Too Late, Cried the Gulls by grey_gazania

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Too Late, Cried the Gulls

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Ereiniel Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor – at least, those of the Noldor who had survived the ongoing Wars of Beleriand and didn’t follow the kinslaying Sons of Fëanor – was with Círdan in his meeting room, the two of them poring over the large map of Balar that lay atop the table.

 

“Asgarvain and his miners have found another lode of iron in the mountains,” Círdan was saying. Gil-galad leaned closer to get a better look at the map and caught a whiff of pine tar; Círdan had been at the shipyards prior to their meeting.

 

“That’s very close to the Meluinên,” Gil-galad said, tracing her finger along the line of the island’s main source of freshwater. “I’d worry about whether we could keep the river clear of waste. The last thing we need is acid leaching into the water.”

 

Círdan nodded, but before he could respond, a knock came on the door.

 

“Come in,” he called.

 

It was Tathar, one of Círdan’s clerks. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said,” but Princess Elwing is here. She says she needs to speak to you, both of you, urgently.”

 

Gil-galad exchanged a glance with Círdan and saw her own thoughts mirrored in his gaze. Surely this had to do with the message Elwing had received from the Sons of Fëanor two weeks ago, promising her their friendship if she would only return to them the Silmaril Fëanor had wrought.

 

As if the friendship of the Sons of Fëanor had ever availed anyone. Maedhros’ brand of friendship had gotten Gil-galad’s own father killed.

 

“By all means, show her in,” Círdan said, rolling up the map. “And ask Ivrenneth to bring us a pitcher of switchel and something to eat.”

 

Tathar ushered Elwing into the room a few moments later and then departed with a bow. It only took one look at the woman for Gil-galad to see that she was distraught, pale and shaking, and she reached out and took Elwing by the arms, helping her to a seat.

 

“Elwing, what happened?” she asked.

 

Elwing didn’t speak at first, but took a few deep, careful breaths, clearly trying to get a grip on herself. When she finally spoke, she’d almost managed to disguise the tremor in her voice.

 

“Fëanor’s sons sent another messenger. Well, I say another, but it was the same man. They’re still demanding I relinquish the Silmaril.”

 

“What answer did you give?” Círdan asked. “Is he still at the Havens?”

 

She shook her head and said, “I sent him off. I told him to tell his lords that I cannot treat with them until my husband has returned from sea. But – oh, Círdan, Gil-galad, I don’t know what to do! They won’t leave me be!”

 

At that point, Ivrenneth entered with a tray, and Gil-galad poured a cup of switchel and pressed it into Elwing’s shaking hands. “Drink,” she urged. “Have a bite to eat. You don’t have to do this alone, Elwing.”

 

Elwing took a long draught before setting her cup down on the table. “I can’t give them the jewel,” she said, now picking at a pasty. “Why should I? It’s the treasure of Beren and Lúthien, the inheritance of my family. My parents and my brothers and my people were slaughtered because of it. It would be a betrayal of their memories if I turned it over to Fëanor’s sons. Those men forfeited their right to the Silmaril when they attacked Doriath.”

 

“Well, you haven’t given them an outright refusal,” Gil-galad said. “You’ve only said you won’t negotiate without Eärendil. That may hold them off for a little while yet.”

 

Privately, though, she thought that Eärendil’s presence would make little difference, unless he decided to try to talk his wife into acceding to Fëanor’s sons’ demands. And that seemed highly unlikely.

 

It was a tricky situation – a dangerous situation. If Elwing refused, the Sons of Fëanor were bound to attack. But as she’d said, surrendering the Silmaril would be a slap in the face to her people and all that they had suffered.

 

Gil-galad had a terrible feeling that this was going to come to war.

 

She said, “If you wish to move your noncombatants to safety, as a precaution, we can take them in here. Your sons, too; my mother would look after them like they were her own.”

 

Elwing shook her head fiercely. “Send my boys away?” she said, sounding appalled by the idea. “Bad enough that they haven’t seen their father in nearly a year. You would have them separated from their mother, too?”

