As Rivers of Water in a Dry Place by Maggie Honeybite

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Chapter 1/1

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SA 3437, Valley of Gorgoroth

Third year of the siege of the Barad-dûr

 

A wave of stale, baking-hot air hit Gil-galad as he entered the tent.  Inside was dim and stuffy, though the closed flaps at least kept out the dust.  Longingly he thought of cool stone buildings and shady trees -- a sight long missed after years in the field. 

Peeling off his gloves, he reached to undo the leather straps of his breastplate.  The side clasp gave him trouble, as usual.  He clenched his teeth, tugged, then yanked.  "Curse it!"

"Oh, give it here."  Elrond reached over and teased the clasp out of its tangle.  "You really ought to have that fixed, you know.  Terrible idea to go out to fight with even the smallest of your equipment not in good order.  I told you as much only yesterday." 

"I know."

"That's what your squire is for; you need only tell him."  He grasped Gil-galad's breastplate in both hands, getting ready to lift it free. 

"I know, I said."

"And yet you have not--"

"Damn it, Elrond!  Must you go on at me like a scolding mother?  I'll take care of it."  Gil-galad shrugged away from the helping hands.  "In good time."

"Fine." 

Elrond turned, and began unfastening his own armour and placing it neatly on its stand.  No doubt he would polish it later; he usually left not even that small a task to his squire, claiming it calmed him and helped him think. 

Irritated, Gil-galad dropped his breastplate on his bunk.  With the supply convoy delayed and the enemy's raids increasing in ferocity, he had no shortage of concerns to occupy his mind.  Only a pedantic fool would burden him with the matter of a broken leather strap.

Minutes passed.  The silence in the tent stretched like the morning before a battle, the stifling air chafing the lungs.  A fly buzzed in the far corner.  Standing motionless, Gil-galad traced the insect's progress:  up near the tent roof, swoop down to the camp table, over near the washstand...

"This heat will be the death of me," he said quietly.

Silence.  Elrond stood poised like a statue, his fingers feeling a small dent in his shield.

Gil-galad crossed the width of the tent.  Louder, and in a tone he hoped was more conciliatory, he said, "This heat--"

"I heard you the first time, perfectly.  I merely had nothing to say in response."

"Not even that you wished the blasted heat would hurry up and do its work so that you need no longer put up with the childish outbursts of your king?" Gil-galad took a lock of Elrond's hair between thumb and forefinger, rubbing the strands to feel their texture.  "Not even that?"

Elrond's eyebrow rose.  His mouth was still stubbornly set, but one of its corners was beginning to inch upwards.  "Well, perhaps that, yes."

"I see.  Awfully disrespectful of you, I'd say.  To think such things of your lord."

A smile at last:  the crinkles around Elrond's eyes became more pronounced, black grime marking the tiny lines.  It had been a long and dirty day.  "Perhaps you ought to behave in such a way as to command more respect, then."

"Does my herald not find me commanding enough?" Gil-galad hooked a finger in Elrond's belt and pulled him closer, staring intently.  "Does he not--"

Elrond's burst of laughter put an end to the display of command. 

Gil-galad frowned.  "You don't think me commanding?"

"On the field, certainly."

"And when we are alone together?" 

Elrond looked at him appraisingly and made a show of wrinkling his nose.  "You know, for a High King, you do smell rather foul."

"Ha!  After a hard day spent in battle, that should be no surprise.  You aren't in much better shape yourself:  we both need a wash." 

"That we do.  I'd call for water if we could spare it."  Elrond's tone was wistful.  Despite his good humour, no doubt he missed some of the pleasures of civilization. 

"Today we can, I think.  The barrels are still half-full after last week's rain, and our scouts have already intercepted the supply convoy; it'll be here by tomorrow.  The soldiers are getting a double water ration just now.  I daresay we can have a pail for our ablutions." 

Elrond's expression softened.  His eyes met Gil-galad's, unguarded and bright.  "Do you think so?"

After centuries spent by Elrond's side, that look was nothing if not familiar.  And yet, it had lost none of its potency.  Once, it had made Gil-galad long to perform heroic feats, to show himself strong and worthy of his friend.  Now his proofs of love were more pragmatic.  "I'm sure the men will not begrudge us," he said.  "I'll go round up my squire; he cannot be far."

A few steps outside the tent were enough to make him grateful for its shelter, stuffy though it was.  The fine grey dust permeated everything, settling on clothes and hair, pushing its way into mouth and nostrils, scratching the throat.

