Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 3

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Gildor

Second Age

It is impossible to get used to the disconcerting effect of a King appearing unannounced at your door. 

 

“Good morning, cousin. Are you well?”

 

It was early—very early. I had little sleep, and he was entirely unexpected. The end effect was the removal of my ability to speak politely. 

 

“What are you doing? Are you mad?” 

 

Behind him the sun was spreading its first light across the dark sky, Earendil probably still up there on his travels. 

 

But Gil-galad had an annoying habit of completely ignoring me. He pushed past me instead of answering, sitting himself at my table. 

 

“Not well then? The wine still affecting you?”

 

“What?” He left me standing in the doorway utterly confused, wondering why he had emerged into the middle of my home before the birds were awake, in such an irritating good mood. 

 

“The wine . . . Last night, you complained it made you ill.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, “at least that was how you explained your very odd behaviour with Tyelpe.” 

 

The wine . . . That feeling of ice cold chill that engulfed me. I had only just emerged from it, spending most of the night tossing and turning amidst an unidentifiable feeling of dread. Such nonsense really, though in the midst of the night I had thought to speak with Galadriel about it, now in the cold light of day it seemed ridiculous. 

 

“I am fine.” I snapped, embarrassed by the reminder of my childishness. “If you came here simply to inquire about my health you can be reassured and leave.” 

 

“Ouch.” He winced at the cut of my words, and instantly I regretted them. I did not know what it was about him that made me so eternally bad-tempered. “Actually, I remembered this interest in the sea Galadriel spoke to me about and thought to invite you out to fish with me this morning, but if you are not in the mood—” 

 

Was he serious? An invitation to venture onto those boats I had yearned for since my arrival? 

 

“Yes! No! What I mean to say is, that would be most appreciated.” I sounded like a babbling fool but he only laughed. 

 

“Well move then. We have much to do.” 

 

What did you take with you on a boat? 

 

He strode through the streets, face stern, seemingly blind to the curious faces staring . . . murmuring as he past, even at that early time of day. I struggled to keep abreast of him. 

 

“Do you do this often then?” I asked as way of conversation, “go on the boats with your men?” 

 

“We go on my boat.” He answered and I felt a small curl of disappointment. Not those small bobbing fishing boats then, but something larger, more impressive, the Kings boat. Still it would be better than nothing. Even that was exciting. 

 

“I go every week.” He continued, “It helps me remember Artanáro.”

 

“And who is he?” 

 

He turned to me in surprise. 

 

“Son of Findekáno.” 

 

Well that made no sense but if he did not wish to tell me, so be it. 

 

As we turned the corner, into the narrow streets winding down to the docks things changed. The stares and whispers that followed us faded away and ceased, instead men smiled, called out to him, “Rodnor!” slapping him on the shoulder as he passed. And his stride slowed. It became less focused, had more bounce. He called them by name in reply. 

 

“Where have you been?” one approached us with a smile. “You are late. Did you sleep in?” 

 

“Not me,” Gil-Galad laughed. “My companion, however is not a sailor. He has much to learn about rising early to get the best fish.” 

 

“You have much work to do with him then,” he said, looking me up and down with frank curiosity before moving away towards a huddle of them in the midst of the small boats. “Good luck with that Rodnor.” 

 

“What is that they call you?” I asked in the end. I could hear them laughing behind me and I was sure it was at the prospect of me on a boat. Perhaps they were right, it was a comical idea. 

 

“Rodnor?” Again he looked surprised. “It is my name. These are Cirdan’s people—fishermen and shipwrights. I grew up with these men when Cirdan took me for safe-keeping. Rodnor is what they called me— Sindarin for my father-name, Artanáro. It is as I told you before. Here I am Artanáro or Rodnor both. There is no Gil-Galad here. Not as far as they are concerned.”

 

He came to sudden stop, beside one of the small fishing boats, so unexpectedly I almost ran into him. 

 

“Here she is!” 

 

“Here is who?” There was no one there besides the other fishermen. 

 

“Írissë, my boat.” 

 

“But it is ordinary!” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I thought—”

 

“You thought she would be something more fit for a King? Something grander? I told you. Here I am Artanáro. This is his boat. Írissë was my aunt, as Galadriel is yours . . . Except I never knew her, so you are luckier than I in that. From what I have been told of her she would have loved adventuring upon the wild of the sea, so it seemed fitting.” 

 

I discovered sailing and fishing was hard work. While the boats looked graceful from the shore it involved sheer hard manpower to keep them that way, and the nets we hauled in were heavy. And yet it thrilled me. My hair stuck to my face with sea spray, my skin tasted of salt, my arms ached, and it was all perfect. 

Gil-Galad was a master of it all. While I struggled he made it look easy. He barely broke a sweat. 

 

“You will have to strengthen those arms,” he laughed at me, “if you wish to manage anything at all next week!” 