 

“It was only a thought,” Gil-galad said. “I’m simply laying out some of your options, Elwing, that’s all.”

 

Her words seemed to mollify Elwing, and the woman took another sip of her drink. “I’ll think about your offer,” she said, her tone now much less strident.

 

“That’s all we can ask,” Círdan said. “But know that if you do choose to fight, Balar will stand with you.”

 

Gil-galad nodded. “They can’t keep doing this,” she said. “We’ll do anything we can to stop them.”

 

She’d told this to no one but Círdan and her own mother, but the truth was that the crimes of the Maedhros and his brothers weighed heavily on her. The men were – or had been – lords of the Noldor, and strictly speaking, Gil-galad was their king. But the Sons of Fëanor had acknowledged no king since Fingon had been killed, instead living first as wanderers and now as outlaws.

 

At least they’d paid dearly for their assault on Doriath, losing three of their own in that battle. But four still remained, and Maedhros, the most formidable among them, was one of them.

 

Someday, Gil-galad would have to face them. She would have to do something about them. And if that meant fighting them at the Havens of Sirion to defend Elwing and Eärendil’s people, then that was what she would do.

 

Elwing stayed some thirty minutes longer, until she had calmed herself somewhat, and then Círdan had Ivrenneth show her to one of the guest rooms to rest awhile before returning to the mainland. When she left, Gil-galad sat down across from Círdan, her heart heavy in her chest.

 

“I think we need to gather the best army we can muster,” she said, and Círdan nodded in agreement. “That way we can move in at a moment’s notice. I hope Elwing’s message will make them stay their hand, at least for a little while, but they attacked Doriath with no warning. There’s no reason to suppose they wouldn’t do the same now. I think it was decent strategy for Elwing to give them neither a yes nor a no, but she’s walking a tightrope. She really should send her civilians to us.”

 

“We can work on getting her to agree to that,” Círdan said. “And we can move our soldiers and our fastest ships to the camp on the bay island. Though it would be better if we could bring our people all the way to the Havens. It's still some six hours to get there from the bay island, and that's with a favorable wind.”

 

Gil-galad realized that she had been shredding a clam fritter to pieces between her fingers as Círdan spoke, and now she wiped her hands clean with one of the napkins left on the tray.

 

“You aren’t responsible for what Fëanor’s sons have done, Ereiniel,” Círdan said quietly, using her childhood name. His grey eyes, bright as stars and keen as knives, were fixed on her face.

 

Círdan always had been difficult to hide things from.

 

“I feel responsible,” Gil-galad said. “They’re Noldor. Hell, strictly speaking they’re my cousins. And yet I'm helpless to put a stop to their crimes.”

 

“We’ll fight alongside Elwing and Eärendil’s people,” Círdan said. “And should we take any of Fëanor’s sons prisoner, then they’ll be subject to your judgment, whether they acknowledge you or no. That’s all you can do. Don’t rake yourself over the coals for something that’s beyond your control.”

 

Gil-galad shot him a crooked smile. “Someday I hope to be as wise as you,” she said. Then she climbed to her feet. “Let’s get started. We have a lot to organize.”

 

***********

 

Together, they mustered every fighter on the island, an army of some three thousand men and women. The numbers, at least, were on their side; according to the accounts brought by some of the Laegrim who had come to Balar seeking refuge, the followers of the Sons of Fëanor numbered less than six hundred now, and not all of those six hundred were soldiers. Add to that the thousand-odd soldiers under Elwing and Eärendil’s command, and the Fëanorians would be thoroughly outmanned.

 

If Gil-galad and Círdan managed to get there in time, that was.

 

Celebrimbor found Gil-galad after supper the night before they were due to set sail, as she was doing some last minute arranging of provisions.

 

“You haven’t asked me to come,” he said, his tone almost accusing.

 

She turned to him in surprise. “Of course I haven’t. I don’t expect you to fight your own family.”

 

“Well, I’m coming anyway.” His jaw was set, and the look in his eye reminded Gil-galad rather forcefully of her own grandfather. Unsurprising; Henthael had always told her that that expression came straight from Finwë himself. Clearly, Celebrimbor had made up his mind.

