Many Meetings by Gwanath Dagnir

T.A 64

“Why do we have doors at all?” Gil-galad asked his squire, whose abrupt entry was the fourth interruption of this meeting underway.

“Apologies, my Lord,” the young elf shrank, working harder to catch his breath as all eyes around the table turned on him. “This is unexpected. Urgent word has just come from the harbour. Elros son of Eärendil is returned.”

Those seated at the table stirred in intrigue, looking to each other with amazement.

Gil-galad considered the prospect for only an instant. “No. You must be mistaken. The Edain set sail for the Isle of Elenna only short decades ago. Now indeed an Emissary’s ship may have come, perhaps, but it would not bear Elros Tar-Minyatur their King.”

“There has come no ship of Men such as those that bore the Edain from here.” The squire moved from foot to foot as if to dislodge the inquisitive looks leveled at him. “Rather he shuttled just from the port of Harlond, on an Elvish vessel.”

“Ah – then this is some prank by Círdan.” Gil-galad sighed and waved his hand over the drawings and ledgers sprawled across the great table, indicating to his companions that busine3ss should proceed. “We are busy here. Go back and tell him I am not amused. Furthermore, remind him he was summoned to attend this very meeting that he has disrupted with his game.”

The squire winced to contradict his King for the second time. “Círdan is still out at Sea, my Lord.”

Gil-galad surveyed the circle of his Builders’ Council, who sat engrossed in exchanging whispered theories behind their hands. “So be it. No progress will be made here today, now that there are more interesting matters afoot than the King’s agenda.” He tempered his annoyance to address the dutiful squire, “Thank you, lad. Please have this so-called King of Númenor brought forth to my hall for an audience straightaway.”

Gil-galad took to his throne on the dais in the great assembly hall and watched the gathered and still growing crowd with disbelief. Most of his own court and staff mingled with half of every noble in Mithlond, plus apparently whoever stood beside them when the news came. Some of his own formal pronouncements have received less attendance! Truly Elvish gossip ignites like dragon-fire. And though it would not be every day that the newly crowned King of Men traipses unto Elven shores unannounced – nor will it be on this day, to Gil-galad’s reckoning, convinced this matter is something other than what it seems.

Soon, the ceremonial spear-tips of capitol sentries glittered in the sun beyond the entrance archway, dancing and growing as their bearers ascended the stairs.
Between the poles, standing as tall as the feather-plume crest of the sentries’ helmets, a dark-haired head appeared.
The crowd split into halves at their approach, forming a broad pathway from the High King’s seat down the center of the room. The visitor stood facing the aisle while the guards on each side saluted.

“Ai…!”

Unnoticed to him, a pang of alarm spurred Gil-galad to his feet. Verily Elros Half-elven appeared before him, unmistakable for the features and posture of his mixed heritage, though changed somehow. His bearing was remarkably unceremonious, every article of clothing unmatched to the other in make and repair, and unadorned with any mark of royalty or prestige. Well-worn he seemed, but unsoiled; tried but proven; traveled but tireless – and utterly calm. Yet what calamity had brought him here without escort and reduced to this humble state, Gil-galad despaired to imagine. As he struggled to form words of question, another’s voice rang out.

“Hail, King Elros Tar-Minyatur!” said Celebrimbor, rising from his place of honour at the foot of the dais, who had met Elros while the Edain dwelled in Lindon preparing for their departure to the Isle of Elenna.

At this proclamation, their visitor bloomed and froze simultaneously. “What- king you say?” He looked at the stoic guards to his right and left, then to the murmuring crowd with their expectant intensity, and lastly to the High King stunned silent, before laughter burst out of him and rang throughout the hall. The surrounding elves shifted like petals in a flurry, unsure how to settle. “Oh, what an unexpected welcome indeed, since it is one that I do not deserve! Alas that I must bring disappointment upon the fair company of this hall.”

“You are gladly received once again into my realm, good King and Elf-friend, whether your coming bear ill tidings or otherwise,” said Gil-galad, though now worry outweighed his surprise. He had heard tale of inexplicable behaviour resulting from injuries to the head or time lost at Sea, and misfortune seemed more and more likely to be the culprit of these strange circumstances. “Pray thee approach freely and explain the nature of this visit unforeseen. There is much to tell, if I judged by your presentation today in contrast to the fanfare of your farewell from here years ago, and I would hear all.”

Elros smiled broadly, more amused than a King should be to stand unsummoned and nigh destitute in the hall of another. He walked forward to the bottom of the curving steps that formed the dais, the keenness of his gaze upon Gil-galad compelling the king to retake his seat as their distance compressed. It had never felt this way between them in years past.

“My Lord King, I am Elrond Peredhel, and it is with great honour that I meet you at long last. Finarfin your forefather bade me find you in Lindon, after Morgoth was vanquished and Beleriand had broken.” He released his gaze to survey the room, gesturing beyond its tall pillars and far walls. “He called your realm a refuge for Elf-kind remaining in Middle-earth, yet I see here that you cultivate for your people nothing less than a paradise. Truly the High King’s glowing reputation that I have heard echoed throughout Eriador is well-founded indeed.”

Hearing this, Gil-galad inched forward until splayed on the edge of his throne. “Twins, of course…!” Understanding gave way to astonishment as he beheld truth with new eyes: here stood before him the familiar visage of a great King of Men, but radiant with the grace of the Eldar and the majesty even of the Maiar. In Elros, this legacy shone with the light of memory – in Elrond, it shone like light upon the edge of a blade.

As if acknowledging this recognition, the Half-elven bowed. “I apologize that my brother never mentioned our close resemblance. The omission was surely no accident on his part – leading his friends to mistake us for each other was ever Elros’ favourite prank.”

“Ha! Then I accept his humour as testament to his fondness for me. And though it becomes clearer that your temperaments are less similar than your appearance, should I nonetheless consider you an accomplice in this jest? For the message came to me that you announced yourself by his name upon your arrival.”

“An honest mistake, no doubt,” Elrond cast a sympathetic glance to the young elf who had been dispatched by the harbour master as messenger, now red-faced and shrinking into the crowd. “I announced myself as Eärendil’s son. Perhaps I should have said, his other son.”

The High King laughed, and the spectators relaxed at the sound, rearranging themselves as a living garland to decorate the hem of the dais where they observed this newcomer with renewed interest. Many had been fascinated to meet the mortal Half-elven King who dwelled with the Edain in Lindon years ago, and now marveled to behold his mirror image, crownless and uncelebrated, their kinsman by shared fate and diluted blood.
Gil-galad spoke on, “Well then – now that I know to whom I speak, allow me to give you proper welcome and introduction to my court, Elrond other-son of Eärendil who slew Ancalagon and of Elwing who saved the Silmaril, descended of all three houses of the Edain, and my own distant cousin as Turgon’s heir.”

“That is generous,” said Elrond, again peering intently upon the High King. “In keeping with Ñoldorin tradition, Turgon did not name his daughter’s son inheritor.” As he spoke, he settled one foot atop the first step of the dais leading to Gil-galad’s throne. “Unlike my forefather Elu Thingol who named Dior his heir through Lúthien, and thus through Elwing, me.”

An uneasy quiet stilled the onlookers. At best, it would be uncouth to invoke claim to High Kingship of the Sindar in Gil-galad’s court – at worst, impetuous. But in neither case incorrect.
Considering his response, Gil-galad settled into every corner of his throne, matching the gaze leveled at him and the light tone soothing heavy matters to say, “Of your mixed blood, only Elros King of Men has in common – but you twain are not unique in inheritance of noble pedigree. I was born as Ereinion, so named by my mother – Son of Kings. Though not the last of Finwë’s heirs even under this very roof -nor you the last of Elwë’s kin within my realm- those others remaining between the Sundering Seas and the Misty Mountains who share the rare distinction of royal lineage do recognize me as their liege lord and High King of the Ñoldor in Middle-earth. What say thee, Elrond?”

With clarity of foresight came the response, “That you may be remembered as the last after all, Ereinion – but for many years before then, renowned as the greatest.”
The crowd shifted their wide eyes from the Half-elven and onto their bright king, perfect upon his throne as though carved of the same pristine stone, and basked in the proof of this message. Those who looked back would see that Elrond sighed, seemingly freed of some burden unseen. He retracted that foot from its trespass on the stair, balancing it behind as he bent into kneeling with bowed head and hands crossed over heart.
“Hail the King.”

A hushed chorus of sighs filled the air. Gil-galad stood and came down the stairs. “Rise, Elrond, scion of kindreds, and- oh…” As Elrond straightened and they met face to face and equal in height, Gil-galad blinked, angling to check that the floor between them was level. “Hm. You’re slightly taller than your twin.”

“He knows, trust me,” said Elrond with the confidence of a sibling’s lifelong taunting.

Laughing at that, Gil-galad reached out and brought them into a tight embrace. While close, he said, “I would ask more of you, but can do so in better comfort than all this rock and formality before prying eyes. Come with me,” then keeping one arm around his shoulders, he opened their stance to face the audience. “Friends, I bid you receive my kinsman as an honoured guest in Mithlond once he is released from me. Until then, please excuse us for private conference.” With that and with Elrond still in arm, he made way for the rooms adjoining.

Celebrimbor stood nearest the archway where they would exit and motioned as if to follow. “Lord – should I accompany you, or assemble any others? I did not anticipate a council before our guest had been offered rest and refreshment.”

