Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 13

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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.