 

“Next week?” What did he mean?

 

“I come down every week. I thought we might make it a regular appointment.” He said nonchalantly as if he cared not if I came or not. 

 

“You would catch more fish without me.” It was only the truth. I was a hinderance. 

 

“I do not come here for the fish.” 

 

“Náro!” There was a shout from the shore. “Náro!” His head whipped round to look and he sighed heavily, beginning to haul the boat around. 

 

“It seems my time is up.” 

 

“Náro?” I asked him.

 

“It is Cirdan. Either he has urgent news or he simply tells me I have dallied to long. Artanáro is a mouthful to shout across the sea.” 

 

“Náro . . . I like it.”  It suited this relaxed, sea-faring version of him far better than Gil-galad.

 

“I give you permission to use it then.” He looked up from his work and smiled. “It is for family only and you are that.” 

 

“Náro on the sea, Gil-Galad in the palace.” 

 

“If you must,” he laughed. “Crazy Teleri.” 

 

I went with him the next week, and the week after that, and the next, until it was as if that was how it had always been, and I loved it. I became so good at sailing it felt as if the sea itself flowed through my veins. Then he invited me up to the palace afterwards once. . . twice . . . every time.. .  To sit, drink and talk. He told me in detail the burden of the kingship, and before I knew it he was asking my advice. What did my people need? How were the Laiquendi coping with the Sindar? the Noldor? What did they need from him as a King? Lindon had become such a mingling of elves, he said. He needed help to understand them all. It surprised me to discover I was happy to give it. 

 

I was, during those years in Lindon, the happiest I have ever been. Throughout my growing I had never had a true friend, an equal, someone whose company I enjoyed quite as much, someone who I knew had my back always. It was a gem and I treasured it—Gil-galad’s friendship. 

 

“I have invited a guest today,” he announced one evening to my resentment. I enjoyed our time together. I did not wish to sit through drinks with a tedious stranger. 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Come on Gildor,” he laughed at my reluctance. “I need your help with him. He is family. You have heard of Elrond?” 

 

Of course I had heard of Elrond.

 

“Earendil’s son.” 

 

“Yes. He is young, lonely, unhappy. He struggles with the loss of his brother.”

 

“His brother is not lost!” I knew that much. I had heard the story. “He is King of the Men.”

 

“Lost to Elrond . . . Or he will eventually be.” 

 

“How can I help you with him then?” I sighed in the end. I knew he would not give up nagging me to do so.

 

“He needs a friend.” 

 

“I am no good at being a friend, Náro.” 

 

“On the contrary. I happen to know you make an excellent friend. Look . . . ” He leant forward to fill my glass and I was grateful for it if I must try to befriend this strange Noldor. “He does not fit here. He has been trying but he is awkward . . .neither Noldor nor Sindar. His upbringing has been . . . Rather eccentric, you could say.” 

 

“I have heard he picks fights with those from Doriath and Sirion about the Fëanorions and I am no friend of theirs either. This will not go well, Gil-Galad.” 

 

“Perhaps those from Doriath and Sirion pick fights with him?” 

I simply shook my head, and he sighed. 

 

“I know he is sensitive to criticism of Maedhros and Maglor. I know that does not go down well with many. I have spoken to him many times, encouraged him to hold his tongue. But people goad him, Gildor. To all intents and purposes they were his fathers. His parents left him as a small child to fulfil their own purposes. You of all people know how that feels. Maedhros and Maglor—heaven knows I find their deeds atrocious—but to Elrond they were care and security, they were all he had.”

 

“They are kin-slayers. Of his own kin.” 

 

“Careful.” He frowned. “I knew Maedhros. I loved him too. Fingon loved him and he was nothing but good to me.” 

The knock on the door saved us from spiralling into dangerous territory.

 

“Does he know who I am?” I asked urgently, before he arrived amongst us.

 

“Of course not! That is your story to tell. I would like you to tell him but I will not do it for you.” 

 

Elrond reminded me of me. 

 

He stood—when he entered—just inside the door, awkward and uncertain, young— just out of boyhood, and I was reminded of the evening when I first came here unbidden , walking in on Gil-galad and Celebrimbor, their companionship  evident, me on the outside. 

 

And as he had done then for me Gil-galad leapt in to making Elrond welcome. 

 

“Elrond,” he smiled warmly, “there is a seat here for you and a drink. Come sit.” 

And Elrond sat, looking very much as if he wished he did not have to be there at all. Fists clenched, shuffling in his seat he was clearly nervous and I realised with a start those nerves were about meeting me. Still to give him credit, he nodded his head and introduced himself before I could.

 

“Elrond Ma—”

 

“So this is Gildor, Elrond.” To my astonishment Gil-galad leaned across, cutting the boy off before he had managed to get his name out. It was incredibly rude and quite unlike him. I was taken aback and hurried to cover his rudeness with an introduction of my own. 