“Nor have I summoned one.” The king kept walking. “Personal introductions will precede our placement at the supper table – yours foremost, I promise. In the meantime,” he pointed to his squire who bowed until he was kneeling, “leave closed doors to do their duty!”

Opposing windows were pushed open to accommodate the ocean breeze in a quaint antechamber adjoined to the king’s personal office. In its center, the mast of an unlit fireplace adorned with gleaming shells entertained two chairs, where Gil-galad led Elrond to sit. “I do not stand on ceremony outside of public scrutiny, especially among kin,” he said, shedding the ornate mantle he wore, which a servant scurried away for proper hanging. “Be at ease in my company and address me by name if you wish.” Returning from a nearby sideboard, the king weaved through servants hurriedly setting a table with edibles and fresh cut flowers to hand Elrond a glass of wine. “Evendim’s finest,” he said, before retracing his steps to reach the chair that faced opposite.

As the staff departed, he waited until the door had closed to say, “Speaking of kin, that serious-faced elf who reminded me to take care of your basic needs, as if it would slip my mind.”

“Wearing red?”

“Aye. That is Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor. Obviously, he is eager to make your acquaintance. I expect you will find him to be far more temperate than his uncles.” Gil-galad sipped wine while assessing the reaction.

Elrond merely nodded. “I wouldn’t have guessed his relation. There’s little familial resemblance.”

“Thankfully.” Sensing resistance, Gil-galad changed his approach, reclining to swirl his wine at leisure. “So! Many years have passed since Finarfin who sent you hither returned with the host of the Valar to the Undying Lands. And many years have passed since the Sea fully claimed old Beleriand ruined in their wake.”

Elrond settled in his chair askew, as one more accustomed to saddles than furniture. “You wish to know where I’ve been.”

“Is it scandalous?” The king coupled with his most disarming smile.

Elrond seemed uncharmed. “After the fighting ended, I volunteered my services to the hosts of Valinor that remained and toiled in Beleriand for as long as it was possible, for as you know the land in its desolation began sinking in some areas even as evacuations were underway. We diverted many elves stranded South of the Andram to your safe keeping on Balar once lower Ossiraind had flooded, in fact. And then- well, of course eventually I made my own way to safety across the Ered Luin, where-”

“Elros mentioned personal commitments that retained you in Beleriand until the bitter end, though he would not elaborate on your behalf. I wondered why.”

Pausing to sip wine, Elrond replied, “Great devastation deserves careful repair, though help may be unasked for, and the nature of its need may seem to you -and to Elros- less deserving than others.” He kept very still, as if the subject might lose interest and wander off. But Gil-galad waited for the unsaid, commanding it with his patience, until Elrond relented. “Yes, Elros spoke true. After the more urgent deeds were done and the land in its last throes of demise, after the hosts of Valinor withdrew and my brother led the Edain toward Eriador, I set out in search of the surviving sons of Fëanor – though many advised against the peril, and perhaps none understood that which compelled me.” An intimate pain passed his eyes. “I will not speak now of their fate – but I understand why you want to know whether they are gone, to which I can attest, and along with them the Silmarils that they seized. It is over.”

Gil-galad sighed, glad for the ending. “Good riddance.” He finished his wine and idly tilted the empty cup, watching the last drops bleed against the glass. “I know you pursued them with mercy in your heart, but if you had instead sought revenge, none here would blame you, knowing what those wretches did. Their sole redeeming quality was seeing more value in you as a living hostage than as another death-toll upon their cursed path.”
Elrond visibly tensed at the harsh words, but Gil-galad was undeterred and explained, “Know that within me, much guilt and sorrow persists to this day. For too late did my fleet reach Sirion to aid the people there -your people- against the third Kinslaying. We beheld the aftermath of that carnage, Círdan and I, we buried many butchered and salvaged few survivors. We learned of Elwing’s sacrifice, and that her sons were seized. We bitterly rued the doom upon you twain, and mourned your loss as no less tragic than a sentence of death, and we abandoned Eärendil’s desecrated home to spoil his return if ever he would. This all weighs heavily on me indeed. I do not forget it, and neither in this world nor the next will I forgive them.”

“You are not the first to say so.” Elrond contemplated the pool of crimson in his own glass half full.

“And what say you?”

At length, their gazes met and locked. Gil-galad saw a familiar reflective clarity in the Half-elf’s eyes. Círdan possessed this also, and Galadriel; they had the ability to convey their own seeing memory at will, with an echo of its emotion. The sharing could be overwhelming to Gil-galad, yet he did not withdraw from this connection as Elrond said, “Terrible and numerous were their crimes, as you beheld the result of, as I witnessed firsthand. But however profoundly evil those deeds, greater still was their torment, I assure you. For suffering begets suffering, and all wickedness is born of pain – thus even had Fëanor cast his dreadful Oath, in agony of his father slain and his jewels lost. Through sleepless nights and joyless days, I heard the wailing of his sons’ grief when regret or despair overcame them. Over aimless leagues that our disgraced caravan traversed, I watched hosts of the slain haunting at their heels. And always, always, fealty to their Oath consumed them, a cruel and insatiable hunger. We could only have suffered more with my hatred – but without it, a little less.”

Gil-galad was released from the spell and breathed for a moment, his own anger cooled to helpless compassion, if merely a shadow beneath what seemed to be Elrond’s towering virtue. He felt humbled in its presence. “For their part this seems more than fair. But what of you then? You deserve healing no less. How would you achieve it for yourself this way?”

“Through theirs.” Elrond drained his wine and then sighed. “Or so I had hoped.”

Now Gil-galad recognized a burden they carried in common, and the root of his hesitancy to revisit this period: an enduring sense of failure. “We may disagree whether the Fëanorians deserve the grace you extend them, but I admire your benevolence regardless. And though I can see your disappointment at their loss, be consoled that you had liberty to pursue them, and at least attempt redress through their salvation thereby. Alas, I was not afforded the opportunity to do the same for you and your brother.” Elrond looked up from the recess of his empty glass. Gil-galad said, “Only my concession and retreat from the mainland guaranteed your survival, or so I was made to believe by Maedhros’ word left with the survivors at Sirion. Otherwise, I would have given chase to rescue you.”

“I know,” said Elrond gravely. “Maedhros feared your pursuit, despite his threats. You were wise not to test him – there was very little left to lose after that day.”

“Sadly, I must refuse your compliment. Not a day passed that I did not doubt my choice and yearn to call his bluff! But Círdan in his wisdom judged the risk too great and helped to steel my nerve throughout the years.” Gil-galad took a moment to consider his strange guest. Elrond had reassumed his skewed position in his chair, nursing a handful of dried apricots in one hand like a nest of eggs as he munched away. “You said earlier I may be renowned as the greatest. If that bears out, I will owe it to allying myself with the very best – masters of lore and diplomacy and mettle.” He blinked away from the earth-born son of a Star on high, slapping his palms to both knees as a timely breeze filled the room with changed air. “Well, what a shame! I’m usually more fun than this. Whose idea was it to dredge up such solemn matters when we have only just met?”

“Yours.” This time Elrond returned his smile. “I hope what you learned has put your mind at ease. If not, we shall need more fruit to keep talking – I’ve almost finished the first orchard.”

“Ha!” With the last of Fëanor’s sons out of their misery and the last Silmaril out of their reach, the High King felt light enough to float out of his chair – but respecting that the relief was not mutual, he tempered his response to say, “Indeed, I am appeased. When we speak again later, it will be of happier things. I expect you journeyed further than necessary to honour your original purpose, which leaves many years of your absence still unaccounted for, and I would delight to hear more of your travels abroad! However, I shall be less selfish than to keep you hoarded to myself any longer – and of course I must leave you with time to rest before supper, lest Celebrimbor take it upon himself to chide me. If you would wait here awhile, I will send someone to retrieve you and lead you to accommodations.”

As he stood, Elrond rose as well, and bowed. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Hm. I may extend it further yet…” Now unfolded before him like some long-lost tapestry of forgotten make, he assessed the Half-elven’s shape and appearance. His garb was outlandish at best and sad in any respect, and Gil-galad gauged his size as close to his own. He made a gesture to explain his staring. “Forgive me. I’m just trying to make sense of… it.”

“What?”

He waved more pointedly. “The whole thing. What are you wearing? And… why?”

“This?” Elrond pinched at his clothes, a decades-long collaboration of different cultures and statuses and purposes. “Hm. Suppose things just pieced themselves together as I went along. Is it so bad?”

“You look like a hurricane sent a ship of Pirates crashing into a Maypole festival. And then sharks attacked.”

“Well, that looks like it was commissioned for a Mermaid’s royal wedding and your tailor cut out holes for feet.”

Gil-galad High King of the Ñoldor in Middle-earth gazed long upon his uninvited guest, and in a glimpse of foresight that comes rarely to him, could no longer see a future for himself without Elrond Peredhel in it.
“Good, then it is settled, I am keeping you.” He went at once to the door, swirling his mantle around his shoulders and turning to look back in the same motion, saying amidst a cascade of decadent fabric, “I never trust anyone who is not funny, you know – Círdan who knew your father reared me and he taught me well. I will have some clothes more suitable for court sent to your room, choose from them whatever you fancy. Oh, and you shall sit on my right side at the table for dinner from now on. Celebrimbor has a dwarvish obsession with stone these days and bores me to tears. Until then.”

