Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 2

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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?