Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 6

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We began preparing for war. 

 

The idea of it terrified me.  I am not a warrior—one more thing I did not inherit from Finrod—and I was too small when he left me for him to have taught me. But was is not for my sake I was afraid. It was for everyone there I cared for. 

 

I sat in meetings with Gil-galad, Círdan and Elrond while they moved pieces around maps, talked logistics and strategy and I was useless. Utterly and completely useless. Letters flew between Gil-galad and Celebrimbor, Celeborn and even the Men. Gil-galad wrote to Númenór, calling on all that effort he had poured into them but I had no idea if they answered him. 

 

Then there was the day I walked in to his study to find a stranger sitting there. 

 

For a moment,  one terrible, heart-stopping moment,  I was thrown back in time and it was Annatar before me. But this elf was not dark, he was fair, and shone, like my aunt and my father, with the light of the trees. Who was he? 

 

He turned, as I stood in the doorway, paralysed by the unexpected idea of Annatar, and his face was alight with the most blazing and glorious of smiles when he saw me. 

 

“This must be him!” he exclaimed. “It could be none other.” 

 

He was up then, before I could gather my thoughts and move, striding across the room towards me. 

 

“Gildor Inglorion,” he said, “Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo.”

What was he doing? Speaking quenya? Naming me as family to the High King in Valinor? I looked across at Gil-galad in desperation. What had he been telling him? 

The stranger stood smiling before me in anticipation.

“I am sorry,” It was not my most polite of greetings for he had flat-footed me completely, “you have me at a disadvantage.” 

“Glorfindel,” he said, hand on chest and a bow of his head, “Glorfindel of Gondolin of the House of the Golden Flower.” 

Did he ridicule me? Did he think me a fool? 

“Glorfindel of Gondolin is dead. We all know that story.” I told him flatly, for I was getting angry, and I wanted to know how he knew who I was. 

“Well of course, once dead, but now . . . Alive.” 

“This is—” 

Gil-galad cut me off before I could launch into my tirade. 

“Glorfindel has been sent to us from the west.” He said quickly, “to aid us in our fight against Sauron.” 

And all I could do was stare at him.

“Sit down,” Náro said as I stood there like a fool and the golden elf lay a hand upon my shoulder. 

“It is somewhat daunting to get your head around, I know,” he said softly. 

I searched his beautiful face for hints, signs he was not what he seemed. How pointless it was to have foresight and yet not know how to understand it. 

“How can we trust you?” 

Across the room Gil-galad sighed, “Enough, Gildor.” 

But I ignored him. 

“We have been misled before.” 

“Understandable.” Glorfindel, if that was who he was, seemed nonplused by my lack of trust. “Come and sit like Ereinion suggests and perhaps I can prove myself to you, as I have had to do to him.” So for all his frustration with me Náro has doubted this man too. 

We sat. I was across the table from him, an empty chair beside me, and instead of a tale of justification he reached deep into a pocket, pulled out a letter, held it out for me to take, and so I did, carefully, warily, cautiously. 

When I looked down at it, it burned like a flame upon my fëa  and despite myself, in shock, I dropped it. 

Náro leant forward with urgency from his chair. 

“What is it! What did you see?” He turned to Glorfindel to accuse him. “What did you give him?” 

“What he sees,” Glorfindel replied, calmly as if Náro had simply offered him pleasantries not accusations, “is his father’s handwriting. A difficult thing, I imagine, to comprehend after so many years, yet I only guess. I have not been in the position myself.” He picks the letter up where I have let it fall, holds it out again towards me. “This is yours. I have carried it a long way to bring it to you. It is more than this new life is worth not to fail. I would rather face a Balrog than Finrod if I do not deliver this.” 

A letter. 

A letter from my father, across the sea.

A letter from my father who has been long dead for centuries. 

I do not want to believe it is true but as I gaze at it I know it is. It is his handwriting. I have not seen it since I left Nargothrond but I know it. There is no way Sauron could imitate this so perfectly, surely. 

I am not sure I want it. 

And as I stared at it lying in my hand, running my fingers across the immaculately formed letters in front of me spelling out my name —Gildor—I realised my fathers hand had touched this, not so long ago. He had held it. He had placed the wax upon it and sealed it.  

“You know my Father?” I asked the golden Glorfindel. “He gave this too you?” Then before he could reply, as pieces tumbled and fell into place, “Why is he not here? Why does he send this and not come himself?”

He laughed, it seemed incongruous, and poured himself a glass of wine before he answered me.

“Oh he has raged and fought and argued that it should be him here instead of me. His arguments were all good ones, as always. But the Valar would not allow it. It is they who pick and chose and they refused. He is incandescent with fury but they care not for that. This . . . ” he nodded to the letter I held in my hand, “is his protest, his rebellion. He fights the Valar tooth and nail and they punish him for it. They are disappointed the reborn Finrod is not as perfect as they imagined he would be.”

“Not as—” Before I could get my question out, and I had oh so many more, the door swung open. We, all three of us, raised our eyes to gaze at Elrond who, I thought, had exactly the same reaction as I. He stood rooted to the spot, face pale, and I could almost see the memories of Annatar flickering through his mind.