“Hail, Círdan, ahoy there!”
As he stepped off the gangway, Círdan traded his armful of boxes for a ledger from the porter and turning, shaded his eyes from the sun to locate the familiar voice amidst the bustle. Gil-galad beamed from the dock where it met land, his glittering crown a beacon above the sea of elves moving about him. Waving one hand in the air, his other arm encircled a companion caught tight, equal in height but crownless, the sunlight casting an oil slick rainbow upon his raven hair.

“See here,” the king shouted over the crowd assembled to unload the vessel, “Look who washed up while you were away!” He laughed.

Círdan saw and he sighed, relieved for this day long foreseen: Elrond Half-elven arrived at last. He made quick work of the ledger and left the porter with instructions for the harbour master before weaving through the throng to make his way to shore. With every step closer toward the pair, he softened more, like a dry sponge taking water. Gil-galad’s rare state of jubilance confessed to his relative youth, his boyish smile infecting everyone who passed close enough to be charmed by his personal engagement. “All your shouting gave me a freight before I saw you grinning like a crescent moon,” said Círdan, all the chiding that he could muster. “Only two things compel your Majesty to personally await my humble arrival: good news or bad omens.”

“The bad omens were still in the oven, so I got this Half-elf instead,” Gil-galad laughed again, releasing Elrond as the Shipwright stepped up to him.

Círdan reached out at once, taking Elrond’s face in his hands and turning it to examine. “Ah, yes, I recognize you, son of my dear friend.”

“I recognize you by description,” said Elrond, amused. “A tall and bearded elf is told of none other than Círdan the Shipwright! But we have met?”

“Yes indeed, as a babe and a tot did I know you, and still as the man I see here before me now. There in you is Eärendil’s loyal heart and Idril’s feisty wit. There too is Elwing’s quiet resolve and Elwë’s iron will. Yes, yes, so we meet again.” He pulled them into a salt-crusted and damp embrace, holding tight and long as something precious that had been lost and found. “I must tell you as I told your brother, and then we will speak of sad things no more this day.” He held Elrond’s face again to say, “Shortly after your birth, fear came into my heart for the safety of the Havens at Sirion, and with the King I went there to plead with Elwing that she come under our protection on the Isle of Balar. But she would not part with the birthplace of her sons, nor the home Eärendil had built, and their people rejoiced to dwell there under the Silmaril’s light. Over the years, I pleaded with Eärendil your father as well, but he would not overrule his cherished wife. Although it pains me, I cannot say that it should have been otherwise, for only by Elwing’s sacrifice and with Eärendil’s flight to Valinor was Morgoth finally defeated, and the doom of the Ñoldor come to an end. But you, child – I do permit myself to wish you had come into my keeping, instead of theirs.”

“The Kinslayers have met their end,” Gil-galad interjected, not devoid of satisfaction, “And he is ours now.”

At the mention of Fëanor’s sons, Círdan watched a whole childhood of emotion surge behind Elrond’s eyes, where he withheld it with a warrior’s grip. “Is it so?”

“Yes,” he said, as though the line were rehearsed to the point of numbness, “Rest assured, they are gone, and the last two Silmarils with them.”

Círdan clasped a rope-calloused hand behind the Half-elf’s neck. “May they find the same peace that their parting made possible for those left behind,” he said. “Come to me one night when you are ready, we shall build water-lamps and set them adrift to carry their symbols beyond.”

At first Elrond gawked, unblinking as a fish. He finally swallowed to say, “Thank you. Your compassion is more than most would say they deserve. I’ve learned to expect none spared for them outside of my own, and carry the torch alone.”

“Compassion costs little and brightens the heart, while Spite collects the toll we pay in darkness.” Then smiling, the Shipwright bent to kiss his temple and in the same motion traded a necklace between their heads. “Here, lad. Your father entrusted this to me for safekeeping. It is yours now from him.” Elrond held the pendant between his fingers to see, which Círdan folded with his own and pressed to the Half-elf’s heart. “Wear it with his undying love for you.”

“Círdan. I presume my message reached you at port?” Gil-galad continued facing the ship, shifting foot to foot and mostly oblivious to the tender moment he interrupted.

“It did.”

“Harlond or Forlond?”

“Harlond.”

“Then you brought them?”

“I have.”

“Well, they are dallying enough…” He rose onto his toes and from those four inches higher, kept looking. “I have a schedule to keep today. We were headed to the un-encampment for council with the Builders’ Committee when I spotted your sail yonder and diverted to meet you. They should be eager to touch land, neither of them has sea legs to speak of. What’s taking so long?”

Círdan pretended not to hear, as a skilled parent discourages poor behaviour, and addressed Elrond, “Celeborn of the Trees and his wife the Lady Galadriel are the King’s vassals in the Southern lands. They are frequent guests here at Mithlond and have been summoned to meet you – although they do not yet know it, as neither did I!”

“Egads old man, what slouch do you take me for? I’ve explained all of that already,” Gil-galad sent over his shoulder. “And I only excluded the specifics in my summons because I haven’t decided yet whether to pretend he is Elros and test them to tell the difference,” he added, in jest or not. “Ah! There they are disembarking now.” He motioned for Elrond, “You cannot miss them, they are as tall as Círdan, and very shiny. Come stand beside me.”

The trio waited as the regal pair traversed the gangway and made their way ashore. Many elves passing by paused to look or look again at the assemblage -High King, Half-elf, and Shipwright- and no fewer did the same beholding the Silver Lord and his Golden Lady moving to join them. Come together, they stood out from the scene like monuments to ancient glory in a portrait of mundanity.

“Welcome, Lord and Lady!” said Gil-galad with open arms, his former impatience transformed into courtesy. “Thank you for heeding my call so quickly.”

“Hail Gil-galad! You must be eager indeed to wait for us in this withering sun,” Celeborn bowed and straightened as tall as the tree of his namesake, the light reflecting as brightly from his silver hair as from the silver thread embroidered on his clothes. His focus settled on Elrond with a look more gratified than surprised. “Yet I see special circumstances are afoot.”

“I’ve been called worse,” replied Elrond with a smile and bow.

Galadriel laughed, stepping forward as her husband presented her by their joined hands. “At least now you may renounce the name ‘long-lost’! These days I am called Galadriel, and my husband Celeborn.” She dipped at the knees before the King and then inclined to exchange a kiss on Elrond’s cheek. The Lady shone as brightly as her husband but in the form of spun gold, and her braided hair adorned with white flowers circled the crest of her head like a crown. With the boldness of royalty, she looked unabashedly upon him. “Forgive me to stare, Elrond, but I am entranced to see Melian’s eyes looking back at me! We knew her well in Doriath and dwelled there together for many peaceful years.” She broke the spell to exchange a glance full of memory and regret with her husband, before blinking away as she stepped aside.

Celeborn took her place. “We are kin, you and I,” he said, extending his hand. “I am great-nephew to Elu Thingol and uncle to Nimloth, your Sindarin grandmother.”

Distracted by the implication, Elrond grasped his arm belatedly. “I should have known that. Forgive me.”

Celeborn’s carven features softened to smile. “I dealt some with your brother whilst he resided here and discovered that he also had the relation twisted. No matter! I understand you both had more pressing concerns growing up than elven genealogy, even your own. It’s my distinct pleasure to finally meet you, Elrond.”

With upturned hands, Gil-galad moved into the middle of the assemblage. “Very well, cease, cease – this is quite lovely, but we must get to the bottom of something before I go mad. Why am I the only one here who so easily mistook him for Elros?”

Four amused glances centered upon him. Only Elrond could try to mend the king’s wounded pride with the reminder, “Celebrimbor did as well.”

“Well, the question remains. He can estimate the density of a rock just by looking at it yet somehow was still tricked by your face, and I knew your brother as well as any of these old wizards here,” Gil-galad waved to the others. “Out with it! What is this special scrying power you three possess?”

Círdan decided to be of no help at all by saying, “Did you not recognize which of her sons Elwing put in your arms when we met with her at Sirion?”

“What? They were babies.”

“Hm, well, it is clear to me.”

The King groaned. “Oh very well, have your laugh at my expense.” The Shipwright at least had not waited for permission. “Come along, the lot of you. Speaking of Celebrimbor, he oversees the newest site of construction today where I am to meet with the Builders’ Committee. Since the timing fits, we can take a tour together on the way.”

“I apologize,” said Celeborn.

Elrond turned to confront the side-long stare that had haunted their trek since leaving the harbour.

Celeborn let him withstand the full intensity of his regard as he admitted, “I’m afraid you will keep catching me stare until I grow used to the sight of you.” His look turned dream-like to explain, “It’s uncanny, your resemblance to him.”

“Elros?” he said, not really a question.

“Dior Eluchíl. Last king of Doriath.” Blinking away the memories that relentlessly baited him, Celeborn shifted his focus to the landscape before them. “Behold the last stop of our tour,” he said, waving to the vast expanse of overgrown roads connecting fields to vacant or partially disassembled structures in the distance. “The Edain resided yonder in waiting, working to construct their fleet whilst the Valar cultivated Elenna. The encampment only needed to be temporary for their use, of course – I should say, temporary by elven standards. In Mithlond they refer to this now as the un-encampment site. Gil-galad has since commissioned the materials for repurposing, so bit by bit, it is being unmade. But the planted crops yield good harvests still, and shall remain. Never has seed planted by mortal hands grown so hardily – that the Edain will flourish with the Valar’s grace after their valour in the War cannot be denied.”