 

“All right,” Gil-galad said. “I know you already have a sword and armor. See Maewen for a tabard. We leave for the bay island in the morning.”

 

She wasn’t going to argue, though as far as she was concerned, Celebrimbor had nothing left to prove to anyone. But maybe, she thought, he had something he wanted to prove to himself.

 

***********

 

They’d been camped on the smaller island for four days when they received a message from Elwing, finally acquiescing to Círdan and Gil-galad’s strong suggestion that she permit their people to come join the ranks of her own soldiers. So, a few hours before dawn, they boarded the boats once more and set out for the mainland.

 

The wind was on their side, but they were still at least two hours away when the lookout called down to Círdan.

 

“Smoke,” he shouted. “I see smoke coming from the city.”

 

“The beacon?” Círdan asked, but the lookout shook his head.

 

“It’s not lit. But something is burning.”

 

“Shit,” Gil-galad swore.

 

A few moments later, the beacon did flare to life, its bright glow visible even without a spyglass.

 

“They’re under attack,” she said to Círdan. “Did Fëanor’s sons even wait for their messenger to return? Or were they camped closer than any of us realized?”

 

She clenched her fists; though they were traveling as fast as they could, it would still be two hours, or an hour and a half at best, before they arrived. Who knew how many the Sons of Fëanor would slay in that time? If only Elwing had agreed to evacuate her people! But it was too late for that. They had stayed at the Havens, and now they would die at the Havens, and as much as it dismayed her, Gil-galad had to face the fact that there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.

 

The rowers bent to their oars, but the next hour was agony, knowing that, though they were traveling as fast as they could, they weren’t going to make it in time.

 

Too late, the gulls overhead seemed to cry. Too late, too late, too late.

 

Then light blossomed on the top of the cliffs, pure, white, blinding light that could only come from a Silmaril. Gil-galad put her spyglass to her eye and saw a woman – Elwing, it had to be Elwing – plunge from the clifftop into the sea, bearing the Silmaril with her.

 

There were shouts from the soldiers, and beside her, his voice rough with despair, Círdan gave a heartfelt, desperate, “No!”

 

Elwing hit the water with a splash, but as the spray fountained up, a great white bird rose from the waves, the Silmaril still glowing in the Nauglamír hanging about the bird’s neck. Gil-galad gasped, and she heard Círdan whisper a prayer.

 

“Was that her?” Gil-galad asked, awe audible in her voice.

 

“I hope so,” Círdan said. “Perhaps the Lord of Waters has taken pity on her.”

 

But a black, sucking abyss had opened up in the pit of Gil-galad’s stomach. “The children,” she said, a chill running down her spine. “Elros and Elrond. I don’t think Elwing would have willingly left them behind.”

 

Please, Manwë and all the Valar, don’t let them be dead.

 

When they arrived, they were greeted by a scene even more hellish than the destruction of Eglarest itself. Most of the city was smoldering or aflame, and the streets had turned dark and muddy with blood, sucking at Gil-galad’s boots with every step. Her breath stuck in her throat, for the air was heavy with the smell of death and the cries of the survivors – pleas for help, hysterical sobs, desperate screaming grief, no no not my husband sister child please–

 

"They’ve fled," Círdan murmured beside her. "Their numbers must be small now." He raised his voice. "Healers, set up tents on that ridge. The rest of you, find survivors."

 

Gil-galad and Celebrimbor set off as a pair, turning down one of the side streets. They found Lithion's honey-haired girl there, blood-covered, wailing where her brother lay in pieces. She fought like a wildcat when Celebrimbor scooped her up to carry her to the healers. Lithion himself lay a few meters away, cut down and trampled, his sword still in his hand.

 

Burial, Gil-galad thought. We need to bury the dead.

 

She found Círdan again about ten minutes later, after she had carried another survivor to the healers. Pulling him aside, she said, "Once the wounded are seen to, we need to start digging graves. Elwing's people shouldn't have to do that alone, and I would never ask any of them to bury the Kinslayers. That can be our job."

