Master of My Blood by Cheeky

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Chapter 10

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Elrond has turned Imladris into a sanctuary. The Last Homely House, they call it. He says he wishes it to be a refuge. A place of safety, calm and quiet. He has done a phenomenal job . . .   But it is never really a refuge for me. I go there often, because Celebrían is there, whom I care for, and Elrond himself—my friend—though things between he and I are never quite the same as in Tirion. 

 

I am restless. I can settle nowhere despite everyone’s pleading. From Lothlorien to Imladris to Círdan at the Havens I wander, moving on when it becomes too difficult to stay. I have tried . . . I really have tried to find a base, a home, but none are the same as my time with Gil-galad in Lindon and the fact they are not only reminds me of him. 

 

I come to Imladris this time when Galadriel, who I have tarried with an unusually long time in Lothlorien,  begins to lecture me on my distancing myself from my friend. 

 

“He could do with your help, Gildor.” 

 

“Help with what? He has the great Glorfindel.” 

 

“Help from your presence, as a friend, as his oldest friend. Leadership can be lonely.”

 

“Do you suggest he and Glorfindel are not friends?” 

 

She sighs and rolls her eyes, and eventually the continual nagging nudges me to move, if only to have a break from it. Lothlorien is the one place it is easy to linger because it is as if time stands still there. It is not living however. I do little more than exist there. 

 

Elrond is always pleased to see me. He is always welcoming and it is genuine. Every time I arrive in Imladris my spirits rise and I am boosted by the enthusiasm with which he and Celebrían embrace me. It never lasts, that is the thing. Always, eventually, I am melancholy and moody, planning my escape, no matter how hard they work to keep me. 

 

And this day I am exceptionally moody and exceptionally melancholy. I do not want to sit in Elrond’s study where Glorfindel might find me and lecture me on my behaviour. I do what I always do when sadness takes me in Imladris. I head to Elrond’s library and hunt for my book. 

 

The collection of books Elrond used to live with in Lindon, the ones that covered his floor and piled across his furniture in that room of his so none of us could sit down, have grown, and grown, and grown, into this library that is full of them and more . . . So many more. 

 

The elf in charge looks up when I enter. He knows me and he knows what I want. I only ever read the one book when I come here. 

 

“It is in the back, my Lord.” 

 

I did not know why he insists on calling me that. I am no-ones Lord. Still I thank him, despite my bad temper. He has done nothing wrong after all. 

 

I know exactly which shelf to go to and exactly where on the shelf it is. 

 

The Book of Nargothrond. 

 

Whenever I am at my lowest I gravitate towards it. The pictures are so vivid, the people I loved, who used to love me, step out of those pages as if they are real and here with me. Even Elrond’s neat and careful pages of transcription of my own words attached to every page, are comforting. I enjoyed those days of telling him my stories. 

 

I sit at a table, at the back of the library, tucked into a corner where no-one will bother me, and I lose myself in Nargothrond. 

 

I am so lost in the memory the rustle to the side of me makes me jump. 

 

Someone else is here in my hidden alcove! But when I look around I see no-one. Now I am aware and looking however I can feel them. 

 

“Who is there?” 

 

I receive no answer and it is irritating. 

 

“Whoever you are, show yourself! Do not make me get up and search for you. I know you are there.” 

 

I can feel my irritation growing. This is my retreat, where I hide on my own and I need this. As irrational as it may be I am angry someone else would invade it. 

 

Silence. And then the smallest of sounds as someone shuffles beneath the very desk I am sitting at. It is a large desk with plenty of space underneath but I am not at all prepared for what I find when I bend over to inspect it. 

 

It is a boy. 

 

Dark curls, wide eyes, he sits, curled in a corner under the desk, a book clutched to his chest. One of Elrond’s boys. 

 

I know them, of course, but I have not had much to do with them, despite Celebrían’s pleading. 

 

“I know nothing about Noldor boys!” I told her. 

 

“But you were one,” she argued. 

 

But I was never a Noldor boy, not as these two growing in Imladris. I was Laiquendi, growing in the trees. I cannot even tell them apart, they look so alike. I do not know who this one is.

 

“What are you doing under my desk?” I ask angrily but he is not cowed. He sticks out his chin and answers me with a challenge. 

 

“It is not  your desk. It is my fathers. And this is his library too, and his books!” 

 

He is not wrong, but still . . .

 

“You will not be worried if I tell Parmadur you are here then,” I say, nodding in the vague direction of the scribe at the front desk. 

 

Instantly his demeanour changes. 

 

“Please,” he begs, “do not tell him!” and he clutches his book even tighter. 

 

It is a strange reaction for Parmadur the scribe is an entirely harmless fellow, even to a small boy I would imagine. He makes me feel sorry I ever asked the question, yet now I am curious. 

 

“How did you get in here? If he does not know?” 

 

The boy shrugs a shoulder. 

 

“I sneaked in. It is easy.” 

 

I remember those days, of sliding around Nargothrond’s corners and corridors, keeping my head down to get myself places I should not be. But I want to know what book it is he has. What kind of book makes a child surreptitiously enter a library? It is uncomfortable, bending down as I am to speak to him. 

