does so.

“The time has come for you to have this,” He says. “You are ready.” 

And I stare. It is sealed, pristine and has my name printed neatly on the front. Beside me Glorfindel shuffles in his chair. Did he know this was coming? I think he did. 

The hand that shaped that elegant, graceful Gildor that sits in front of me was Náro’s. 

“Where did you get this?” I am suddenly, unexpectedly furious with the both of them. “How long have you had this?” 

“He gave it to me the night before he died.” 

Círdan is supremely calm and collected, as if this is a random letter with no particular meaning that he gives me, and I am enraged. 

“The night before he died? You have had this all this time and withheld this from me? And you . . .”  I turn to Glorfindel, “you have known about this? How could you? How could you both?” 

The night before he died . . . The night we argued, the night he insulted my father and I told him I was done. The night I last spoke to him. Did he write this as I stormed about the camp rather than follow after me? Does it contain an explanation or an apology? Was he still angry when he wrote it or contrite? Do I even want to read it? I know one thing. I would like to have had the chance. 

Círdan, however, is completely unperturbed by my rage. 

“Náro himself gave me instructions not to give it to you until you were ready to read it. I have been following his wishes.” 

“And now you have decided I am ready? How do you even know? Who are you . . . Both of you, to act in judgement over me?” 

“There is no judgement here.” Glorfindel says firmly. “It is not about that. It is about grief, and we have been waiting, patiently, for you to find your way through that.” 

“You have no rights over me. Neither of you! Who are you anyway Glorfindel, to be involved in this? You are nothing to do with me. Why must you insert yourself in every area of my life?” 

“You know why.” He stares me down and he will always win. “Círdan has been given the right to decide the fate of this letter by the one who wrote it, as his father. And I? I insert myself in your life because Finderáto  requested it of me. I act for your father in absentia, and I will keep doing so as long as it is necessary.” 

“Well you will be pleased to know it is not necessary as I am well and truly grown.” 

“I will be the judge of that,” he says. He is beyond frustrating. “Be honest with yourself, Gildor. Had you received this letter on the battlefield, or anytime since, what would you have done? Hidden it? Destroyed it? You most certainly would not have read it.” 

He most probably is absolutely right. But surely that choice was for me to make no matter how foolish it may have been. 

“Náro was desperate for you to read what he has written here. Whatever it is, he wanted you to know it. I had to make sure that happened. I could not leave it to chance. It was the last thing he asked of me and we both knew it would be when he asked it.” 

Círdan’s explanation stops me in my tracks. I remember that study of Gil-galad, perfectly preserved. I remember questioning if I had failed him as I have failed Elrond, wrapped in myself as I have been. The last thing Náro asked of him. The last request of a son to a father—because truly that was what he was to Artanáro. Can I begrudge him attempting to fulfil that? Am I angry at the wrong person? 

“He should not have placed conditions on the reading of it. If it was a letter to me and I chose not to read it, so be it. It was an unfair thing he asked of you.” 

“Perhaps,” Círdan nods his head in agreement. “But he asked it all the same. He was not perfect, as none of us are. Once it was asked I had to fulfil it for him. How could I not? I know how hard it was for you to sit in his study, reading his letters. I know. Yet you did it, and not for your own sake. For a child he would want you to protect. He would be proud of what you have achieved. I have waited long enough. This one thing, this last thing he asked . . . Finally I will fulfil it. Will you take it?” 

He picks the letter up from where I have left it lying, holding it out for me to take, and what else can I do? Turn it down? Not allow him to do this one last thing for the boy he loved? I cannot do that. I have no choice. 

I take it. 

But I do not open it now. Perhaps I never will. Instead I tuck it in a pocket, close to my heart. 

“He has left you a gift also.”

A gift? The two of them have sat on a gift as well? 

“A gift you deemed me not ready for also?” 

“Exactly,” Círdan simply lets my sarcasm flow over him. “A gift from Artanáro and Finrod, the both of them.” 