Elrond accepted the compliment with a bowed head. “It appears strangely similar to how I beheld it years ago, when I came here after Beleriand’s demise. Similar yet opposite, for at that time this encampment was in its mid-way state of being constructed. Half of these fields were still planted with mere tents back then.”

Galadriel raised her eyes. “Then you came through Mithlond along your way here. And without the King aware?” She nodded toward the tent nearby where Gil-galad and Círdan held council inside, a twinkle in her eye. “Although, I might imagine it would be easy for you to move about unrecognized, whilst your brother resided here.”

“I did not use his name,” said Elrond, a sly grin acknowledging her insinuation that he took advantage of his twin’s identity to go undetected, “but I cannot deny using his face.” As he looked across the landscape where Elros’ house stood no longer, he said, “I came only to meet my brother, and our reunion was brief. This was the place of our last farewell – but not, hopefully, our final one.” He turned away from the vastness of what used to be, and looked toward the tent that housed discussions of the future. “It seems strange in hindsight that I had this notion Gil-galad would be hard to part from. For that reason, I decided to make introductions only in conclusion of the travels my mind was set on at the time.”

The Lord and Lady exchanged a knowing glance. Celeborn was bold enough to say, “Your suspicions were not unfounded. Indeed, the young King tends to take a firm grip of that which his heart desires.”

“A heart that is noble nonetheless,” Galadriel added with a smile. “You must tell us more of the travels that kept you away these past years. We’ve heard alluring tales of the great lake at Evendim in the North – did you come upon it by chance?”

“No.” Elrond shifted his gaze to the wide waters beyond. “From here I followed the sea South, through sound and craig and marsh, until a great range of mountains forbid it. From there I turned inland, but did not go further than the Western route back toward Mithlond. By that time, the journey had taken a toll on me. I hoped to find peace in settlement for a time – and in the company of more than beast and plant and my own tired thoughts.”

“I hope that peace finds you here, for I sense whatever you sought in those lonely years come before eluded you,” said Celeborn. “But speaking of your arrival, a tale was relayed to me that you might corroborate.”

“Perhaps at a later time,” his wife offered, quickly enough to pique Elrond’s curiosity.

“Ah. If the tale involves a case of mistaken identity, it is regrettably true. An unfortunate first impression, to embarrass the king in his own hall! Not my intention, of course, though thankfully Gil-galad found humour in it.”

“That is not the part which struck me,” said Celeborn. “What I heard is that you invoked entitlement to Thingol’s crown. Tell me, was it so?”

Elrond answered first with silence. “Again, not my intention. And if this account were full and honest, it should include the part where I bent my knee to the High King.” He took a measured breath before turning to his companions with a smile that missed his eyes. “Being the only one of my kind ought to make introductions easy! Somehow, I managed to fail twice in the same day, first by presenting myself too simply and then with irrelevant detail.”

Celeborn looked close upon Elrond while his wife looked hard upon him, the shared wisdom of their countless years in silent conflict. Finally, he said, “Just a misunderstanding, then. Yet know this: if ever you took it upon yourself to pursue that claim in earnest, there are many Sindar in Harlindon -and beyond- who would support the undertaking.”

Elrond withdrew to endure that side-long stare in silence, looking all the more like temperate Dior as he did so.

Shortly the assemblage of lords, leaders, and experts began to emerge from the tent where they had been convened. Two of the first glanced quickly behind to see that no one watched, and then bowed low toward Celeborn before departing. In turn, Celeborn returned his gaze to Elrond, who avoided it still. “Loyal nobles of Doriath,” he said simply.

The last to leave the tent were Gil-galad with Círdan, and Celebrimbor, who sped to approach first, his usually stern features broken by a smile.
“Greetings, Lord and Lady! Elrond – I’m glad the king brought you out this way. The harbour that received you may seem unremarkable now, but we have grand plans for expansion, you shall be amazed to see!” His arms were laden with rolls of drawings and ledgers, the future of Gil-galad’s budding Kingdom in parchment form.

“Far from unremarkable, if somewhat misdirected perhaps,” said Elrond, facing the bay and harbour that cradled it before a mountainous mouth opening to the Sea. “This is lush and fertile land that seems well-positioned as a natural intersection of travel and commerce.”

“It should be. Eventually it will be.” Gil-galad came to stand beside him and matched the direction of his gaze. “One hindrance is that more Elves come here to leave here than come here to live here. The city grows slowly.”

“Then build the ships even slower.”

Celebrimbor barked out a laugh, then darted his eyes. “Wait. Do you mean that? Slower intentionally?”

Elrond pointed beyond. “Look at the love with which you have master-crafted this harbour and its artifacts, the very tools of departure. Meanwhile the spaces for living and other business seem an afterthought in comparison. Even this old encampment could have been renovated into Elvish housing, yet the materials are being re-purposed for the building of more ships and piers – I recognize this wood from the vessel that bore me from Harlond. And the agriculture surpluses from these crops without an army of Edain consuming them – are you hauling supplies to trading posts instead of giving the king’s distant subjects a reason to migrate here? I can tell you that scores of Elves linger in listless waiting throughout Arthedain for their turn to pass through the havens and take ship to the West. Make it a delight for them to dwell within the bounty of this Kingdom and to contribute to its flourishing in exchange for their rite of passage, and for every Elf who heeds the call of their Sea-longing after all, another’s heart will cleave to this fair realm and be compelled to remain. But such a bonding takes time to cement, so focus more energies on permanence and on indulgence, and build the ships slower.”

King and Shipwright locked eyes, studying the map of each others’ thought.

“Splendid.” Gil-galad added over his shoulder where Celebrimbor stood with Galadriel and Celeborn, “In case you have not heard it already, I am keeping him.”

Chapter End Notes

re: The Pendant: this is not canonical, but what IS canonical is the Ring of Barahir. Someone had to give this to Elros at some point, who took it to Númenor where it became an heirloom of his house (eventually ending up with Elrond in Rivendell until he gave it to Aragorn) - so did Elwing give it to her son (6-years-old or younger) before Sirion was sacked and he kept it ever since? I propose Eärendil entrusting it to his good friend Círdan -who resided in a safer stronghold on Balar at the time- is reasonable - and along with the ring, a pendant (you can't give one twin a gift and not the other, c'mon).

The High King was hosting a dinner engagement in recognition of his Southern vassals’ visitation, turning the capitol into a beehive of staff busy to service the occasion. Near dusk, Galadriel stole a moment of solitude to watch from a balcony as a procession of elves made their way toward the entrance upon the long path below. The collection of dignitaries were garbed in all the colours of the season in bloom – among them, few Sindar stood out in shades of grey, as contrasted with their Ñoldorin counterparts as the shadows that they cast. Inside, her husband occupied the hall already, last seen immersed in discussion of tariff schedules with Gil-galad’s treasurer. Celeborn had volunteered to shoulder Harlindon’s business dealings alone this night, in exchange for her attention elsewise.
“I approached the matter of Thingol’s dynasty all too hastily, just as you warned against, and Elrond has shied from me ever since,” he said earlier as they readied. “Mayhap your gentler handling can coax the shell to reopen. I would regret if we leave here without knowing each other better.”

To that end, she spun off her perch on the banister to lower her bare feet back into the shoes left on the tile. From several chambers away, she easily picked out Elrond’s voice amongst several, and followed it through the commotion. Common elves would guess they heard a discordance of mannish nature in his voice, and they would be wrong: the unfamiliar tone is the sound of a force of nature filtered through the clothing of flesh, which the Half-elven inherited from the Maiar.

She found Elrond in a small archive where he might have enjoyed his own solitude, before being cornered by two high-born houses brash enough to arrive earlier than their invitation and openly compete for attention. Elrond stood his ground in this rare state of separation from Gil-galad or Círdan, who to her observation acted as ardent hosts to the newcomer to their realm (or by her husband’s description, as watchdogs), though he interrupted the surrounding prattle with the enthusiasm of a hostage spotting escape.

“Hail Galadriel, good evening! Are you without an escort?”

“Not anymore,” she replied, wrapping her arm around his as she joined him in the center and widened it with a pointed glance at those crowding in. “So this of all places is where the king has lost you! He will be glad for my luck to hear your voice as I was passing by.”

The surrounding elves collectively deflated, recognizing their ambitions were thwarted. One among them most reluctant to surrender the stage said, “I take the blame for detaining him overlong, lady! My daughter is recently returned from visiting her mother’s land afar, and I know the king would wish to make their introductions.” He gestured to the maiden at his side who bent her knee stiffly, as if careful not to tip the platter her father served her upon.

Galadriel smiled to continue the game of invoking Gil-galad’s desires for selfish purpose. “Welcome home, Annarel, and greetings to you all. But if you would excuse us, I have neglected an errand, and the king will know to look for us where it must be tended to. Please make your way to the hall where Celeborn is waiting to receive our distinguished guests.”

The circle broke to form an aisle of bowing elves who watched them leave dejectedly.

