Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 15

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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.”