Around him, camp life went about its daily business.  Soldiers sat in small groups, some tending to their equipment, some eating stew out of metal bowls.  A ladle scraped against the bottom of a pot not far off; a portable canteen had just been wheeled past.

Seeing one of the soldiers rise in respect, Gil-galad lifted his hand.  "At ease.  You deserve your rest." 

The soldier settled back down, his fellows bowing their heads before the High King.  Their movements bespoke a great fatigue; none seemed keen to tease their comrades or tell lewd jokes.  They simply sat, quietly and patiently.  A few had bandages over fresh wounds.

Impressed with their equanimity, Gil-galad moved on.  The camp's main thoroughfare, with its row of medical tents, was only a few steps away.  He had barely turned a corner before nearly colliding with one of the healers.

"My Lord!"  The woman took a step back, startled.  Immediately she appraised him with a professional eye.  "Do you require assistance?"  The question was automatic, her voice, exhausted.  Her apron was spattered with blood. 

"No, I am quite well.  Simply looking for my squire."  Gil-galad paused, taking in the tense lines of her face.  "How are things in there?"

She looked back at the medical tents and attempted a smile, which came out looking more like a nervous twitch.  "Lost seven today, so not very good.  And I had to take a leg off.  The flesh was poisoned," she explained, wiping her hands on the stained apron.

"One of Elendil's soldiers?"

"Yes.  It sometimes happens with mortals, when poison gets into the blood.  He behaved admirably; hardly screamed at all.  And it looks as though he'll live."

"Have you no herbs, then, if you didn't put him to sleep first?"

"Our supplies are all gone."

"Ah."  Gil-galad couldn't help glancing at her hands.  Fine and long-fingered, in peacetime they might have mixed sleeping draughts or sorted plants in a herbarium.  Now they routinely performed tasks which did not bear dwelling on.  "The supply convoy is on its way, with the medicines you need," he said.  "It should arrive any day now."

She looked relieved.  "That is welcome news.  I'll go tell my fellow healers; they'll be pleased.  Oh -- and I saw your squire helping with the water rationing only a few moments ago.  He's probably still there."  She bowed her head and hurried off.

The water-rationing tent would have been hard to miss even for someone unfamiliar with the layout of the camp.  At this time of day it was busier than a street market in a port city:  hundreds of soldiers had gathered around it, crowding along the main camp road in a disorderly queue.

In front of the tent itself, a handful of men were measuring the evening ration into flasks and pails, mindful not to waste a drop.  Many of them were old; quite a few were boys still too young to fight.  Camp duties were generally not the responsibility of the fighting troops.

Gil-galad was just in time to hear someone deep in the crowd shout, "Hey!  You can't line up here!"  Immediately heads turned as men strained to see what the commotion was about; the shout had come a good distance from the head of the queue. 

Two soldiers, whose beards marked them both as Elendil's men, were facing each other.  One pointed at a tall Elven warrior in line beside him and said, "I have just as much right as he does!" 

"Only the commander of a company may fetch water for his subordinates.  And he needs written authorization for that," the other replied.  "Where's yours?"

"I fought hard today, and now all I want is some water.  Don't tell me I need some bloody bureaucratic--"

"You do.  Now go back to your company and let your commander deal with this, as is proper.  And stop stirring up trouble!  No authorization, no water; that's how it is."

There was a murmur of assent from the witnesses -- all of whom, Gil-galad noticed, clutched official looking slips of parchment in their hands.  Grumbling, the offending soldier turned away, no doubt discouraged by the sight of the armed guard surrounding the tent.  The rationing recommenced, more or less in peace.

Gil-galad moved away from the crowd.  Though he had come here to requisition extra water, he did not think he could in good conscience do so now.  The men in line were as grimy as he, and yet they would get barely enough of the precious liquid to quench their thirst.  A king's privilege hardly seemed right when measured against the suffering of his subjects.

He had just turned to leave when a young voice called out, "My Lord!  Do you need me?"

Celunen, Gil-galad's squire, was awkwardly manoeuvring a large barrel of water through the canvas tent flaps, sleeves rolled up and hair falling into his eyes.  Though he would no doubt make a fine warrior one day, for now he was still a skinny youth. 

"It can wait," Gil-galad said.  "I can see you are needed here."

"Your water--"

"I'll be in my quarters when you're through.  Just bring the ration there, all right?"