 

“Gildor of Nargothrond. It is a pleasure meeting you.” I threw a frown towards Gil-galad. What was that about?  

 

“Nargothrond?” Elrond seemed to take the kings rudeness in his stride. His eyes lit up at the mention of my old home. “You escaped Nargothrond?” 

 

Barely anyone escaped Nargothrond. 

 

All those I knew perished there, Orodreth included. I carried that guilt with me like an open wound upon my heart. Would any of it have been different if I had stayed? 

 

“I left well before Nargothrond fell,” I told him. “I was only a child.” 

 

“Oh!” He had only just sat down yet he leapt to his feet again. “I have something I must show you. May I?” He looked to Gil-galad who humoured him with a nod and then he was gone, off out the door he had just entered. 

 

And I took the opportunity that presented to challenge the King. 

 

“What was that?  You barely let him speak. I thought you wished me to look out for him yet you trample over the boy.” 

 

And he sighed heavily.

 

“He insists on labelling himself Maglorion. I wished to avoid a confrontation before the conversation had even begun.” 

 

“He what? Son of Maglor? What of Eärendil? What of—”

 

“You see.” Gil-galad cut me off also. “This is exactly why I stopped him. To avoid this.” 

 

“No wonder those from Doriath and Sirion are upset!” 

 

“I have spoken to him at length,” Gil-galad sighed. “He is determined. I cannot move him on this—”

 

He stopped himself from saying anything further as the door swung open. 

 

Elrond had brought us a book. 

 

He held it tightly against his chest, cradling it if it were a breakable treasure, and Gil-galad laughed. 

 

“A book! I should have known. Elrond collects books.” He told me with a smile.

 

“I collect knowledge.” Elrond said firmly as he sat down. “There is nothing more important, cousin.” 

 

“My father collected knowledge.” I do not even know why I say it. It is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “He had a library full of books. He even wrote some himself.” 

 

“Oh!” Elrond is excited by that information. “Was he a scribe?” 

 

Was he a scribe? No. But I could hardly say he was a king.

 

“Of a sort.” I glared across the table at Gil-Galad. If he thought hearing Finrod described as a scribe at all funny then he had better not show it. 

 

“I found this book in the market,” Elrond told me. “The man selling it had no idea what it what he had and I have no idea how he came to have it, but you may like to see it.” And with that he laid it gently on my lap, watching eagerly as I opened it. 

 

Inside the covers was something priceless. It was my childhood.

 

Page upon page of intricate, drawings lay there. Every detail of Nargothrond from the colour of the hallway stone to the favourite blue tunic of one of my tutors. Their faces were exact in detail. These were real people to me. I could name them all. 

 

“Do you recognise it?” I could feel the nervous excitement in Elrond’s voice as he leaned towards me. “Could you tell me of them? Names . . . Who they are?” 

 

“I remember these people. I can tell you about them, certainly.”  I could not lift my eyes from the page. 

 

“If I could write it down, some of their stories, for others to read, Nargothrond would not be quite as lost.” 

 

And suddenly . . . There is he is. 

 

I turned a page, moving from one detailed scene to another and my father leapt out at me from the page. His face was perfect . . . As exactly Finrod as I could remember. Better than I could remember because for the longest time he had become just a golden blur in my mind. All of a sudden he was real . . . In front of me, as if he would stride from the pages, swing me over his shoulder and out into the gardens to play. 

 

“He is glorious is he not?” Elrond said beside me, eyes glowing, “I wish I had known him.” but Gil-galad quietly placed a hand upon mine, as my fingers traced across my fathers features. 

 

“Gildor?” he asked softly, “are you alright?” 

 

It was not until I raised my head to look at him I tasted the salt of the tears running down my cheeks. 

 

“I had forgotten what he looked like.” 

 

“Forgotten?” Gil-galad did not understand that. Then carefully he lifted the book from my lap, closing it shut on Finrod, handing it back to Elrond. “I think you have had enough.” 

 

I thought perhaps he was right. 

 

“I would be happy to talk to you about these pictures,” I told Elrond. “Tomorrow?” 

 

“Tomorrow.” He smiled as if I had just gifted him the world. “Tell me,” he continued, “Do you know this name?” He turned carefully to the front, to the name of the man who created this repository of my memories, and I do know him.

 

“My fathers chief scribe. I did not know he had such artistic talent.” 

 

“Your father ran Finrod’s library?” Elrond said it with a hushed reverence as if doing such a thing was a wonder. I do not know what made me do it. Because he reminded me so strongly of my younger self? Because he had just given me the precious gift of showing me that book? Because my father was sitting fresh, his memory renewed, in my mind? 

 

“My father was Finrod.” 