“They do not even know each other!” 

“But they do” he says calmly. “You know of Elostirion?” 

“Of course I do. But that is a gift for Elendil. Not for me.” He knows this. I know he knows it. 

He shakes his head.

“It is for you.” 

“Why would I want to gaze across the waters? Why would Gil-galad think I wanted that? Let alone my father!” I turn to Glorfindel to help me for surely he sees this is nonsense. But help he does not. 

“Think, Gildor, think!” is all he says. 

“I am thinking and what I think is that you have both lost your minds.” 

“Elendil brought the palantíri from Númenor along with communication from Finrod. Detailed communication, for Artanáro telling him exactly what must be done with them and why—”

“That is not how it was!” I interrupt Glorfindel in the midst of his bizarre explanation. “My father was not involved at all in that.” 

“How do you think they got palantíri, made by Feanor himself, to Men, Gildor, without involvement of Feanor’s family—The High King of the Noldor’s family—themselves?” Glorfindel says from his corner. “Do you think Finarfin simply let random Elven traders give his dead brothers treasures away?” 

He has a point. 

“Do you have any idea how hard and fast Finrod must have had to talk to achieve that?” 

“I had not thought . . . But why would he do that?” 

“Why?” He throws his hands in the air as if I am the biggest fool he has ever met. “Because he is trapped there in Valinor, raging against the Valar when he wishes to be here. Because you are here. Because he spends his time plotting and planning and conniving to reach you.” 

“Building me a tower to look at Tol Eressa is not going to achieve that.” I protest. 

“It will when there is a matching tower, complete with Palantír, waiting in Tol Eressa. Tol Eressa, where Finrod can easily travel with the help of his Teleri cousins. The Tower of Avallónë and the master stone.” 

Even with him spelling it out so clearly for me it takes time for the wheels to click over in my mind . . . Until I realise. 

“I can see him . . .” It is like a slow and incredulous dawning in my mind. “I can see him in the palantír. If I go to Elostirion?” 

“Yes.” Glorfindel sits back with folded arms as if he is quite pleased with himself for finally having got through to me. “Likely we will have to wait, let them know we are there and then wait for them to fetch him.”

“We?” 

“Well do you know how to use a palantír without me there?” 

Of course I do not. I will have to take him with me. 

“But wait . . .” There is a flaw in his scenario. “The stone in Tol Eressa does not communicate with the others. I know that much, Glorfindel. I am not completely uneducated.” 

“It does not communicate with anyone but you, a Finwëon . . . or Artanis or Elrond most likely. Not with the Men . . . No. Not with Elendil.”

“So . . . ” I am feeling particularly slow as I put the pieces of their puzzle together bit by bit but it seems too incredible to believe. “Gil-galad was Finwëon . . . ”

“And he used it, yes” Círdan completes the thought for me. “As instructed by Finrod in his letter, to speak with him, to get it right . . . For you. It works.” 

“It works . . . ”

It is both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. 

But also, Náro has spoken with my father and not told me. That hurts. It hurts like a knife through my chest, that knowledge. How could he do that to me? 

“So,” Glorfindel claps his hands together. “We go tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” That is too soon. Too sudden. Too near. 

“Of course,” he says. “It is on our way to Imladris.” 

“We should go to Imladris first, deliver the documents, and then come back, surely?” That would at least buy me some time to get my head around this. 

“Do not prove us right, Gildor.” Glorfindel frowns at me with his most disapproving frown. 

“Prove you right?” 

“Prove us right for keeping this from you for so long. Prove it is something you cannot face, that we should have waited longer, that you are not ready.” 

He knows me too well, and even though I know it is a trap I walk straight into it. 

“I am ready and you were wrong to keep this from me, all of you. The two of you and Gil-galad!” 

“Then we go tomorrow to set it right. I will not have you wait a minute longer if that is the case.” 