The walk back through the camp was slower and more dispiriting than Gil-galad's initial errand.  The air felt grittier and unbearably stifling, and the tents seemed even more tattered by the elements.  Soldiers sat talking quietly in small groups, just as they had before -- but what he had previously taken to be forbearance he now read as hopelessness.  The horses stared numbly at the ground, flanks sunken and eyes dull.  By the time he had reached his tent, even the sight of his newly polished armour failed to lift his spirits. 

Elrond was sitting on a low bunk, fingers manipulating the side clasp on Gil-galad's breastplate.  "I think I've almost got it.  Yes... there.  It shouldn't give you any more trouble."  He looked up.  "What's the matter?  Couldn't find Celunen?"

"No, I found him," Gil-galad said quietly.  He moved across the tent toward the empty washstand, and gripped it with both hands.  The metal bowl was dusty: it hadn't been filled in days.

"Well?"

"He was helping with the water rationing."

"You found him in the perfect place, then."

Instead of answering, Gil-galad ran a finger through the dust, drawing the image of an Elven bow such as his archers used in battle.  The bow came out misshapen; he had never been gifted at the art of sketching.  He rubbed the dust between his thumb and forefinger, and felt, rather than heard, Elrond approach behind him.

"Come."  Elrond's hand rested on his shoulder.  "Speak your mind."

Gil-galad turned his head, looking his friend in the eye.  Elrond's face was open and free of judgment; no one listened as well as he. 

"No bath for us today," Gil-galad said.  He paused.  "The men were all lined up, so many of them.  All thirsty and tired.  I thought, what right have we..."

"You have many rights.  You are their king."

"I am no less a soldier than they."

"Yes, and no less filthy."  Elrond smiled affectionately and gave Gil-galad's shoulder a squeeze.  "You're a good man, Ereinion.  It's why they trust you.  They'd follow you anywhere."

Something in Gil-galad's chest tightened at those words.  The sight of the weary soldiers was still fresh in his mind.  "And just where am I leading them?  Can you tell me that?  Into what peril?"

Elrond's brows knitted together.  He let go of Gil-galad's shoulder and moved toward his bunk.  Then he sat down and patted the rough blanket beside him.  "Come, sit."

Gil-galad grudgingly did as he was bid.

"Tell me," Elrond said, "What choice do we have?" 

"Choice?"

"It isn't as though we seek out peril: it's all around us.  Evil has spread to the extent that it can no longer be ignored.  It is our responsibility to face it and fight it."

The words were hardly a revelation; Gil-galad had uttered them himself on more than one occasion.  But it was one thing to speak thus within a small circle of advisors and tacticians, while poring over maps laid out on his camp table.  It was a whole other thing to see the effect the siege had had on his men.

"Our situation is hardly improving."  Gil-galad lowered his head into his hands.  "It is..."

"Far from easy," Elrond said.  "I know."

"It's bordering on hopeless, actually.  The supply convoys are having difficulties getting through -- and without food, and especially water, we cannot go on for long.  Sauron's raids have increased in ferocity and frequency of late.  His fortress is strong, and he, powerful within it.  Our healers are lacking the materials they need.  Our horses are starving.  More soldiers die every day -- both ours and Elendil's -- and those who carry on are..."

Gently, Elrond rested his hand in the small of Gil-galad's back.

"Those who carry on," Gil-galad continued, more quietly, "are exhausted and losing hope.  Valar only know how long they will endure."

"They will endure as long as they need to."

"Elrond."  Gil-galad shifted until he was facing his friend.  "You and I both know that the siege may last many more years.  And while enduring hardship is something I do not mind, asking it of others is a far greater responsibility."

"Is shouldering responsibility not the duty of a king?" Elrond asked.  The two of them had discussed duty often enough for Gil-galad to know that no answer was required of him now.  Elrond continued, "I went over to the smiths' workshop the other day, to get some of my equipment repaired.  There I overheard two soldiers talking:  one of Elendil's and one of yours."

"Fraternizing between the two armies:  that's certainly a good sign.  What did they say?"

"One's sword had been badly damaged -- his reason for being there.  He said that he'd go on fighting with his bare hands if he had to.  The other shared the sentiment.  So I asked them why."

"And?"

Elrond's eyes slid from Gil-galad's face to a spot in mid-air, somewhere between the bunk and his armour stand.  "One had had his entire family slaughtered in Eregion.  The other witnessed his wife raped by Orcs.  She was expecting at the time, well into her sixth month.  Neither she nor the child lived through the ordeal."