In front  of me our golden stranger hissed in shock. The hand holding his drink shook, briefly, slightly, almost imperceptibly. I wondered if I imagined it, it was there and gone so rapidly, that sign Elrond had unnerved him. It was as if we were frozen in a tableau. Us looking at Elrond. Elrond looking back at us. 

Gil-galad broke the spell. 

“Elrond, come and join us. Meet Glorfindel.” 

Elrond, far more educated than I, was quicker on the uptake also.

“Glorfindel? . . . Glorfindel of Gondolin? How is that possible?  . . . Yet that is who you appear to be for I have seen pictures . . .  Or are you Sauron, in yet another disguise come to trap us? If so it is foolish for we will see right through you.” 

He was braver than I. 

Glorfindel rose to his feet. Smoothly, elegantly, all equilibrium recovered as if it had never been disrupted.  

“And you,” he said, “must be Earendil’s child. Someone more like Turukáno I have yet to see.” 

“I am Elrond Maglorion and you have not answered me.” 

“Maglorion?” Glorfindel raised his eyebrows at that, “well, well, that is a surprise. Makalaurë himself may be surprised to hear that.” 

“Sit down, Elrond.” Gil-galad sighed loudly. He sounded as if he wished he had other cousins, less difficult than us, he could produce to introduce to Glorfindel. “This is indeed Glorfindel. Círdan is satisfied, I am satisfied.” 

“Why are you here? How are you here?” Elrond sat but that did not mean he was quiet. 

“I am here,” Glorfindel paused to take sip of his drink as if we indulged in a cosy fireside chat not an interrogation, “because we have heard our last remaining Fëanorion—your apparent father excepted—has seen fit to follow in the footsteps of his forebears and dance with the dark. The Valor thought, bearing in mind the problems your elders had in subduing him previously, the three of you might have need of me when it came to Sauron. If, of course, I am not helpful I am happy to return and leave you to it. Actually, no,” he muttered into his glass, “it is a staid and boring place. I would rather you could try and find me something to do.”

Even Elrond was temporarily left floundering at that. I saw him make the connections in his mind. I saw the moment he realised exactly what he had sitting in front of him, his most beloved preoccupation—knowledge. 

“You are back from the dead? You are from Gondolin itself. You have spoken with the Valar. What can you tell me?!” 

He thrummed with the excitement of it, reminding me of that young man who presented me with the book of Nargothrond when we first met. He would have us sitting here for days listening to a million questions. Gil-galad obviously realised exactly that. He was having no dissection of the life and customs of Gondolin here. 

“We need to send an army to Eregion,” he cut across Elrond’s babbling. “Will you lead it?” 

“Well I will go, certainly,” Glorfindel replied. “But would the leading not be better done by one of you?” 

“We discussed this!” That certainly diverted Elrond. “We talked about this, Gil.” 

Had we? I could not remember the specifics of that discussion. Did his ‘we’ mean us . . . Or just them? 

Gil-galad looked uncomfortable. 

“I promised Maedhros I would keep you safe,” he said. 

“You promised Maedhros that when I was little more than a child, which I am no longer! He would not wish me to avoid defending Celebrimbor! He would not wish me hide myself away from Sauron! I am well and truly ready for this task, I have been trained in the wilds by Maedhros and Maglor themselves. Do you not think they have prepared me?  . . . Or do you not trust me?” 

“I do trust you. I have seen your skill—”

“Certainly,” Glorfindel cut in,  “Maedhros was not one to hide from the dark.” 

And I realise they have discussed sending Elrond to battle, to lead Gil-galad’s army, without me. 

“And what of me?” 

My words hang in the air. 

“You stay here. That is not up for discussion.” 

I did not want to go to war. I did not want to face Sauron on the battlefield, but I did want him dead. I did want to avenge my father. I did not wish to be cosseted away in Mithlond like a child while Elrond commanded armies. 

“My uncle is there! I do not expect to command anyone but I do expect to go!” 

“No!” Gil-galad grabbed my wrist tight as I dramatically waved an arm at him to express my frustration. “Your reaction to Sauron was too severe. You will not be going anywhere near him when you do not know how to control that power. We will not have another Fingon and Gwindor at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. If Sauron discovered your parentage he would taunt you with it. I learn from their mistakes!”

“You are being unfair!” 

“I am being pragmatic. Círdan agrees. We will say no more on this.” 

“Círdan agrees? Could you not have included me in this discussion?” 

“No. Because you would behave irrationally.” 

“So Elrond is skilful and I am irrational. Is that how it is?” I was so angry, so very angry, with them all. 

“You are proving my point.” Gil-galad frowned as if I was a petulant child. 

“What power is this?” Glorfindel interrupted before I could throw something at my High King. “What is it you cannot control?” 

“He has foresight.” Frustratingly Gil-galad did not even allow me to answer. “Foresight that was undiscovered, untested and untrained. When Annatar was here attempting to deceive us Elrond and I felt disquiet. Gildor however was knocked off his feet an unidentifiable rage, barely made it out of the room, demolished his own home. There is no one here to train him so it remains uncontrolled.” 

