Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 14

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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.”