I can feel his words manipulating me, pushing me into something I do not want but I cannot resist but let them. 

“Elrond will worry if we are delayed,” It is my last ditch attempt to escape. “You said we may have to wait. It could be some time . . . ”

“Círdan will send a message telling him we go exploring.” 

“Why would we go exploring?”

“Why would we not?” He has answer for every objection I place in front of him. 

“I suppose Elrond knows all this too,” that realisation just dawns on me. “I suppose the three of you have gossiped behind my back all these years about my ‘readiness’ .” 

“He knows of the letter, yes.” Glorfindel says firmly, “though he does not know we give it to you. And he does not know of the tower. Círdan, Ereinion and I were always the only ones to know that. You can decide if you tell him . . . Or not.” 

Well at least there is that. One person I do not have to feel completely betrayed by. 

“Artanis does not know of this either,” Glorfindel says softly, as if he seeks to make things better for me somehow. “It is your choice if you tell her also.” 

My aunt. I have seen her grief for Finrod. Of course I will tell her. I am as angry on her behalf about this secret as I am on mine. At least she has not been watching and waiting with me unknowing all this time. Not about this, anyway. 

“Will you accept their gift?” Círdan has been quiet for a long time and it startles me as he speaks. 

Suddenly it does not feel like a gift at all, but what can I do? Turn it down and have them think I am somehow flawed? I have no options. 

“I will accept it. We go tomorrow,” I sigh, “but it is a poisoned chalice you give me.” 

“As long as you drink from it.” Glorfindel replies. “As long as you drink from it, and take the chance to see if it really is poisoned or not.” 

The sight of Elostirion fills me with dread. 

Is it foreboding—my foresight that I should be taking notice of? Or is it just me; Gildor, frightened Finrod might discover I am not quite the son he imagined? 

Whatever, Glorfindel is not remotely perturbed, striding ahead while I lag reluctantly behind. 

“It’s a bit of a climb,” he cheerfully calls back to me as he enters. “I hope you are ready for that.” 

But I am not ready for it at all. I am not ready for any of it, and I begin to wonder if I was foolish to be so angry with Glorfindel and Círdan when they suggested that was so. 

It is as if an invisible door blocks my way as I hesitate at the entrance. 

“Gildor,” For some reason Glorfindel drops his usual sarcasm when he turns, from a fair way up the stairs, to look back at me. “You will not be meeting Finrod today. There is no chance of that. He does not live his life waiting at Avallónë for us to appear. Come on boy, there is nothing to worry about here today.” 

It is enough to get me moving, one foot in front of the other  plodding up those stairs. 

The palantír sits in the middle of the top tier of the tower looking so innocuous and benign, a dark, black orb of nothing. How it possibly lead me to my father? 

“You will need to open a connection” Gorfindel is saying. “It will not respond to me. I can support you after that. That worked well with Ereinion. Communicate in thoughts and images. They will not be able to hear you speak.” 

It is all very well for him to tell me to open a connection. Just how do I do that? 

“Face west,” he says, “Place a hand on the Palantír and imagine what it is you want, who it is you try to reach.” 

And so, reluctantly, I reach out gingerly to touch it, smooth and cool beneath my fingers. Imagine what it is you want,what is that exactly when I do not even want to be here. A picture of my father floats into my mind but he is vague, edges and details blurred. And the stone remains as it was, black, cool, passive and empty. 

What did I expect? 

“It is no good, Glorfindel,” I sigh. “Just because Gil-galad could get this to work does not mean I can. His power was far greater than mine will ever be.” 

“Nonsense!” Glorfindel is not in the mood for my excuses. “Finrod would not have sent this, made Ereinion build this tower, if he did not believe you could manipulate the stone.”

“He does not know me!”

“He knows the very heart of you. More effort, boy. Concentrate! Think on the sea that lies between you. I know that uplifts you.” 

And so I try again, because he will not let me get away with not.

