Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 8

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Gildor 

Third Age 

“You will return with us to Imladris?”

 

Elrond looks tired. He looks as tired as I feel, and we dance around each other like polite strangers. 

 

“No.” 

 

He frowns at my flat refusal. 

 

“Gildor, you are welcome there.” 

 

“But I do not wish to be there.” 

 

“Lindon then? With Círdan?” 

 

“No.” 

 

And he sighs heavily. “Must you be so contrary?” 

 

But I do not wish to be anywhere Gil-galad once was. I do not want to turn a corner and see a place he strode, remember something he said.  Those places, Imladris and Lindon, hold far too many memories. 

 

“Will you sail?” He tries again. 

 

“No!” To tell the truth I am tempted. It has been nearly all I can think of. . .  Escape, from this misery. “I shall go to Belfalas.” I tell him, “I shall go to Galadriel.” Belfalas is perfect. It is not far from where we are. The idea of my Aunt is suddenly supremely comforting. It has the sea, and there is no hint of Gil-galad anywhere. 

 

“Gildor,” Elrond says as I turn to leave, “when things have settled, come back to Imladris. I will miss you.” 

 

“You will have Glorfindel,” I shrug. The truth is I will miss him too. But Elrond comes hand in hand with a multitude of memories of Náro, of the three of us. I cannot bear to think on it, let alone live with it. Maybe I will never go back. 

 

“I am sorry,” he says then, “that we went without you. He was only trying to protect you. He wanted to keep you clear of Sauron at all costs.” 

 

“Because I am so hopeless.”  That hurts. Amongst all the other pile of hurt that really stings. 

 

But Elrond frowns.

 

“Because he loved you. You must know that.” 

 

His words hang in the empty space between the two of us. 

 

“He loved all of us.” 

 

“You know that is not what I mean.” Elrond sighs, “you must. We all do . . Have done, for years.” 

 

He is wrong. He must be wrong. 

 

“You do know this, Gildor? If Sauron had seen Gil-galad’s heart he would have used you as a weapon against him. Gil knew that. It was why he wished to keep you away from him at all cost.” 

 

He told me he wished to see if we could build something new all those years ago, but that was not love. That evening he dragged me from the sea? Something . . . but not love the way Elrond says it. All I can do is shake my head. 

 

“Forgive me,” Elrond holds his hands up then, at my silent denial, “ I did not want to upset you. I just wanted you to know it was not for anything lacking that he left you behind. Rather the opposite.”

 

It feels too much. It is as if the weight of the knowledge of this something that cannot even be, is pressing me into the ground. 

 

And all I can think of are those bitter words of mine, calling him a fool. The last thing I ever said to him, telling him I was done. 

 

“I have to go,” I say, for I cannot stand there another moment and look at him who knows the words I spoke, “I am sorry, Elrond, I have to go.” 

 

“Write to me,” he says as I turn to leave. “At least promise me that.” 

 

Perhaps I will. Writing is easier than speaking. 

 

The Noldor camp feels oppressive. Anywhere I attempt to go I can feel all eyes upon me, drilling into me, wondering about me. I have one night left, can get no rest here and so I leave. I drift across towards the small silvan enclave, hugging the edge of the trees where they pack for their return home, on the outer, never mixing with the Noldor. There are so few of them left. 

 

Here too I am watched. I may look Laiquendi but I dress as a Noldor. Is there nowhere I can go where I will not be stared at? I fit into neither place. 

 

Heading for the river that runs along the edge of their encampment I wonder if the song of its water will bring me peace, whatever peace there is left for me? For all that it in no way resembles the sparkling clear waters of my childhood. 

 

Someone has beaten me to it. 

 

I know him. 

 

He used to live in Lindon near me, a refugee from Doriath, family to my uncle, Celeborn. It has been years since I have spoken to him, though I have seen him in discussion with Gil-Galad here, they were not meetings I was ever invited to. 