Gil-galad felt a familiar pressure begin to churn in his gut.  Not fear, not sickness:  it was more like coils of anger, tightening and burning, inciting him to deeds of vengeance.  He noticed he'd clenched his hand around the blankets only when Elrond's fingers coaxed open his grip.

"They all have stories," Elrond said.  "And they will fight to their last breath, for it is not mere duty which spurs them on.  They'll die if they must."

"As will we."

Elrond nodded.  "If that's what is asked of us, yes."

Spoken out loud, the matter seemed wonderfully straightforward.  It was like facing one's worst fear and seeing it clearly:  well defined, if undiminished.  Gil-galad felt the tension in his body ease a little.  "Well, if you put it that way."

"Sounds almost appealing, doesn't it?" Elrond said.  "I always find--"

But Gil-galad did not get to enjoy the full extent of Elrond's wit, for just then a voice outside the tent shouted, "My Lord Gil-galad?  I've brought your water."

"Celunen, is that you?  Come in."

The canvas flaps lifted, revealing dishevelled fair hair and blue eyes staring shyly.  "If I am disturbing you--"

"Don't be ridiculous, lad, you aren't," Gil-galad said, getting to his feet.  "Just put the flask over here.  Wait... hold on a moment.  What's that you've got there?"   

The boy flushed to the tips of his ears as he hefted a full pail and carefully carried it to the washstand.  "I know you didn't request it, my Lord," he said, directing his gaze at the general vicinity of Gil-galad's boots.  "But, after you had left, some of the soldiers in line started saying you should get an extra ration.  Soon the whole line was clamouring for it, so..."

"This was the soldiers' wish?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"You're sure."

"As Manwë is my witness."

"You didn't simply take the water on your own initiative, without asking?"

"Oh, no!"  The boy looked up, alarmed.  "The chief cook would have had my head!"

His reaction was so heartfelt that Gil-galad couldn't help but laugh.  The chief cook's authority -- and wrath -- must have been formidable.  "Very well, I believe you.  Thank the soldiers for me.  Oh, and, Celunen?" he added, seeing the boy move toward the exit.  "Are you thirsty?"

The look of longing on Celunen's face eloquently answered the question.  Gil-galad unfastened the pail's wooden cover and dipped in a cup.  "Here, have a drink."

The boy drank greedily, a few stray drops running down his chin.  "That was good," he said when he was done, too thrilled to bother with "My Lord."

"Come back this evening for another, all right?" Gil-galad said, and watched his young squire bound out of the tent.

When the boy was gone, Elrond came closer.  "I told you your men were loyal to you."

"I never said you were wrong."

Elrond's eyes strayed to the pail Celunen had brought. "Pour some into the washbowl, will you?" he said.  "We'll get clean."

"What am I, your squire?" 

Elrond smiled.  "You'd make an awful squire; you're far too slovenly."  

In good spirits, they prepared their bath.  Elrond rummaged under his bunk for soap while Gil-galad poured four cupfuls into the metal washbowl.  It wasn't much, but the sight and sound of the water made him as eager as a youngster on the eve of his first major festival.  To feel that cool liquid on his skin, to have it wash away the dust and grime of battle...

"Don't waste any," Elrond said solicitously, and handed Gil-galad a cloth.  "Use this." 

Quickly they stripped off their tunics, breeches and boots.  Elrond stepped up to the washstand first, immersed his cloth in the water and wrung out the excess.  Then he slowly ran the damp fabric down Gil-galad's chest.

It was like seeing the sun after months spent underground.  Gil-galad had the sudden recollection of his mother's hands gently pressing a compress to his scraped cheek.  Such kindness water contained, such freedom, such liquid ease.  "Here, let me."  He dipped his cloth and returned the favour.

The pleasure of the bath was rare, and so they didn't speak for a while, focusing on the task of their hands as they worked their way down each other's bodies.  There were fresh injuries to take stock of:  a large bruise across Elrond's collarbone, welts on Gil-galad's left shoulder.  These were mapped out with fingers and cloth, and with water -- the unfamiliar made less foreign, pain neutralized by touch.  It was intimate, but too purposeful to be erotic. 

Not until they were almost clean did the tenor of their actions change.  Gil-galad had been washing Elrond's stomach when he let his hand drift around, and squeezed the cloth he was holding over the small of Elrond's back.  Water trickled down Elrond's cleft; he looked up.  Gil-galad smiled then, and pulled him nearer, chest to chest.

