Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 7

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Gildor

Third Age

I used to think I knew loss.

 

I lost my mother when I was young. I remember my fear. I remember the chaos that surrounded me, the worried faces hovering above me. I remember the void where she should be. I wanted none of their care or concern. I refused their bowls of soup and the sweet cakes they tried to feed me. I only wanted one thing. 

 

My Father. 

 

When he visited us he strode through the soft green of my world like a bright ray of the sun, dazzling all. Word would reach us he came and Mother would become all joy and light herself. She was happy while he was here. But her sadness when he left to return to his home broke my heart. Still I wished for the days when he would arrive and shower me with love. I basked in it. 

 

So when she was gone I found a corner to hide in, curled myself in a ball, and hoped for him. They came to sit with me, to try and talk to me, to cajole me, but I put my hands over my ears to block out their words of comfort and called for him as a mantra, over and over—Father, Father, Father. 

Of course he came.

I imagine they called for him, sent messengers to find him in his palace in the rock. I sat in the dark, where nothing felt safe, imagining the warmth of his light and suddenly he was there. He stood in the door and the room was alight. He took one, two, three long steps and he was before me, arms outstretched calling my name. I launched myself into those arms, I burrowed myself against his chest, for he was my shelter in a storm. He took the dark that haunted me and shone a light upon it until it shrivelled away to nothing in the dust. 

 

And then I lost him too. 

 

I used to think I knew what loss was for what could be worse than losing my mother and father both? 

 

I was wrong. 

 

I did not realise you could live in a world where all light was put out. I did not realise you could keep breathing, keep moving, keep talking and yet be empty, hollow, a nothingless absence of joy. 

 

They allowed me to join the Last Alliance. 

 

Though I had to sit discontentedly by in Lindon watching the Sack of Eregion from afar, even when Gil-galad himself marched out to war, as Celebrimbor fell, and the Men, those infuriating Men came to save us, for the Last Alliance they allowed me to play my part. Not that my part was impressive in any way. 

 

The intervening years Glorfindel had used to attempt to train me, though I lost count of how often he sighed and walked away, muttering to himself about chaotic Laegrin minds. He spoke of signs that a thought, a feeling, may be more than it appeared. He showed me how to rein it in, exert self control of a kind. He did, in his own words, a middling job of it. They would have sent me to Galadriel to polish my rough edges but she had been taken with melancholy and removed herself to the sea. I tried not to think on that. 

 

In the end it was Círdan who overruled a truculent Gil-galad after hours of debate and said I should be trusted, that it would be right to allow me representation for Finrod in the Last Alliance. 

 

So when they marched to Imladris I went with them, and finally . . . To Mordor. 

 

It was not a quick battle. 

 

I was dogged by feelings of worry, a sense of dread haunted my waking hours. Glorfindel, when I told him, said yes, it was likely foresight . . . But who for? Perhaps for all of us? This was a war, he said. People die. It is what it is. 

 

Now I am haunted by my own words instead. 

 

The warnings jangling in my head almost deafened me that evening in Gil-Galad’s tent. A schism had formed between he and I. He had made a new friend and that friend was Elendil; Elendil who sailed out of the west and was welcomed with open arms. They bonded in Linden over a shared desire to bring Sauron to his knees. I wished for that also, but for Gil-galad, after the death of Celebrimbor, it became an obsession. It consumed him. 

 

They talked of war, of grand alliances between elves and Men, they plotted together and it all disquieted me. 

 

“Alliances did not go that well for Maedhros in the past,” I told him. “Must you copy him? Can you not learn from that?” 

 

“There is no other way we will win this unless we are united. What happened to Maedhros will not happen to me.” 

 

“And what happened to Fingon?”

 

He did not answer that. 

 

There was space between Náro and I, and Elendil walked into that space and filled it. 

 

So I sat in his tent and listened as they all earnestly discussed tactics. I pearched myself quietly in the corner while Gil-Galad, Elendil, Elrond and Isildur plotted their next move and tried to ignore the growing loudness of my warnings. I tried to do what Glorfindel said, breathe deeply and search for something concrete to hold on to rather just drowning in dread. 

 

It did not work. It especially did not work when I heard what they were planning. I had to say something. He could not be serious. 

 

“Have you lost your mind?” 

 

All four of them turned to face me. 

 

“We need to force him out and end this.” Gil-galad shot back. 

 

“Have you forgotten you are a King?” I snapped. “What about your people? You are the last person who should go. Send me instead if you must. Do you think the Noldor can afford to lose you?” 

 

“I will not be sending the son of Finrod to stand before Sauron!” 

 

“Oh but the son of Fingon the Valiant is somehow appropriate?” I could not  believe him. I could not believe Elrond also who encouraged it. “Is it you who has a death wish now? Do you want to die in flames as your father?” 

 

He switched to Quenya then. I do not know why, perhaps he did not wish Elendil to hear us tear each other apart and assumed he would find it harder to follow? 

 

“Do not speak of my father here!” 