 

“Come out into the light,” I tell him, “and show me that book you have.” 

 

But he is closed and determined. 

 

“No.” 

 

Now I am sure I need to see it. 

 

“At this moment you are making sure I will alert Parmadur.” I warn, but he is a stubborn creature, and obviously courageous. 

 

“You do not need to see my book.” 

 

“But I do. I need to make sure your mother will be happy you are reading it.” 

 

He hesitates. 

 

“She will be,” he says in the end. 

 

“Then you will not mind if I see it also.” I have out manoeuvred him. 

 

He is a picture of reluctance as he crawls out from under the desk and the look he gives me is not a kind one. He may have given in but he does not stop fighting. 

 

“Here!” He says angrily as he slams the book down in front of me. “I do not like you!” 

 

Surprisingly that hurts, but I do not bite.

 

“I am sorry about that,” is all I say. “I do not think I am that unlikeable usually.” 

 

“Well you are to me!” I decide discretion is the better part of valour and choose to ignore that. Instead I reach for the mysterious book. 

 

To my surprise it is not exciting at all. Flipping through I look for anything hidden within the disappointingly boring pages, something illicit that would interest a small boy and cause him to hide. There is nothing. 

 

“This is a very boring book,” I tell him in the end. “Why do you hide with it? Why did you not want me to see it?” 

 

“It is not boring!” He cries. “It is exciting. This is about Tar-Aldarion. He was a King. He had such adventures. He sailed everywhere!” His eyes shine with enthusiasm as the words tumble out of his mouth. He truly is energised by this most mundane of Númenórean books. 

 

“Oh I know all that.” I matter-of-factly put the book back down upon the desk. “I knew Tar Aladrion.” 

 

And the boy is transformed. 

 

“You knew him?” His eyes shine and all traces of his previous antagonism vanish. “Can you tell me about him?” 

 

Of all the Men Gil-galad courted with his diplomacy Aldarion was the most companionable. I did not mind him. I do have some tales this boy may like. But surely . . . 

 

“Has Elrond not told you of him? You should ask him for he knew him as well. He knows just as many tales as I.” And the boy’s eyes slide away. 

 

“I have not asked Father.” 

 

That seems strange to me if he has such an interest in things Númenórean. Still, small boys as a whole are often strange. So I tell him. We sit together, his eyes upon me as if I am an oracle . . . Perhaps High King Finarfin himself . . . As I speak of Aldarion and Gil-galad in Lindon all that time ago. He hangs off my every word, and when the thinking of it, of Náro in his diplomatic element, wears me down, I find I do not want to lose his company so I turn to my book, lying in front of me. 

 

“Enough of long dead Númenórean kings,” I say, “What do you know of Nargothrond?”

 

And he scowls. 

 

“I know it was an Elven palace, hidden like Gondolin. They are so boring.” 

 

“Oh it was not like Gondolin at all!” I exclaim, “What have they been teaching you? Did you know it was dwarven built? The dwarves made it for Finrod, carved into the stone.” 

 

“Like a cave?” I have his attention. 

 

“Yes exactly like a cave.” 

 

“I should like to meet a dwarf,” he says. “A cave would be fun.” Eagerly he peers over my shoulder at the pictures on the page. “Do you know these people? Can you tell me of them? Did you live in the cave?” So many questions. 

 

“I did live in the cave when I was your age.” He reaches out to turn the pages, stopping, as I did the first time I saw it, at the glorious Finrod stepping out of the page. 

 

“He looks important.” 

 

“That is Finrod. He is your uncle.” Surely they have told him all about Finrod! 

 

“Well I know that. I know who he is.” So they have then. “He looks like Grandmother.” He says as he stands, head tilted in thought gazing upon my father. “Did you know him?” His fingers brush across the page. “If he liked the dwarves perhaps he might have been interesting.” 

 

“I did know him. I can tell you about him if you wish. He did love the dwarves, and the Men.” 

 

“The Men?” His head jerks up to look at me in surprise. “Can you tell me about that then?” 

 

“Well—” I am about to begin when he cries out in alarm, a hand flying to his mouth and hurriedly he shoves his precious Númenórean book into my lap. 

 

“I have forgotten the time! I am supposed to be with Erestor. Elladan will have to be pretending I am with Mother or some such thing and he is so bad at it! Can you put my book back for me? There on the bottom shelf,” he gestures behind us, “is where I keep my books . . . Please . . .” 

 

“But wait . . ” I mean to tell him I will come with him to Erestor and explain I have delayed him, but he is off, so fast I cannot get a word out. I am left with his book in my hand, and when I bend down to the shelf he showed me I discover a random collection of others, all about Númenór, their buildings, their history, their ancient Kings. They should not be there. It is not at all their place in this carefully collated library of Elronds. It is obvious he has squirrelled them away here in this hiding place by himself. 

So odd. 

 

In the end I do take myself off to Elrond’s study, still thinking about that strange boy of his as I do so. Elrond, Celebrían and Glorfindel are there, talking—perhaps about me, when I enter. I chide myself at my paranoia. Of course they have other reasons to sit and chat than discussing me behind my back. 