Galadriel directed their path outside and through the courtyard, a longer but less populated route to reach the next wing of the capitol, and she walked lighter of foot upon the soft grass.
“In Thingol’s court, it was said that those who arrive early to dinner bring a secret appetite.”

Elrond laughed, “Oh, they kept nothing secret! Nor discreet, even. Annarel is the fairest, most eligible and keenly desired maiden in all of Lindon, who any would be honoured to court – of course her father told me so. And apparently the king should commission excavators to survey the Ered Luin and aim to deny trade with the dwarves of Khazad-dûm – evidently it is expected of me to influence this somehow. Also the cotton from Forlindon is rumoured to be infested with mites, according to the one spreading the rumour – who is that shorter elf with brown hair?”

Galadriel sighed. “That is Faernen, commissioner of Harlindon’s Silk-grower cooperative, among other interests.” Elrond shook his head as though dazed, and she pet his arm soothingly. “Do not be dismayed. That bunch are the busybodies among the ruling class in Lindon. You will find their counterparts less self-interested, and more appreciative of your own authenticity. Now do tell me, has Annarel’s father already set your wedding date? He finally gave up on matching her with Gil-galad after years of failed attempts, and you are a handsome compromise!”

Elrond did not return her playfulness, and whether he knew they had reached their destination or not, he paused walking before the entrance to a chamber as somber as his tone. “You assume right that her father made inquiry, though he may regret it now. Nay. I shall not be so eagerly pursued as the High King.” Beside the entrance was a portrait of Finduilas. A shelf of votives beneath the frame inspired reverence, and her visage, lovely but sorrowful, seemed to mourn her own untimely end. Elrond went on, “None of them knew the strange fate of my kin. About the choice granted to us both. That my brother will die a mortal death. Or of the doom upon my children. ‘Appalled’ may be a word too strong for describing their reaction to learn it, but surely Annarel will be relieved to never see me upon her stoop.”

“I confess my own knowledge is almost as limited,” said Galadriel. From a small desk that housed candles and holders and an oil lamp burning low, she selected two sticks and tilted their wicks against the flame. “From Elros we learned of the choice granted to you twain, the same granted to your parents. But he said nothing of his brother’s children unborn. What is this doom?”

He stared into the room growing dim as the sun set. “That the grace of the Eldar shall be bestowed upon them whilst they abide with me in Middle-earth. And at the end of that time, so too must their own choice be made; either to join our kinsfolk in the Undying Lands, or to follow the Unknown beyond the circles of this world, and to forsake whichever road not taken thereby.” At last he looked away. “By taking my hand, their mother must accept that she may eventually be parted from her children forevermore. In turn, I must resolve to perhaps never meet she who could bear to face that day.”

“Hm. She would need to have the bold spirit of a seasoned warrior unafraid to lose, and the girded heart of a wise queen that loves unconditionally. Nonetheless, consider leading with a more cheerful topic if ever you should meet her!” Galadriel held out the light she had prepared for him with a smile he did not match.

“I can see in the dark as well as elf kind,” he responded, dull from a lifetime explaining his nature.

“The flame is to use for paying your respects.” She watched his face twist with embarrassment to have misconstrued her intention, but asked anyway, “Have you not yet visited the Gallery of Honour?”

“I have. In the daytime. The candles were not lit then, but- I understand now.” He took the candleholder that she offered. “Sorry. Thank you.”

Galadriel led the way inside. The chamber was narrow and long, and minimally decorated so as not to distract from its solemn purpose. The furthest wall made of beveled windows faced West, and the last breath of sunlight warmed the edges of velvet curtains draped from floor to ceiling. On each perpendicular wall hung portraits of champions and kings, of mothers and citadels, memories bygone of fallen glory and triumphs eternal. Before each frame stood a waist-high pillar holding a cylinder of wax, their stages of use varied. She joined her candle to the wick of Finrod burned very low, the first of her brothers’ paintings by the entrance.
“You may light whichever you wish. Some choose to light them all in passing. I only light those with whom I visit, and alas our time here tonight will be cut short.” She looked upon the expression of Finarfin’s eldest, captured in the breathless stoicism preceding a courageous deed, and she sighed, then moved on to Aegnor.

“Well, this is strange...” Elrond had proceeded to light the candle for Eärendil, and stood now by the last portraits hung at the end of the room. He twisted toward the opposite wall and back again, then reached out to trace a scratch on the wall worn by a differently-sized frame than the one he faced. As Galadriel approached, he explained, “Indeed I was in this room mere days ago, and Orodreth’s portrait hung here. It’s been switched.” He pointed behind to prove it.

Galadriel lit the wick of Angrod as she passed, next to whom should be his son. Instead hung the portrait of Fingon, and beside it, Gil-galad. “I see. Seems this old joke is as undying as those who invented it, and grown no less petty than its creators with the passing of time.”

Elrond looked at her searchingly, then at the gallant countenance of Fingon, and behind again to where Orodreth had been displaced. “I don’t understand. What am I missing?”

“Only the incongruent features of Orodreth compared to his son, and Gil-galad’s striking resemblance to Fingon specifically.”

“What? No. They cannot mean to imply...” Elrond whipped his head around and back again. True that Orodreth’s blond hair matched all of Finarfin’s children as well as his own daughter Finduilas, yet Gil-galad -like Fingon- had the dark tresses common to the Ñoldor. But so did Finwë, forefather to them all. He muttered, “My own father has golden hair.”

“Also well known is that only Celegorm among his six brothers inherited sandy locks from parents of black and auburn.” Galadriel shrugged and lit the candle before Fingon. “Appearances alone would not be enough to grow this weed of doubt – but its seeds were planted deep and long ago. Alas, Orodreth once suffered injury in battle. Its nature was severe but undisclosed, and such careful discretion -combined with the warped gait and grievous pain that haunted his recovery- tempted indelicate rumours to propose the unspeakable. When his son was born many years later and sent into the safekeeping of Fingon’s friend Círdan, it only opened a new chapter to the mythos.”

Elrond backed away slowly and turned to light the candle for Orodreth. The glow softened his already gentle presentation, warming his expression to gratitude. “A father must be many things. A sire need be only one.”
Galadriel came to his side and at that moment, he noticed Gil-galad approaching down the hallway. He said quietly, “If the king does not already know of this jokesters’ game, I would rather he not learn now in this way. May I leave it with you to rectify?”

She took his candleholder with her free hand and nodded. “Until dinner, then.”

Elrond paced his speed to meet Gil-galad at the entry and effectively blocked it as he bowed.

“Good evening,” said the king, sober in the presence of this venerate place. He angled to acknowledge Galadriel’s presence inside but made no motion to move past Elrond to enter. The portrait of his sister drew his gaze as he said, “Did you light my father’s candle by chance?”

“We did indeed,” said Elrond, adding, “Galadriel would stay a moment longer, but I was just leaving.”

“Good, then allow me to steal you.” The king led them away. Coming back into areas bustling with his subjects happy and gay, his gait gradually resumed its usual bouncing stride, and his voice lightened. “Someone is here to meet you tonight. I was just alerted that they arrived, and hoped to offer you time alone together before the meal is served. One moment…”

Elrond let himself be positioned behind a column while Gil-galad peered around it to spy. The hall was a flurry of socialization in advance of supper, the room echoing elvish chatter mingled with the song of a minstrel’s flute and the clanging of tableware being set.

Gil-galad returned to their place of cover to say, “I will lead you to her now. Expect to be separated from the crowd to converse alone, I imagine. And so you know, there is a place setting reserved at my table, if she keeps her promise to stay for supper. Come.” They moved through the crowd at a determined pace to discourage interruption.
As close as possible to the edge of the floor without leaving the room stood an elf-maid in conversation with Círdan. She was dressed plainly and had a tense look soothed by tenuous placation – even a typhoon could be convinced to temper its mood if the Shipwright put his heart into it.
In their last steps approaching, Gil-galad opened his arms in a grand gesture of welcome customary to his public self. “Renwen. What a delightful surprise that you accepted my invitation.”

“Thank you for remembering me, Lord.” She offered him her hand that he lifted to kiss. “I see I am underdressed as usual, but this is all stunning,” she spoke with dispassionate awareness of things that concern others, motioning to the decorative banners and flowers and elves fancied up for the occasion. As if to explain her separation from it all, she said, “Arriving so late, I wasn’t sure where best to put myself to be at your disposal.”

“You are precisely where you should be,” Gil-galad replied with a broadening smile. “Speaking of which, may I introduce Elrond.”

“Tsk. I wish that you could…” she withdrew her reaching hand before they could connect, folding her arms across the chest as her attention focused over Elrond’s shoulder.

Celeborn, the target of her unthankful gaze, disentangled from the crowd to join their assemblage. “Renwen, well met at last,” he said, answered with only a nod and silence that he filled himself, “Ah- I noticed when you arrived and have been making my way over. You look well!”

While his tone mimicked all the characteristics of fond familiarity, Renwen made no such effort. “Hm. Somehow I did not notice you, and no one mentioned you were here.” She let her gaze wander as though it needed to, “Along with your wife, I presume? Oh yes, there she is now – still without child, I see...”

Impossibly, Celeborn straightened even taller, yet his voice remained tempered to say, “We await the gift.” He placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder to squeeze briefly. “Until then, I’m glad to receive the gift of new family in the full-grown variety.”