I think of that day by the sea long ago, when Gil-galad told me who Annatar truly was . . . of the pull from my father I felt to go over, across the sea, to see him. It was wild, powerful and exhilarating that day. It gave me such power I felt I could cross it on my own accord. Then Náro is there. He forces himself into my imaginings as he forced his way through my longing for Valinor then. The firmness of his grip upon my collar as he hauled me from the waves, the desperation in his voice, the sudden surge of desire that took me completely by surprise. And beneath my hand the stone begins to warm. 

It takes me by surprise as the solid black darkness swirls, lightens and eventually dissolves into a face . . .  A startled, anxious elven face. 

“Who are you! Who is there!” 

His words echo loudly around my head disconcertingly . He speaks Quenya in an accent  which is very thick and most strange. It all distracts me so badly I forget Glorfindel’s instructions about thinking and not speaking.

“I am Gildor Inglorion,” I tell him but behind me I hear Glorfindel. 

“Think it Gildor! Send him an image of who you are.”

An image of who I am? 

It is not easy, and in the end I am lost amongst the dappled green of the trees I grew up in, the stone walls of Nargothrond, the golden gloriousness of my father, the salty taste of the sea. Whatever I manage to send is not satisfactory enough for the elven stranger however for if anything he becomes more agitated . 

“Who are you? Declare yourself!” 

Then suddenly Glorfindels hand falls upon mine against the stone, firm and certain, and my mind is filled with the spires of a marble city, the roaring flames of a balrog, and light—so much light.

“We are Glorfindel of Gondolin, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, and  Gildor Inglorion of Nargothrod.” His voice rings imperative and commanding in my head. “We come seeking Findaráto Arafinweon.” 

And the elf disappears. 

“He has let go of the stone,” Glorfindel mutters behind me. “What kind of fools does Findaráto have standing watch? I am not that frightening.” 

I have some sympathy for the jittery elf across the sea. After all I was rather taken aback by my first meeting with Glorfindel also. It is but seconds before he appears back before us. 

“My Lords, forgive me,” The feeling of words inside my head yet not hearing them with my ears is almost eerie. “Findaráto is not here. We will send messengers.” 

“How far away?” Glorfindel asks and a city of white, upon a hill, a tower with a silver lantern floats through my minds eye and across the face of the Palantír as he speaks. 

“Tell him we will wait.” Glorfindel’s words in my head startle me, they are so loud and the vision so distracting.  Then the elf  is gone. The city vanishes. The Palantír is dark as if it had never shown us visions at all. 

“So Tirion then.” Glorfindel removes his hand from the now docile palantír and so I do also. “We have a few days to wait. That is presuming they can locate Finrod easily there. He has a habit of wandering.” 

“A few days?” How long exactly is his few I wonder?  Was that Tirion I just saw in the Palantír? Subconsciously I place my hand upon my fathers Tirion dagger at my waist, where it always sits. 

“Two?” Glorfindel shrugs. “They must travel there and back and across the sea from Alqualondë. Time enough for us to work on some focus for your imaging. A bit scattered it was for that poor lad who has not set foot on Arda for an age . . If, infact, ever.” 

He turns to walk towards the stairs.

“I suppose,” I say as I follow after him, “it was easier with Gil-galad.” How I am supposed to get more focused I do not know. 

“Not at all.” Glorfindel does not even turn around as he answers me. “He struggled. It was a stilted conversation with he and Finrod, but still that was enough. The Nolofinweons have ever had less ability at this than those of Arafinwë. Their talents lie in other directions. When you have shed the ties that bind you you will be much smoother at this than he.” 

“What ties?” I ask him but he ignores me. Instead he changes the subject.

“Come on lad, we have a camp to make. Let us sleep under the stars.” And he is off, taking the stairs two at a time, my question left unanswered. 