 

“Why? I answered, “Because you do not want to look in the eye the parallels. Fingolfin, Fingon, now Ereinion Gil-galad. Do you all have to fulfil the same fate?” For I had found my concrete warning. Suddenly I knew with surety he would die. “Would you leave us leaderless? Is that what you want?” 

 

“Do not talk nonsense.” He retorted. “Elrond is here, or you . . . But we all know that will not be happening, Gildor, don’t we? Do not lecture me about my responsibilities until you can actually face up to yours!” 

 

Oh that stung. It was as if he had actually slapped me about the face. So that was how he saw me? I was completely unmanned . . . And when I caught my breath, so very angry. 

 

“So nice to know that is how you see me cousin,” I spat at him. “as a coward. Rather a coward than a fool, for that is what you are. A fool determined on death, who abandons his people . . . Who abandons his friends. What was all the guilt you loaded upon me for, when I misunderstood my visions of Annatar, if when I stand here now,  you ignore my warning!”  

 

“This is bigger than me. It is not my fault if you do not understand that.”

 

“So I am stupid as well as cowardly now?” The dread, the chilling dead at what lay ahead of us washed over me and completely loosed my tongue. “I will leave you here then with the Men you are so fond of to throw your life away and learn nothing from those who have gone before us! What kind of King puts his personal need for vengeance ahead of his people’s safety?” 

 

“What kind of King walks out on a fools errand  abandoning  of those in his care to destruction?” He replied, “Perhaps you do not know what it takes to be a King since Finderáto obviously did not either?” 

 

It was completely out of character, that insult. Never before had he said a word to me about the fall of Nargothrond or the part my fathers decisions played in that. Never before had he spoken of Finrod in anything but glowing terms. Even for Elrond he tempered his words about Maedhros and Maglor. I do not know what made him say that. I do not know what drove him to it, but then, in that moment, it was the last straw. 

 

“I am not allowed to speak Fingon’s name but you can tear my father to shreds? I am done with this. I am done with you!”

 

“”Gildor, no.” Elrond put a warning hand upon my arm, his eyes serious, but I was not having it. 

 

“What is this about, Elrond?” I hissed as I pushed past, “Why do you encourage this? Do you see an opportunity to step into his place and take it?” 

 

It was both cruel and unfair.  

 

Gil-galad and I had argued before. Always he was the peacemaker. He would come and find me, he would determinedly send messengers, write letters, show up unannounced where he knew I would be. That was how it was. I burned a fire and walked away, he repaired the damage and hauled me back. 

 

Not this time. 

 

After a night of walking, of thinking and of raging, when the faintest hints of sunrise appeared in the sky and I had seen or heard nothing I realised, this time, I was going to have to be the one to back down and lose face. In the cold light of day I understood my angry words only served to lose me something vital. It dawned on me time was not on my side. I was at his tent before daylight. 

 

“The King has gone,” the guard told me. 

 

They had gone without me. 

 

They had gone without me and he had not even sought me out for a farewell. 

 

I was far too late, too far behind them, though I rode like a wild thing in their steps I could not catch them. All of the time thinking of my foolishness and stupidity. All the time regretting my words. Why did I do that? Why? When I could ride no longer, I ran. There came a time I could see them, see Sauron . . . He looked nothing like Annatar then, towering above them in the distance, but even then I could not gain ground fast enough. I was tired. I had been chasing for hours, and the enemy insisted on appearing to harass me and slow me down. 

 

I saw Sauron fall. I was nearly there. The earth shook me to my knees. 

 

And for a beautiful moment, one pure, pristine, second of happiness I thought they had proved me wrong and won. But when I looked again there was no movement, no celebration. . . . Nothing.

 

When I scrambled across rocks to emerge beside them, all was still. I saw nothing as I bent over to catch my breath, lungs burning from my chase, except Elrond, looking up at me from where he knelt. Eyes wide, he reminded me of the young boy he had once been when I first met him, not the leader he had become. He was afraid . . . Distraught . . . Alone. 

 

“I am so sorry, Gildor,” was all he said. 

 

Sorry for what? Sauron was defeated. They had achieved the victory I had scoffed at. Why was he sorry? 

 

But then I looked further, beyond his eyes. 

 

Artanáro’s head lay upon his lap. His helmet was gone and his face . . . Untouched . . . So beautiful. He lay as if he gazed up at the clouds on a summers day, as if he imagined pictures in the sky, but the eyes that looked upwards saw no clouds. As I dropped beside Elrond there was no light within them, no spark of joy, no casual good humour . . . No Náro. 

 

And there on my knees amongst the rocks I realised . . . 

 

Artánaro was gone. 

 

And I had not said goodbye.

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Chapter End Notes

Gil-galad is described as being “burnt by Sauron’s hand”  In this version his helmet saves his face. 
Also some apparent inaccuracies re the timeline of the Last Alliance are attributable to Gildor's memories of this traumatic time being not 100% reliable. He is an unreliable narrator in this chapter.