“Family…” Renwen bared her teeth in something resembling a smile, “Of course, since you are related to his mother. And her brothers.” Here she inserted a pause where it did not naturally belong. “Well – might I leave you gentlemen to grow as you are planted, while Elrond shows me where guests go to take fresh air from here?”

“There is a Western wind tonight and a clear sky,” Círdan gestured to the courtyard that the far end of the hall opened into. “Perfect for a moment of respite.”

“And happy reunions! Obnoxious bells will soon announce when the table is set,” said Gil-galad cheerfully. “Until then.”

Oblivious to the festivities, Renwen navigated the straightest path toward the arching doorways and continued beyond, only pausing once outside and distanced from other stargazers. She spared a moment to find Eärendil’s beacon on high before turning to his son.
“May we speak at once? I did not come to see the king’s landscaping, or to bask in the same night sky that shines upon my home in Forlindon,” she said. “I would not have come at all, except to meet you. Judging by your expression before Celeborn barged in, you do not recognize me.” Her raised hand halted his response, “It’s all right! Neither did Elros, and like you brethren, nor could Elwing recall much from the tragedy of Doriath after we absconded. Elves have an unstoppable memory, everlasting as a curse. The mundane might pass us by peacefully as the blur of long rainfall, but the best and the worst things stand out in sharper contrast thereby. You Half-elven seem to have an innate ability to quash certain unspeakable horrors from your recollection – truly, it is a blessing that I envy.”

“That would be an enviable gift, though I did not inherit it,” said Elrond, half-immersed in echoes of the past as he studied her. “I was going to say, there is a familiarness about you that seems just out of reach.”

“Hm. I feel the same way about myself, a semblance of the person I was, far gone.” The bells tolled, making her jump. “Mercy, those are obnoxious. Is dinner prepared, or is it invading?” Around them, elves shuffled inside to take their places tableside, until they two stood like the last grains of sand at the waist of an hourglass. She hastened to make use of the privacy they had left, “I should have started at the beginning. I am Renwen. In my youth I came to live in Doriath as early as the founding of Menegroth. I was handmaid to Nimloth since she was a lass and trained to become her midwife. Alongside few others, I narrowly escaped the Kinslaying with Elwing in arm, and went on to serve what remained of Elu’s house at the Havens of Sirion, where eventually you were born – into my own hands. I- oh!” Renwen found herself nigh pounced upon.

“Lady Midwife! Hênwen we called you!”

Swallowed by Elrond’s embrace, his chest smothered her laughter. “That’s right, the baby-lady. Even I had forgotten my old pet name!” They separated to arms’ length but held on hands to shoulders. Softened momentarily, she said, “I am glad to see you again, Elrond. Elros told me he became the taller of you two, but now I realize he became the jokester. You twain were born so small and grew elven-slow, your mother worried, oh I’m sure she worries still.”

“It’s come back to me now,” a flood of memories burst out in no order, “You used to keep ribbons braided in your hair. We helped you collect oysters on the shore for roasting. Mother would sit up with you by starlight sewing the pennant that father set sail with.” Inside, the music and voices dwindled into silence, indicating the King would soon speak. Brought back to the present, Elrond said, “You’ve come all this way, please join us at Gil-galad’s table so we may spend more time together. It would be my honour.”

“I said I would, and I keep my word. We best hurry, before he shatters that poor chalice by clanging on it.”

Arm in arm, they exchanged in summary their whereabouts since the War and how they came to be in Lindon as they returned to the hall. Two long tables were arranged on either side of the room, and in its center, a smaller board catered to the most exclusive invitation list. In addition to the usual attendees at the King’s table, Galadriel and Celeborn were sat, and beside Elrond a place had been reserved for Renwen. They took their seats as Gil-galad inaugurated the occasion with his thanks and blessing, ending with a toast to his honoured guest from Forlindon.

While their plates were being filled, Círdan leaned in from his place at Gil-galad’s left side. “So you do remember,” he said to Elrond. “I am glad for it! And you should have rights to brag, Renwen. Your presence made a more lasting impression than even a bearded elf as guest in Eärendil’s household!”

“Renwen was not a guest, she served my mother and lived in our home – I remember,” said Elrond. “Although, I should be ashamed not to have immediately recognized her.”

“Nay, you have good reason,” she said. “My face is worn with regret and sleepless nights, and your memories of me must be sullied by the circumstances of our parting. Last we saw each other, a Kinslayer held his knife to your throat while I knelt on the bloodied ground begging for your life.” The table fell utterly silent of cutlery and talk, its guests frozen by the imagery and the casualness of its conjuring. She winced away from Elrond’s stricken face. “Sorry. I just meant some things are understandable to forget. Uhm… Elwing’s boys had a cute pet name for me.”

“Hênwen, the baby-lady,” said Elrond, catching onto the segue and chance to revive some levity. “I think we must have misheard it originally, but in the mind of children, naturally the midwife would have a name that explains her talent.”

Galadriel laughed. “How darling. And how good of you Renwen to keep up your mastery of such a rare art – alas, as rare as the opportunity to exercise it.”

“Less rare in the hidden peace of Menegroth than in the strife-ridden realms beyond, as you know from your time there with us. I had years of practice before I pulled Elwing from her mother, and more still before her brothers came. But I never delivered twins before Eluréd and Elurín, and never again since, after Elwing’s pair.” She then sighed, suddenly despondent again and forgetting her own effort to change the subject. “Alas for Nimloth’s poor boys. Whatever their fate, however merciful or grim, not knowing is worse in the end by far.”

“We know their fate,” said Celeborn, as stern as she was mournful. “Painstakingly have its survivors pieced together the sacking of Doriath, down to the worst detail.”

Renwen gave a dismissive wave. “All I know is when that nightmare began, I was sent for Elwing and the twins were supposed to be with you of all people.”

“It never tires you to say so, nor to hear me repeat: if they had been with me, they would be with me still.” A soothing glance from his wife changed Celeborn’s tone. Calmer, he said, “I went to great lengths to learn the ugly truth of that day, Renwen, which the company at this table need not suffer to hear. But take from it what comfort you can, and let us move on from this once and for all.”

She scoffed. “My mind is unchanged. The word of a Kinslayer -especially a captive one- should be highly suspect. Not unlike whatever ‘great lengths’ you resorted to in the extraction of his confession!”

“Peace, please,” Gil-galad put out his leveled hands, one for each antagonist on opposing sides of the table. “This bickering wrought from pain is testament to your love for those children, of which you are both guilty. Your shared grief should bring communion between you.”

“It should,” agreed Celeborn. “I have always said so.”

Renwen said nothing.

The guests went on to address their plates for a while, some less aggressively than others, as the wine-pourers tried to elevate the mood with the flexibility of their wrists. Conversation forged an unnatural path around the unspoken, falling again and again into gaps of silence heavy with the weight of the dead.

Finally Elrond surrendered to the demands of unresolved anguish. Heart-wrenched, he said, “Renwen, I commiserate with your pain. Every motion of daily life rubs against the nerve of not-knowing. It is a distinct and maddening agony, which I beg the king’s permission to alleviate for his honoured guest, since I believe that I alone can.” He angled to Renwen sat at his side, folding his hand over hers. “Amidst the chaos of the attack on Doriath, Celegorm’s servants stole away with my uncles who had been seized, and carried them deep into the Neldoreth forest and deserted them there. Maedhros reviled this deed when he learned of it and searched for them, in his words relentlessly, but the children likely fled further and hid in their fear, and they were never to be found. Whether that agrees with the tale Celeborn learned or not, it is the truth.”

“Alas! Now it is the truth twice confirmed,” said Celeborn, the tightness of his voice betraying that even he had held onto secret hope that it may be otherwise.

Renwen took this in like a cauldron already overfull, and brought to boil, left no room for relief. Her ire targeted Celebrimbor whom she had ignored entirely before that moment. “That wretched uncle of yours, did he give the command that doomed those boys to terror and to death?”

“It may be so,” he said numbly. “Celegorm festered with anger over what he saw as Lúthien’s betrayal of him. Enacting revenge upon her progeny would be consistent with his twisted sense of justice.” His demeanor was little changed by the gruesome topic, his natural state already a tight braid of shame, dismay, and penitence for the misdeeds of his closest kin. “If my own apology means aught, I offer it a thousand-fold.”

Elrond said, “Even Maedhros did not know that much. Celegorm was slain ere he himself could be questioned, and his surviving servants refused to speak, whether to protect the will of their Lord or their own cruel desires. But for this crime, those responsible were exiled, and Maedhros and Maglor rued the loss of those children bitterly – they wept when this tale was revealed to me and for days that followed.”

Renwen drew back the hand he held as though it caught fire. “Curse their tears, and curse the foolish pity they gulled you into.” She sprang to her feet. “Maedhros did not weep at Sirion when he spared my life on condition I relay his decree, that if the High King dared to pursue he would collect Elwing’s sons in pieces along the way! Maglor did not weep when he broke his silent assent only to command that I bid you goodbye! What part would they have had to sever from you, before waking one night to find a knife at their own necks?”

Undeterred, Elrond looked upon her with the same mercy she railed against. “My humanity.”

While the rest of the party stared unblinking, Renwen covered her eyes until she began to tremble, soon to emerge with an outburst of fey laughter. “Well! Silly me, I have been doing this all wrong! Without the fell guile of Celeborn, the misplaced guilt of Curufin’s son, the noble sufferance of Elrond, what am I, but a bitter old nursemaid with no recourse but the very hatred that spoils me?” Her strange humour smoldered with resentment by the end.