Sleeping under the stars at the foot of the tower is not unpleasant, in fact I am in my element. Glorfindel, however, is a taskmaster. When he said we would work on my abilities he was not joking . I frustrate him, I know I do. I frustrate myself. Always it seems things are just out of reach, just on the edge of my  capability and I wonder, how could I have inherited nothing  of my fathers talents? It seems so unfair. After a night spent in starlight Glorfindel sets me tasks that leave me both aggravated and and disheartened. I am glad when the sun begins to set and he calls an end to my torture. 

“This is hopeless,” I tell him but he is undaunted. 

“Go for a walk and return in a better mood,” is all he says. 

When I return he has not seen sense though he has cooked what smells like a delicious meal.

“I know it is frustrating,” he tells me, “but you have made progress. I know you do not see it, but I do.”

“You see what you want to see, Glorfindel, not what is there . . . Which is nothing.” 

“Nothing?” He says with mock incredulity. “Nothing? Who was it who saw the truth of Annatar? Not Ereinion, not Elrond, not Celebrimbor son of Curufin.” 

“I saw it but did not understand it. That is worse than not seeing it at all, and just as useless.” 

He does not correct me but instead hands me a plate full of food and we eat, me in silence, and he, watching me as if he weighs something up in his mind. It is very disconcerting. 

“It will be alright tomorrow,” he says in the end. “I know you worry but you will see your father just as you remember him and he? He will see the beauty of your soul as he has known it since before you were born. You have always been perfect in his eyes.” 

“I am not good enough, Glorfindel. I am just a small, ordinary, Laiquendi with no particular talent and Finrod, King of Nargothrond deserves better for a son.” 

“That may be how you see yourself but it is not how we see you, Gildor. That is not the truth of it.” He frowns across the fire at me. “Have you read Ereinion’s letter?” 

“No I have not. I will read it when I am ready. What has that to do with anything? Have you read it?” 

“Of course I have not!” He is offended by my suggestion. “But I know how he saw you and I imagine his letter does not describe you as small and ordinary. If you wish to know how anyone outside of your own head sees Gildor of Nargothrond you should read it. Are you not brave enough?” 

I know what he does. He is trying to goad me into opening it. I know it but I cannot resist it. 

“My ability to read a letter defines my courage now?” I cry. “How little you think of me!” 

“Your ability to face up to what you are to others does, yes. You can look that in the eye or you can continue to hide behind these falsehoods you tell yourself.” 

“I do not tell myself falsehoods. Look at me!” 

“Read the letter,” he replies firmly, arms crossed in front of him. “if you dare.” 

He has backed me into a corner. If I refuse to read it he will call me a coward. I cannot have that. Before I can even think I am hauling it out of my bag, waving it in front of him, tearing it open. 

“I can read it when I want.” I say with false bravado , “I am not bothered.” 

And then,

And then Náro’s words sit in my lap and I cannot avoid them. 

And then I must look down and see what it is he has said. 

My name on the page burns a hole through my heart. 

Gildor,

I write this in the desperation that one day you may bring yourself to read it though I have little hope of that. 

Please know that I am sorry. 

Sorry for the words I threw at you that have no truth to them. Sorry for the slurs against your father I knew would hurt but do not believe. Sorry for not being able to pay attention to your warnings. I have heard them. No blame for my decisions lies at your door. I must do what I must do, warning or no warning. Most of all I am sorry I cannot follow you and apologise in person. I cannot say these words face to face. I must rely on hope that one day you will see them. 

I do not kid myself I will return tomorrow. You are right. Fingolfin? Fingon? I allow myself to follow in their footsteps to my death. It seems us Nolofinweons are to have no choice in that. 

Know that more than anything I would have you—of any—there at the end, but I cannot. Sauron will see Finrod in your face and he will hurt you for it. He will see you written across my heart and you will become a weapon he can crush me with. I cannot have that. I will not have you damaged for my sake. 