 

I do not think I had ever said that out loud. The astonishment upon his face was most amusing and disbelievingly he turned to Gil-galad. I think he thought I mocked him. 

 

“It is true.” Gil-galad nodded. “Not many of us know this. Family only, Elrond.” 

 

“How?” Elrond swivelled back to face me. “Why does no-one know this?”

 

“My father wanted it that way.” I hoped he did not ask any further questions for truly I could not answer them. 

 

“Keep this to yourself.” Gil-galad told him firmly, putting a stop to any potential inquisition. 

 

“Well that much is obvious. I am not a child, Gil.” In that moment, a hint of scowl upon his face, Elrond looked exactly that. 

 

“You should have this.” He said to me then, pushing the book towards me. “Obviously it is destined for you. You have far more rights to it than I” 

 

But I raised up a hand and refused him. I was not even sure why. That light in his eyes as he spoke of collecting knowledge was so like my father when he told me of the dwarves, of the men, all the strange and exotic places he had been and suddenly I was certain the right place for that book was with Elrond. 

 

“You keep it. I know you will keep it safe. I may ask to borrow it occasionally though, little cousin.” 

 

I remembered how comforting it was when Celebrimbor first called me that all those years ago, the feeling of connection it gave me. Perhaps I could pass that on—share some of it with this young man. It felt as if he needed it. Perhaps it would stop him claiming to be a Feanorion. 

 

I sat with Gil-galad after Elrond left us. He was languid and relaxed as he seldom was, leaning back in his chair, drink in his hand, the firelight flickering patterns across his face in the evening light. 

 

“Thank you for that,” he told me, “for telling Elrond who you are. He does not understand what that cost you, but I do.” 

 

I shrugged my shoulders as if it were nothing. 

 

“It seemed that right thing to do.” 

 

“To tell the truth,” he swirled his glass in his hand, watching the wine as it spiraled within it, “seeing that picture of Finrod, I do not understand how anyone who met him does not know your identity immediately. The likeness is uncanny.” He paused to take a breath, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “You have his beauty.” 

 

I laughed, for surely he gently mocked me.

 

“Oh of course,” I grinned, “I am the spitting image of the glorious Finrod.” 

 

“You are.” I had to give it to him, he seemed deadly serious. 

 

“Enough, Náro. Everyone knows I pale in comparison. In Nargothrond they all speculated I was a foundling and not his son at all.” 

 

“Then they were fools, or blind. I, however, am neither.” 

 

Deep in the pit of my stomach discomfort began to churn, a flicker of worry. Suddenly I was uncomfortable with the way this conversation was turning without really knowing why. 

 

“I am ordinary and that is all.” I said firmly. “Someone less like Finrod would be hard to find. Can we change the subject?” 

 

“You are not ordinary to me.” 

 

That statement hung in the air as I stared at him. 

 

“Do not mock me, Ereinion.” 

 

I never called him that. It was the name for Galadriel, Celebrimbor, the important ones who surrounded him, not me. 

 

“I am not mocking you.” His voice was soft and gentle when he spoke. “Nothing could be further from the truth.” 

 

And the penny dropped—the reason for my twisting anxiety. My life . . .  this feeling of home, his camaraderie, friendship, my newfound happiness, shattered before my eyes, as a glass falling to the floor sending shards across the room. 

 

“No.” I was on my feet then, hands in front of myself as if to defend myself from him. “No. You do not mean this.” 

 

“I do mean it.” 

 

It was if we were talking around each other, hinting at, but never speaking out loud, what lay at the centre.

 

“We are too different.” I sought to dissuade him, anything to stop this. “I am Laiquendi, you are Noldor . . . Too different Náro.” 

 

But softly he laughed,  “Not different at all, Gildor. You are Teleri, I was raised by Cirdan the shipwright.” 

 

He would not listen to me and I panicked. There was too much at stake. I had never before had friendship and I would not  lose it. 

 

“Do you think you are better than Finrod? Finrod, who of all of us, searched out difference and loved it. Finrod who discovered Men and worked with the dwarves. Are you better than he? For he could not make it work. It all fell apart for him and my mother.”

 

“I am not Finrod, Gildor. Sometimes risks are worth taking.” 

 

“You cannot do this. You cannot destroy everything like this.” 

 

“I am destroying nothing.” He reached for my hand but I would not let him take it. I would not have him undermine my resolve. “I am suggesting we build something new.” 

 

“I have never before had friendship.” I backed away, towards the door, with one last attempt to get him to understand me. “Never. You have no idea what your friendship means to me, how precious it is. I will not risk it. I will not let you take chances with it. I will not.” 

 

It was not how I imagined the evening would end, my back against the door, desperately trying to exit the room. I thought we were long past scenes like that. 

 

Long past angry exits as I fled the palace. 

 

It turned out we were not.