Gil-galad matched her standing to answer, his gentle tone in contrast to the authority he imposed, “You are priceless wisdom and memory of a bygone Age. You are twice-survivor of unthinkable evil and stronger thereby. You are trustee of the most precious gift to the Eldar, our children newborn.” He opened his hand to the place she left empty and faced like a combatant. “And clear to see you are suffering – but of all things, you need not be alone. Please, rejoin us.”

She took a step further back, casting a detached glance upon those who still sat, again a spectator of things that concern others. “One day I may prove myself fit for it. Until then, I deem I’ve sufficiently proven why I’m no good at parties. With your leave, High King, I shall rescue your guests from my company.”

“Though my heart aches, so be it. I only ask that you not go unaccompanied.”

Círdan had already stood up and made his way around the table. “Parties are the King’s forte. I’m better for long walks and quiet contemplation, and buggering off once I’ve exhausted my charm. If you would permit me.” Renwen accepted his arm, tenuously placated once more, and together they left.

In the wake of their parting, the remaining company recovered their bearings like survivors of a storm rattled by its passing.

Gil-galad mustered a faltering smile for his guests as he returned to his seat, defeated. At length, he sighed. “None of us here are strangers to atrocity, and it’s no secret that Renwen is haunted by more than her fair share. She found no peace on the Isle of Balar where I harboured countless refugees during the Great War, and in Lindon after all these years she fares little better. At her best, she reminds me of my own old nursemaid, shrewd and persnickety but selfless, and fiercely protective; and at her darkest, I see the shadow of my own failings and feel compelled to make amends. When I sent my invitation I expected no response, but her willingness to leave the solitude of her home in Forlindon filled me with hope that the joy of meeting Elrond would keep her thoughts in the present – yet I’m afraid this table is decorated with such history that it had the opposite effect.”

“I should have held my tongue,” said Elrond. “I thought putting her uncertainties to rest would help close the wound. Seems the weight of finality only deepened it.”

“Perhaps in another environment she may have been consoled,” said Celebrimbor. “Not here, crowded by the sharp edges of ancient memorabilia.”

“Your point is made,” said Celeborn tersely. “I admit I was as helpful as she was friendly. My patience has waned over the years to endure the salt she insists on rubbing into old wounds. Do not make yourself such an easy target, Celebrimbor, lest she make you her next scapegoat.”

Celebrimbor had returned to his plate, more experienced than most at carrying on after unseemly eruptions of temper at the dinner table. “Good advice,” he said.

“Nonetheless, thank you.” Elrond placed his hand over Gil-galad’s where it rested on the board beside him.

The king laughed without mirth. “For thrusting you unwarned into the midst of this drama?”

“No, for that I forgive you.” Elrond smiled. “Thank you for keeping her candle alight.”

Gil-galad squeezed the hand gladly. “I always will,” he said, solemn again. “Like any who came into my purview bereft and despairing in the dark times behind us, she deserves release from the shackles of pain that burden her, and those of us less weakened by our own griefs owe every effort to break the bondage of our kinsmen.” Their eyes locked and with ease uncommon for the king, the connection relaxed into pure exchange of thought. He saw the tragedy of Fëanor’s sons through the eyes of an innocent, the corruption of love into malice, and the inevitable doom of a darkened heart. He saw a set of lone footprints in the sand, forsaken if not followed. With that image came an inkling of their fate, somehow both final and endless – then he felt it: the maddening agony of not-knowing.

The motion of a servant reaching over Renwen’s empty seat interrupted. Gil-galad stopped himself from speaking, and soon the place setting was cleared, leaving nothing to return to.

The hand around his tightened, and together at once, they let go.

Chapter End Notes

Canonically speaking, there would be no question as to Gil-galad's parentage. 
The Silmarillion was printed with Fingon named as Gil-galad's father, but Tolkien wrote several versions. It was eventually determined that Orodreth (himself being the son of Angrod) was Tolkien's final decision on the matter.
The implication in this story that Gil-galad suspiciously resembled Fingon leading elves to speculate as to his true parentage is simply this author being tongue-in-cheek and has no basis in the lore.

I highly recommend this video by Tolkien Untangled for anyone interested in Gil-galad's many incarnations.
https://youtu.be/DVUxtw98thM

The sentry assembled himself to the pose of attention at the visitor’s approach. “Half-elven. My Lord King is expecting you. This way.”

Elrond followed him down the hallway leading to Gil-galad’s personal quarters. Windows lined the outer wall, giving a preview into the king’s private gardens that filled the corridor with the scent of spring blossoms. On the other side of carven doors that yawned to admit them, the chamber was quiet – a canopied bed under pristine folded sheets occupied one wall, and on the opposite side of the room, an imposing desk laden with parchment and books demonstrated how the High King prioritized his time.

The sentry halted before twin doors left open to the outside. “Straight ahead,” he gestured beyond, eyeing Elrond as he decided to say, “Careful not to sneak up.” He repeated that arrow-straight pose, then left.  

As Elrond entered the gardens, the prudence of the sentry’s strange advice became clear. Familiar noises reached his hearing – the rhythmic patter of Elven feet soft upon the ground, the whisking of air cut with deadly force, and breathing heavy through controlled exertion. The sounds guided his path to a clearing encircled by alternating hedges and benches, a makeshift arena of sorts.

In the center of the ring was Gil-galad, stripped of his regalia yet none of his majesty. Silken clothes clung to a layer of sweat underneath, detailing a tapestry of muscles honed for this very purpose, and his long hair flowing free wrote calligraphy in the air to describe the perfection of his every movement as he danced to the fight for survival with his partner, Aeglos. Twirling the spear overhead, he withdrew from the advance of an invisible opponent, then thrashed the weapon down as he lunged forward in a killing stroke. He progressed into the next pattern without pause, spinning to recover momentum while defending his flank from invasion, the blade held wide like a firebrand that wards evil.

At last Gil-galad completed the circuit of exercises with a deep sigh of accomplishment, and showing little sign of fatigue, gazed askingly at Aeglos’ head.

“You need not stop on my account,” said Elrond, sitting down to recoil his feet and tuck crosswise, resting elbow to knee, ready for more. “I recognize some of those steps from the training regimen of the Falathrim who joined us in the War. I might be able to learn the rest, if I could watch you repeat the combinations from the beginning.”

Gil-galad looked away from the mirror of Aeglos’ face at last, donning a canny grin as he walked to where Elrond perched. “Oh, but I cannot. You see, our custom is that spectators stand.” He pointed spear-tip to bench, sunlight reflecting from the motion of its blade like a stroke of lightning. “Only contenders sit whilst awaiting their turn – so I am obliged now to face you in combat, Half-elven.” As Elrond sprang his limbs free in sudden alarm, the king broke into laughter, planting Aeglos’ heel on the ground in the pose of rest. “Nay, nay, never mind! The rule is true, but I only invoked it in jest. Besides, you are not properly dressed for a match.”

“Ah- another time, then.” Elrond arose to kneel in the gesture of formal forfeiture. “Forgive my trespass to challenge you unwittingly.”

“Indeed.” Gil-galad’s mirth turned teasing as he stepped closer to probe. “You were not so loath to provoke me when we first met in my hall.”

“You are not the first to remind me, lord,” said Elrond. “Clearly, my etiquette has suffered from these years spent outside of elven society, but I shall endeavor to repair it – beginning, I hope, with a timely arrival to your summons?”

The king accepted the segue, hefting Aeglos to rest across his shoulders so he could hang his arms to stretch. “Yes, thank you for coming without notice. I would not usually call for council after supper, but the days have run away from me. You passed a furnished patio on the way hither – that’s where we shall convene. Might I task you to prepare a fire there while I go to change into different clothes?”

“Of course.”

Swerving around Elrond’s bow to leave, Gil-galad cast back a smirking glance. “Worry not where you sit.”

The patio was a circle of painted tiles half-crested with chairs facing West. Once lit, a brazier in the center seemed to offer its flame in homage to the sun where it would fall to rest.
Elrond stood beside the fire he built and watched the expanse of sea glittering like a tide of diamonds on the furthest horizon as dusk neared. The ghost of an all-too familiar song came to him on the briny wind, one of remorse and of pain – one he had pursued for a futile lifetime, and finally left behind where it may haunt Arda’s shores for the rest of time counted. A new pursuit had drawn him to Lindon; pursuit of the future, and of purpose in the service of more than memory.

“That’s beautiful.”

Startled, he spun to see Gil-galad standing refreshed and reclothed, proving some time must have passed. “You can hear it?”

The king returned a look equally amused and perplexed. “I can hear your singing, of course. I was waiting for the end, but you trailed off. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Oh. No, I’m glad you did. Seems I was lost in my thoughts.” Come to stand side by side, they faced the unfathomable distance together.

“The Sea will do that; draw you in and sweep you away. Or so many oft say.” Gil-galad stood unswayed, feet wide as though the earth might lurch but fail to throw him. “Our elders looking yonder imagine the Undying Lands, a place in their minds of salvation and of utmost peace. But between this land and that lies ruined Beleriand beneath the Sea that buries it – a loss maybe felt more keenly by those of us who were born here. One cannot now reach Valinor without first crossing the graves of the feats and the follies of its exiles. The graves of our kin.” The king cast away his gaze momentarily. When he continued, he pointed to where the landmass of Tol Morwen dotted the horizon beyond. “Yours as well, of course. I presume you’re familiar with where is reported to be the burial of Morwen and her son Túrin, relatives of your father. Had you visited that place?”