When I look back across my life you are there, brighter than any star, flooding it with your light, bringing me joy. I will hold on to that joy tomorrow when light runs out for me. I will take it forward with me to the Halls. I will hold it up before Mandos himself. I will bring it with me to Valinor when I eventually return, and I will find you. I will search every inch of that place and I will find you. 

Until then, take care. Watch over Elrond for me, for though he is now a leader of elves, a bringer of healing, one of whom I am inordinately proud, still in his heart is the battered and lonely boy Maedhros delivered to me. You were his first friend, and are his best friend, and so I charge you with this. 

I have left a gift for you, from your father and from myself.  Cirdan guards it and will know when you are ready for it. If you read this I hope it is now. Know Finrod has poured his soul into this. He left me no choice but to obey. He is a force to be reckoned with.

He waits for you. 

He loves you .

As I do.

Until we meet again,

Always,

Náro 

They dance around the paper as if they have a mind of their own, those words, blurred by my traitorous tears. I do not want to weep in front of Glorfindel, once was enough for that, so hurriedly I wipe them away, but of course he sees. 

“Difficult?” His tone has changed. Gone is the cutting sarcasm, instead he is the quiet, considerate version of Glorfindel. 

“Yes.” 

He says no more, asks no questions, but I am left overwhelmed by the weight of this. It crushes me. 

Throwing the letter to one side I get to my feet and pace, back and forth, round and round, but I cannot escape it. Perhaps if I were to run across the fields, beneath the stars? I consider it, but deep within I know I cannot outrun it. 

Everything is changed. Every moment, every interaction with Náro I filter though in my memories looks different. Every nuance, every touch, every word holds another meaning. 

“Why did he not tell me this?” I cry to Glorfindel—who sits silently watching me pace around him. “This is not fair!” 

“Would you have heard it?” 

Would I? Not at first certainly, but perhaps . . . After that day by the sea, all those times I wondered if I had made a mistake, if I should ask . . . Let him know my doubts . . . Perhaps I would have heard it. 

“I at least deserved the opportunity to see, to make my own decisions armed with all the facts!” 

“Did you not tell him firmly you wished nothing to do with anything more than friendship?” 

“Once I did. . . once. . . early on. That is not justification for never speaking to me honestly.” Just like that my confusion coalesces into anger. “You were right, of course, and my Aunt, the both of you were right.” 

“How so?” He raises a laconic eyebrow.

“I was manipulated at the Last Alliance. It is all written there.” I gesture to  letter lying on the ground. “The insults to my father. . . All calculated to send me away—stop me following him.” 

“You have long known this, Gildor,” he says quietly. 

“No,” I correct him. “It was a possibility which I hoped was not true.” 

“You know my thoughts on this,” he says. “You know I am not best pleased with Ereinion about it but remember it was done to protect you and his rationale was sound. Sauron would have seen right through you to Finrod and right through Ereinion to you.” 

“I am so sick of this! What is wrong with me that you all think I am not allowed to live my own life and make my own decisions? Why do you all feel

you must rush around preventing me making any missteps? Did any of you stop to consider I might wish to face Sauron for my fathers sake. . . To avenge him?” 

“That would have ended in disaster, Gildor, and changed nothing.” 

“But it would have been my disaster, of my choosing. My Father was allowed his foolish decisions, and so was Gil-galad, but me? Oh no. So what if I tore that letter to shreds and lived to always regret it. That is my mistake to make. Do not write me an apology and ban me from reading it. I am not a child! I am sick of you all treating me as one. Sick of it!” 

We are left staring at each other by the end of my tirade, when words have abandoned me, for what seems like the longest time, then finally he speaks.

It is not the response I expected.

“You are right,” he says . “You are master of your own destiny, not Findaráto and not Ereinion. You should be free to make your own errors. I am sorry for any part in this I have played.” 

His unexpected apology upends me and I am left speechless.

“Remember though,” he adds as I sit down with a thud beside him, “they did these things because they love you, Gildor, both of them. Always remember that.”