 

Aearlin was standing nearby, and she turned and spat on the ground at Gil-galad's words. "Murderers," she said. "They don't deserve burial."

 

"We'll bury them anyway," Gil-galad said coldly. "I'll have no repeat of the Haudh-en-Ndengin."

 

Círdan nodded in agreement. "We're better than that, Aearlin," he said. "We can bury them as one and leave their grave unmarked, but we will bury them. Gil-galad is right. It's unbefitting of us to leave the dead to rot."

 

Gil-galad, Círdan, and their people continued to comb the streets of the city, recovering the wounded and separating out the dead – the followers of Fëanor’s sons in one place, the people of Elwing and Eärendil in another. There were far too many familiar faces among the dead, and far too many who had clearly been slain while unarmed.

 

A few streets away, she found Celebrimbor, who had halted beside a red-haired, bloodied corpse, his face white. Gil-galad looked down, realized who this must be, and then placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

He shrugged it off. "I'm all right," he said, breathing in deeply and squaring his jaw. “Come on. We need to search the houses. We still need to find Elwing’s sons, and there may be other people trapped.”

 

There were. People trapped, people dead, people burned alive in their own homes. Gil-galad’s skin and clothing were smeared with ash by the time they’d finished digging people out of the second smoldering building, and she felt like she was choking on fumes – blood and smoke and the sick reek of burned flesh. If she hadn’t lived through this before – lived through the destruction of Eglarest, so many years ago – she thought she might have vomited. As it was, she swallowed down her bile and kept working, praying silently that they would find Elros and Elrond, and find them alive.

 

As the pair trudged to the next house, a wounded man staggered out from between two neighboring buildings and shakily made his way towards them. He had a hand clamped to his side, but blood was running freely from between his fingers, and more was dripping from his mouth.

 

“Gil-galad!” he called, half collapsing as he reached them, and she realized that this was Crannor, one of Elwing’s personal guard.

 

Together she and Celebrimbor caught him, keeping him from sinking to the ground. She was about to tell him that they would bring him to the healers, but he gripped her arm and, desperately, said, “The boys. The princes.” He paused for a moment, gasping, and then spat up a mouthful of blood. “They took the boys,” he said. “Fëanor’s sons. They carried them off.”

 

“No,” she gasped. Then she pried Crannor’s fingers from her arm and passed him into Celebrimbor’s care. “Get him to the healers,” she ordered. “I’m going to find Círdan.”

 

It took nearly half an hour for her to locate him, but she finally found him organizing the digging of the graves.

 

"We have to go after them," she said when she had joined him.

 

Círdan shook his head. "What purpose would it serve, Gil-galad?  They'd only kill the pursuers."

 

"They took the boys," she insisted. "Elrond and Elros."

 

His bright eyes locked onto hers. "Are you sure of this?"

 

She nodded. "Crannor saw them carry the boys off,” she said quietly. “They'll kill them. You know they will. They didn't balk at killing Elwing's brothers."

 

"More likely they'll hold them for ransom," Círdan said after a moment. "The children for the Silmaril."

 

"But we don’t have the Silmaril," Gil-galad said. "Elwing took it when she jumped. So it amounts to the same thing."

 

Again, Círdan shook his head. “They’re more likely to kill the children if we pursue them,” he said. “Truly, I caution you against this course of action. We can pray that the boys will be returned to us someday, but following Fëanor’s sons will only serve as a provocation. What would you do if you found them, and they held their swords to the boys’ throats? Attacking would be signing the children’s death warrants, and you have nothing to bargain with. There is nothing you have, nothing either of us has, that the Sons of Fëanor want.”

 

Then he reached out and pulled her into an embrace, because she had begun to cry.

 

“I feel so helpless,” she whispered.

 

“So do I,” Círdan said softly. “But we have the wounded to see to, and the dead. We can pray for the boys, but we have work to do here.”

 

Gil-galad nodded and wiped at her streaming eyes as, overhead, the gulls continued their mournful cry.

 

Too late. Too late. Too late.