“You overstate it.” 

“You know I do not.” 

“Were you not raised by Galadriel?” Glorfindel frowned—how did he know that? “Did she not train you?” 

“She missed it.” Gil-galad said flatly. 

“Will you let me speak!” I cried “when we discuss my own life.” I turned to Glorfindel. “I never had foresight before I came here.” 

“Well of course it would have been there,” he says. “It is not something that just…appears. I could train you somewhat. I have a modicum of power of my own, nowhere near an Arafinweion but it might do at a pinch, clumsy though I would be. But we do not have time for that I fear. I concur. Going anywhere near Sauron is best avoided, Fingon son of Fingolfin and Gwindor of Nargothrond? We do not want to repeat that scenario with Elrond, great-grandchild of Turgon and Gildor son of Finrod do we? It is all too close for comfort.” He turned to Elrond. “Am I allowed to call you that or must I somehow reference Feanor instead?” He laughed softly at his own joke while Elrond spluttered a reply.

“That is fine.” 

“Ah, so Fëanor is the limit of the Fëanorion worship then?” He did not wait for a reply, instead he nodded at me, “you should stay away and be glad of it.” 

“Celeborn is there! I should go to him.” I protested.

“Celeborn agrees also.” Gil-galad responded. 

“So you have written to him about this? Again without my knowledge?” I struggled to my feet. “Oh very well then. I understand how truly useless I am to you all now. I shall leave you in peace to discuss your wars without me.” 

“Gildor, do not do this.” Gil-galad sighed behind me. 

I did not listen. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The letters sat before me on the desk. Two of them; that day’s, and the one left behind for me on my fathers desk when I was a child. I have hauled it out of its hiding place to compare the Gildor that curls across them both. It is the same. Inextricably the same. And when I turned them over the wax that sealed them was the same also. 

There was no doubt the letter was from the hand of my Father. 

The knock at the door made me jump. I knew who it would be without even opening it. Was he here to apologise or argue? 

Neither it seemed. 

“How are you?” he asked, striding in the moment I opened the door. Such an annoying habit.  

“How should I be?” 

“I ask only because you received that letter and I thought—” His eye caught the letters sitting on my desk and he strolled over to them. “What is this? Two? What is the other?” He lifted it up and I gasped despite myself. 

“It is old! Be gentle.” 

“Where did you get this?” 

“My father left it for me when I was a child.” I had to confess it to him. 

“But Gildor,” he exclaimed, “This is still sealed. Have you never read it?”

“What point is there? What could he say that would have helped . . . And now? So long has passed. I am not that child any longer. I do not wish to read the other either. I simply had them out to compare the two, to make sure—” 

He did not let me finish. 

“I do not believe you! Why do you do this? How can you not burn to open these? Both of them? What are you afraid of?” He is almost horrified. 

“I am afraid of nothing!” I cried. 

“Then open them.” 

“ I do not need to. I do not need to see inside them.” 

“You lie,”  He said. “This is insane. Do you have any idea what I would do for a letter from Fingon now? Your rejection of these is almost offensive to me, Gildor.” He had both letters in his hands and he held them out to me. “You will open one tonight, which will it be.”

I would not be dictated to. 

“No.” 

“Then I will. It is you, or I. The choice is yours.” 

“You would not dare.”

“Oh try me.” His voice was almost threatening. “I am sick of this, Gildor. It is not good for you.”

“Since when do you know what is good for me?” 

“I know that it is not this.” He reached for the oldest, moved to open it. I almost believed he intended to after all these years . . . 

“Very well!” I cried in panic, “Very well. Give me Glorfindel’s then.” 

Letter in my hand I tore it open hurriedly, before I could change my mind, before he could open the other. Another, smaller, fell out onto the floor and when I picked it up I saw the name upon it was not mine. The handwriting, not Finrods. Confused I scanned the words while Náro stood . . . And waited. 

“What does he say?” His voice was no longer commanding, no longer forceful. Instead it was filled with soft gentleness. 

It was nothing I had not expected.

“He got my letter.” The one I sent blindly across the sea when we heard he had returned. He had received it. “He thanks me for it. Speaks of how glad he was to hear I am here and well, tells me he loves me. There is not much else.” There was more, but I did not want to tell him. It was mine. It was private. My heart pounded in my chest so I could barely focus on the words. I needed to sit with it and think. And a part of me was resentful of the fact he had forced it on me at all.

Wordlessly I handed him the other, smaller note with his name, Artanáro, inscribed across it. 

“This is for you,” I told him, and he frowned in surprise. “From Finarfin. High King to High King, my father says.”

So he had got his letter after all. 

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Chapter End Notes

Using the drafts rather than published works we are going with Finarfin’s mother name being Ingalaurë. Hence when Glorfindel refers to Gildor as Gildor Inglorion he is naming him as a grandson of the High King. 

Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo is the greeting used by Frodo when he meets Gildor in the Fellowship of the Ring. A star shines on the hour of our meeting.