Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 11

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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.