"Don't mind me this close now?" he murmured.

"No."

"I'll have to thank the men later."

They kissed, leisurely but deeply, tasting the light tang of salt.  Elrond's body was warm; the exertions of the day lingered in his bones in a latent heat.  Gil-galad ran his hands down Elrond's hips and around to his rear, feeling the tension in the tired muscles.  Then he took a half-step back and squeezed water over Elrond's member.

A few drops of moisture are nothing.  Yet, dormant within them, lies the power to leave entire continents submerged.   Elrond shivered, shut his eyes and breathed, "Ereinion."  Gil-galad barely noticed the cloth falling to the ground as he took him in hand. 

There was no question of indulging in slow, lazy stroking.  Once ignited, desire between them flared and raced toward consummation.  It may have been true that death was all around, that each day was horror and thankless toil, but -- by all the stars in the sky -- there was love to be made, here and now. 

Elrond's body was pliant under Gil-galad's touch, his lip curled in pleasure.  "Look at me," Gil-galad said, and when Elrond didn't, pushed him against the edge of the camp table.  "Look at me.  I want--"

"I know what you want." 

Soap-slicked hands closed around Gil-galad's erection.  Elrond met his gaze, and then slowly turned and braced his palms on the table.  Gil-galad slid between his thighs.

They had always fit well.  From their early encounters, quick and passionate in Lindon's freezing winter, through the centuries that followed, when fervour had been tempered by patience, their bodies had known how to accommodate one another.  This time, too, it was as natural as breathing.  Gil-galad drove his hips forward, Elrond's thighs holding him fast.  Pressed against Elrond's back, with its shifting play of muscles, he reached for his lover's length and stroked firmly.

"You do realize..." Elrond began, but stopped when his breath caught.

"What?"

"Your grip.  You grip Aeglos the same way."

"Too rough?"

"No, I like it.  I...  Oh."  Elrond's head fell back onto Gil-galad's shoulder.

"Like that?"

"Yes," Elrond said.  After a while he added, "Just don't shout the battle cry."

Gil-galad snorted into Elrond's hair and kept moving.  The muscles that gripped him were strong from hours spent on horseback, the hands that steadied them both on the edge of the table were proficient with a sword.  What Elrond had said may have seemed ridiculous, but was true:  their actions here were inextricably linked to those on the battlefield.  That's why it felt so right.  They had trusted one another with their lives, time and time again; whom else would they trust with each other's pleasure?

Shouts of enjoyment were out of the question, but Elrond's breath was fast and uneven now, and his arms trembled.  Gil-galad gripped harder.  A bead of sweat slid down Elrond's neck; he captured it with his mouth, licked at the salty skin, bit down.

Elrond went rigid.  He clenched his thighs and bucked into Gil-galad's hand.  A muffled groan came from his throat; Gil-galad felt it resonate on his tongue as he thrust once more and lost himself to sensation.

A minute passed.  They pulled apart and leaned against the table, breathing deeply. 

"I'm glad there's some water left," Elrond said.  "We can hardly leave this tent looking like this."  He ran a finger down the inside of his sticky thigh, frowning.

"Ulmo bless Celunen; he left us well equipped."  Gil-galad reached for the washbowl.  "Here, I'll do it."

After a while, Elrond said, "I'm not complaining, you know.  About... all this.  I rather like it this way."

Gil-galad wrung out the cloth and bent again to wash Elrond's stomach. "Really?  Don't miss the feather beds and scented oils?"

"No."  Elrond gave him a sidelong glance.  "This way makes the blood run fast."

"Up against a table, within hearing of the whole camp..."

"We were quiet."

"We were."  Gil-galad straightened up.  He felt his smile waver.  "One day we won't need to be," he said softly.

"When this war is over, you mean."

"Yes.  When this war is over.  We'll have wine and all the water we want, and peace.  And time."

They pressed their foreheads together for a moment.  The tent was quiet; all that could be heard was their breathing, calm and measured, against the distant background of camp clatter.

Gil-galad said, "Unless, of course, one or both of us--"

"Shh."  Elrond placed a hand across his mouth.  "Don't say it.  It need not be so."

Gil-galad met his eyes.  The look they exchanged felt like an anchor dropped in a cherished harbour, a lifeline held by beloved hands.  What else was there to do but trust in fate?  He nodded.  "When this war is over," he said.