 

He will likely not welcome my presence. I know he, and his father, had no love of Galadriel and he will remember I travelled with her. 

 

“Yes?” He does not even turn to see who it is disturbing his peace as I hover in indecision by the trees. 

 

“Forgive me my intrusion,” I tell him, “I came seeking solace, not knowing anyone was here. I will be on my way.” 

 

And he turns, to look at me through narrowed eyes. 

 

“Gildor? Long has it been since we last met.” 

 

“Thranduil.” I bow my head. He is a silvan king now after all. No longer the random young Doriath Sindar I knew him as. 

 

“What brings you here?” he asks. “Do you tire of being a Noldor?” 

 

“I tire of life. There is no peace for me with the Noldor. I sought something familiar.” 

 

“Sit.” He nodded towards the bank next to him. “Here is as close to peace as we will get in this forsaken place.” I begin to protest I have no wish to disturb him but he does not listen. “Sit!” 

 

When did he become so commanding? 

 

“I am sorry for your loss,” he says, and he confuses me. He must see it in my face. “Gil-Galad,” he clarifies. “I heard something lay between the two of you.” 

 

He heard? From who? Is there nowhere I can go where people will not accost me with these imaginings? 

 

“There was nothing between us but friendship!” My tone is more cutting than I wished, but this hurts, these suppositions of nothing. 

 

He raises an eyebrow as if he does not believe me.

 

“That is still a loss,” he says in the end, “and I am still sorry for it. I am not my father. I could see Gil-galad led us well, and the loss of his friendship would cut deep.” 

 

His father broke ranks and got their army slaughtered, but I will not dwell on that in his presence. 

 

“It does,” is all I say. “It does cut deep.” 

 

We sit then, the both us, staring into the river, until the silence begins to press down upon me as a weight, a heavy burden imploring me to speak. But I have nothing to say. 

 

He breaks it for me in the end. 

 

“Will you be travelling to Imladris then, with Elrond?” He says Elronds name with a tinge of distaste. There is no love lost there, obviously. So distracted I am by that I forget about his antipathy towards my aunt. 

 

“I go to Belfalas, and Galadriel.” 

 

He sneers. He cannot cover it quickly enough. I see it. 

 

“Well you did travel with her to Lindon, I suppose,” he says as if I am somehow lacking because of that. I should defend her against this obvious disdain but I find I simply do not have the energy. 

 

Instead I change the subject away from me. 

 

“And you?” A pointless question for it is somewhat obvious what he will do. 

 

He sighs heavily. 

 

“I sit here attempting to manufacture the strength to go home.” 

 

“We all wish to go home.” 

 

“You do not,” he says bluntly. “Wherever you may call home it certainly is not Belfalas. I have to lead my people back to their forest, and so many of them are missing. So many lost due to my fathers rash decisions. I must return to their families and face that. At times it feels unfair. I have a wife there waiting. She is silvan and now finds herself a queen. She never wished for that and she will hate it. I have a boy, nearly grown. No longer will he be free to do what he wishes. Now he will have duty thrust upon him. I did not want this for either of them.” 

 

“It is not your forest. You could take them and leave, to a place they had no duties. Back to Lindon?” 

 

“It is my forest. And I owe something,  my family owes something, to these people . . . My wife’s people . . . My sons people. I cannot just abandon them when all becomes too hard! I will ask them, certainly, what they wish. Do they still want my leadership? I have led them here because we had no option but when we return I will ask. But I fear they will say yes.”

 

“They have their own leaders surely?”  

 

“Their own leaders have no status with the Noldor. Their own leaders do not understand this world of Kings and Stewards,  nor do they give it any merit. They do not have the language or knowledge of the Noldor to argue for the Wood with the likes of Elrond and Galadriel as they will have to. But neither are they fools. They know all this. They know they need someone to bridge the gap. And that someone will be me.” 

 

“That someone does not have to be you.” 