 

“Well this is a surprise.” Glorfindel welcomes me, quite sarcastically I feel. He can be cutting when he wishes. “I thought we were dealing with the introverted and melancholy Gildor today.” 

 

“Glorfindel!” Elrond hisses at him and his disapproval almost makes me laugh. 

 

“I have been in the library.” I say pointedly. “Is that a crime? There is no point in Elrond collecting it if we do not use it.” 

 

“And was it scintillating?” Glorfindel will not be cowed. 

 

“It was interesting, certainly.” I turn to Celebrían. “I met one of your boys there.” 

 

“Oh, Elladan,” she smiles softly as she says his name. “He would love to spend time with you, Gildor.” 

 

“No not Elladan.” For did the boy not say his brother was Elladan, the one left explaining his absence? “The other one.” 

 

“Elrohir?” Elrond says it somewhat quickly with no small amount of surprise. “Elrohir was in the library? You must be mistaken, Gildor. They can be tricky to tell apart if you do not know them well.” 

 

“No it was definitely Elrohir, he told me his brother was Elladan.” I decide for the boy’s sake I will not elaborate with explanations of lateness and small boys covering for each other. 

 

“Why would Elrohir be in the library?” Elrond muses to himself. “I hope he did not bother you. He can be . . . ”

 

“He can be rambunctious and energetic,” Celebrían interrupts him with a smile. “And finds himself in trouble even when he means well, but reading and study are not his strengths so to stumble across him in a library is somewhat unexpected.” 

 

“Not his strengths?” That seems an odd way to describe the animated and deeply interested boy I saw, who hides in corners in secret to read and arranges his own historical collection of books. 

 

“We cannot all be scholars.” Elrond says somewhat defensively. “Elrohir is agile, good with his hands, he will excel at the sword, but sitting still studying is something he struggles with.” 

 

“People love him,” Celerbían continues, “when he will let them. He burns brightly and lights the room whereas Elladan is softer, gentler, but it is Elladan who is the scholar.” 

 

Do I tell them then, of the secret shelf of books? The hiding under a desk to read? Something about the boy’s determination to keep his book to himself, his fear of discovery, keeps my mouth shut. I will have to ask him more about this before I spill his secrets. It is not as if the book he was reading is in any way dangerous. 

 

“Well he seemed interested enough in Nargothrond.” I say instead. “He wished me to tell him of Finrod.” 

 

“Did he?” Elrond is astonished. “Erestor says he cannot hold his attention to anything!” 

 

“Then perhaps the problem is with Erestor and not the boy?” 

 

Elrond leans forwards towards me then.

 

“If you have the magic touch with him would you teach him something, Gildor?” 

 

“Teach him? Me?” He makes me laugh out loud. “You know I am no scholar. I will tell him of Nargothrond and Finrod certainly but I can hardly educate him on anything else. I would have to learn it myself first!” 

 

“Well we will start with that.” Elrond sits back content, as if it is all organised. “Thank you. I must say I have been concerned about his lack of studiousness.” 

 

“Were you are Elros similar?”  I say it without thinking. Throughout our long friendship I can count on one hand the number of times Elrond and I have spoken of Elros. I know that loss still causes him pain and I avoid it. I see him flinch now, brief, fleeting, but I see it. 

 

“Similar?” 

 

Well I have started so I may as well finish. 

 

“Your boys, you say, are different. One studious, one not so much. Was Elros more practically gifted as you say Elrohir is?” 

 

“Who would know.” Quickly he shuts me down. “You do not see yourself as others see you when you are a child. And our childhood was not . . . Usual. I cannot tell you.” 

 

I am sure he can tell me. Perhaps I strike too close to the bone? 

 

Still, that aside since Elrond staunchly ensures it remains a closed book, it seems I have somehow acquired myself a student. How my father would laugh, I was always terribly inattentive myself. 

 

“I am pleased you have noticed that boy.” Glorfindel says quietly to me when the time comes for us to leave. “Some time with you can only do him good.” 

 

And I look across at him in surprise. 

 

“I am not really a tutor. If you wish him to be educated I truly am the wrong choice, but he was excited about my father’s love of dwarves so I will try and hold his interest if I can. Is he really such a problem as they make out? He seemed bright enough to me . . . And enthusiastic.” 

 

He chuckles then. 

 

“Oh Elrohir is enthusiastic, certainly. The boy attracts trouble by simply breathing. Reminds me of Fingon. It is as if all that hot-headed impetuosity skipped over Erenion and somehow found it’s way into this descendant of Turgon. Strange how that could be. Though the others sigh heavily over his propensity for mischief, I do like him.”

 

I wonder if I should tell Glorfindel of Elrohir’s secret stash of books. 

 

But no. Whatever foolish, boyish reason the child may have for his subterfuge I will keep his secret . . . For now anyway. 

 

“At least you will give poor Erestor a break from him,” Glorfindel laughs. “The child fair wears him out. He has no idea what to do with him.” 

 

And I begin to wonder exactly what it is I have gotten myself into.