 

“It does. If they ask me, and they will, then it does. So I will go home, I will face the distress of my family and the sorrow of my people, then I will pay Orophers debt and do whatever I can to protect them, for as long as they ask it of me.” 

 

I am in awe of his determination, despite his unease, to do this.

 

“I cannot help but admire you.” I tell him.

 

“Admire me for what? What doing what is right? For fulfilling my obligations. There is nothing admirable about that.” 

 

“Some of us are not so good at finding the strength to uphold our responsibilities.” 

 

Gil-galad’s words circle within my mind. Do not lecture me about my responsibilities until you can actually face up to yours!”  He thought me weak, lacking in character, and he was right. They cut like a knife, those words. They burn like a brand. 

 

But Thranduil laughs and it is a bitter one.

 

“What responsibilities do you have to uphold?” 

 

I do not know why I tell him. There is no reason to. But suddenly there is also no reason not to, and I am tired, so tired, of keeping someone else’s pointless secrets. 

 

“Finrod Felagund is my father.” 

 

The look he gives me is a sharp one. 

 

“Do you mock me? Do you think me completely uneducated?” 

 

“I do not mock you. My mother was Laiquendi. When she died he came and took me to Nargothrond. When he died I went with Galadriel. Gildor Inglorion is who I am.” I use the name Glorfindel gave me. Somehow it seems to fit where others have not. 

 

Thranduil leans forward then and fixes me with a stare. It is as if he strips away my defences and looks right into the heart of me.

 

“I met Finrod once,” he says eventually as he finally sits back and breaks his gaze. “in Doriath. I was very small but I have not forgotten it. How can you forget meeting someone so glorious? I do see a resemblance, now that I know to look for it. A strong one.” 

 

“So says everyone that knows. I do not see it myself.” 

 

“And who knows this?” he asks, “for we have heard nothing. Even in Lindon I heard nothing.” 

 

“Círdan, Elrond, my aunt and uncle obviously, Glorfindel . . . Gil-Galad . . . “ 

 

Even saying his name is painful. 

 

“Then why are you telling me?” 

 

“Because,” I tell him, “there seems no reason not to. All in Nargothrond knew my heritage—there were some not very happy with it, but outside . . . The instant I left with Galadriel, no-one knew. I do not know why it was a secret but it was. And she continued that. She never announced my background. My father wished it to be like that. Your guess is as good as mine as to why. But now . . . What is the point.” 

 

“What is the point of any of it?” he agrees. “Well, I shall keep your secret. None shall discover the truth of Gildor Inglorion from Thranduil.”

 

“So you see, I have responsibilities. I have just avoided them.” 

 

“It is hardly the same,” he frowns.”How old were you when you left Nargothrond? Still a child? How many of Finrod’s people are there left for you to be responsible for?” 

 

“Not many. A handful. They are mostly in Lorien, but some are with Elrond, in Imladris.” 

 

“So safe, then. They have no need of you.” 

 

“I have not asked them if they have need of me!” 

 

“Go to Imladris, then, and do that,” he says, as if it is the most natural, easy thing to do. “The others are Galadriel’s responsibility. She is also a child of Finarfin, older than you, more powerful. It is right she has their care.” 

 

“I cannot go there!”  He raises an eyebrow at the vehemence of my response, but does not argue.

 

“Well I do not blame you for that,” he says in the end. “I have no wish to go there either.” 

 

“So you see why I admire your strength. Something I have always been lacking,” I sigh. “My father was a warrior, a King, erudite, charming . . . Glorious, as you said and I . . . I am none of those things. I cannot even bring myself to lead what is left of his people.” 

 

“They do not need leading. And if my Silvans did not wish for my leadership I would not lead them either. However if your father’s people came to you, and asked it of you, then would you turn away? I think not.” 

 

And I think he does not know me well.

He does not know me well at all. 

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Chapter End Notes

The son Thranduil mentions here is not Legolas. My Legolas was born after the Last Alliance.