“No, but with Finarfin’s host we came nearby, although I knew it not at the time. I learned only later of the tale from my brother, when I came- well, when I last saw him, after the War.”

Gil-galad raised an eye at whatever Elrond maneuvered around, but said, “I learned it from Pengolodh of Gondolin, a Loremaster of great renown among elves. Another survivor of Sirion, in fact. After the Kinslaying there, he returned with my fleet to Balar and has resided with me ever since – I shall introduce you two eventually. He will be eager to record your account of the War no doubt, though I warn you; he is diligent in his work, some would say zealous, and he may not be as easily deterred as I have been by your reluctance to speak of such things in detail.”

At first Elrond demonstrated that very aversion with silence – but seeing Gil-galad tolerate it as he ever had, graciously and undeserving, he relented. “Though many years have passed, the memories of those dark days still haunt me, and lending a voice to the deeds of war, whether those deeds be valiant or foul, feels like the reckless conjuring of bad omens. Yet only from knowledge comes wisdom – and from ignorance, merely an illusion of peace.” He turned to face Gil-galad and smiled with an idea. “What-say if I offer up some tale to satisfy your curiosity, lord? Consider it reparation for my earlier trespasses, and reward for your tireless courtesy. Anyway, judging by your advice I should practice loosening my tongue before you sic this dread Loremaster on me!”

Again, the ground attracted the king’s gaze and held it low. “Actually, there is one thing in particular I wish to know. A personal matter. I’ve been growing the nerve to ask you, despite your reservations. But if it pleases you now to offer…”

Elrond reached out one hand and spoke in a sobered tone, “Whatever this is that weighs upon you, I would be pleased indeed to relieve you of it, if I can.”

His focus shifted to their connection as Gil-galad said, “You have a skill more common among High Elves, to share the vision of your own memory with another willing to perceive it.” He waited for Elrond to nod. “Close to the resting place of your mortal kin is the Haudh-en-Elleth, where my slain sister was buried – Finduilas. Since you came nearby, I wonder if you witnessed her grave.” The hand around his tightened, and he braced in turn. “Show it to me, that I might remember the place where she laid in peace ere it was drowned. Please.”

Their eyes locked. Within the glittering depths of uncanny grey light, Gil-galad saw at first the illusion of peace; a kindness for the comfort of others, he realized. Then as if from behind a sheer curtain twisted by wind, glimpses of movement came into view, at first indistinguishable but clearer and closer the deeper he looked; scenes of carnage and of glory with little reprieve separating them.

“We marched against the throes of open warfare when coming nigh upon old Doriath. After forcing our way past the forest Neldoreth, Finarfin turned our path North at the River Mindeb, and we went on to besiege Morgoth’s forces encamped within Dorthonion for many years, bringing an end to their long success of sneak attacks unleashed from that realm. But by the time we returned victorious down the Pass of Anach, most of Doriath’s once-green lands had succumbed to flame and ruin from the warring that raged on all the meanwhile. I fear her grave was lost long before the Sea claimed it, Ereinion. I’m sorry. To see whither peace has found Finduilas, you must look now to the uttermost West – or else go to join her there yourself.”

Gil-galad chose to look instead upon the kingdom of his making as the sting of disappointment subsided. “’Where is my heart bound must I remain’,” he said, repeating her words of long ago. At length he added, “Alas that love of all things cinched her cruel fate. Perhaps it prescribes the fate of us all in the end, for better or worse.”

“Perhaps. I know too little of your sister’s tale to say. But as for yourself, lord, one could imagine worse fates than to reign over an Age of peace and prosperity in Middle-earth, such as even your own forebearers would envy.”

“You flatter my ego to say so – and I do not stop you!” Finally the king laughed, and a smile remained. “Yes, I would love that fate indeed.”

From behind, one looking saw but the mirrored silhouette of two figures, purposeful as carven monuments stenciled by the radiant dusk. Still joined by the hand, they stood united before the precipice of Mithlond’s sprawl, diligent shepherds keeping watch from on high.

Beholding this as he approached, Celeborn sighed. Beside him, his wife looked on in silence, clasping her own hand to his as their feet came to rest in the mingled shadows of the last descendants of Beleriand’s great kings. Passing them, Gil-galad’s sentry went forward to announce the arrival of the rest of his guests – the king turned at the words.

“Ah, good! My invitation reached you before slumber after all.”

“Thankfully,” said Galadriel. “I would have been sore to learn later that we had missed the intrigue of a secret meeting.”

Gil-galad returned her play with feigned indignity, “Secret! How dare you. The High King does not tiptoe in his own abode.” He lowered himself to sit in the center of the crescent of chairs, spreading his arms in example, “This is a proper council, dear Auntie. We are not huddled here to peep at each other like mice conspiring in the walls.” As his guests took their places around him, he glanced over his shoulder toward the entry, “Did anyone else see you en route, by the way?”

“Nay. Even Celebrimbor has ceased anxiously roaming the halls by this hour,” said Celeborn.

His wife added with a wink in her voice, “As you know.”

Gil-galad turned up his hands, surrendering the game. “I will consult him in turn, I promise. But he is not going anywhere! Meanwhile, it seems that I only just blinked and already your time here has drawn to a close. I hoped we could speak privately before your departure.”

Between them, the Lord and Lady exchanged a glance both probing and defensive.

Exuding innocence, Gil-galad clarified his meaning, “Círdan mentioned you spoke of returning soon to Harlindon. Why – what did you think I meant?” He settled back in his seat, happy to take his turn making shrewd deductions. “Come now. If I wanted to speak of my subjects’ aspirations to stake personal claim outside my kingdom, I would have invited Celebrimbor indeed!” He laughed before tilting to Elrond sat at his side. “You see, the currency of my success is a coin with two sides. On one, the best and brightest in Middle-earth, united here to build the foundations upon which this new Age of peace and prosperity will flourish. And on the other, the flame of those same ambitious spirits dimmed by the shadow of my crown, yearning to burn free under the open skies of realms to call their own. So, thanks to our esteemed benefactors, we revel to be spoiled with the riches of their shared wisdom and support, until such time as the loan is withdrawn.”

The Lord and Lady let silence be their confession, until Elrond interjected, “Well – from my travels abroad I can attest, scores of Elves who abandoned Beleriand in its strife remain scattered throughout Eriador, in numbers perhaps greater than you estimate. While some find peace in quiet seclusion after the hardships they escaped, many more dwell in unrest with fond remembrance of whichever rulers they once served in those grand kingdoms of old. Over time, as they seek renewed belonging within one newly established domain or another, would you not prefer your closest allies best positioned to help receive them – wherever that may be?”

“Of course. You describe on a larger scale the way of things in Lindon today. I do not begrudge ruffled Sindar flocking to Harlindon under Celeborn’s wing, or city-shy Laiquendi sending their fealty down the remote streams of Forlindon. Even our cousin Celebrimbor has amassed an impressive following of uncredited strays lucky to have survived their former loyalty to Fëanor’s ilk, and wise to keep quiet about it. Anyway – there is much work to be done, and many hands cast the widest net, as the Shipwright would say. I am grateful for all these strong and capable hands gathered to toil together, while it lasts.” Gil-galad opened his palm toward Elrond. “Which comes back to you, Half-elven. My instinct from the onset has been to keep you at my side, and that remains my desire, but the choice is mine by only half. Have you decided yet to stay?”

Celeborn advanced to the edge of his seat. “The decision is yours by less than half, unless the advice of this council is merely decorative,” he said, with a tone that attracted Galadriel’s sharp eye.

“Ah- no indeed.” Gil-galad dipped his head and smiled, if stiffly. “Please, be heard.”

The Lord of trees seemed to take root with each word, “That he should be taken into the fold is no question – but in what capacity, must be asked. If the currency of our providence is as you say -on one side a coalition of factions united for common cause, and on the other, the fundamental differences destined to lure us apart- then why leave it to chance whose net catches those leaderless elves adrift throughout Eriador? The opportunity presents itself to construct a hierarchy with its scales positioned to balance when the inevitable befalls. His arrival occurs to me as portent to do just that. And who better suited to counterweigh the Ñoldorin High King’s rule, than Elu Thingol’s heir?”

Grown silent, the king studied the empty space between their council and the brazier as the glow of its fire replaced the sinking sun. In the changing light he seemed young and subdued, like an early bloom that falters in darkness.

Himself a product between worlds, the junction of day and night did not phase Elrond. “I see your heart’s desire in a different light, lord,” he said. “A desire, from my view, that the revival of Thingol’s reign would not satisfy regardless.”

“Dior satisfied it,” said Celeborn. “Though briefly, alas.”

“Not by his ascension alone, I deem.” Elrond looked away from the fire to watch its light dance upon the grave face of Celeborn. “Dior brought more to Doriath than its short-lived renaissance, did he not? Something not afforded to any of us here, a treasure beyond price. I suspect you’ve confused the remedy of that boon which you covet, with the throne that he assumed which was incidental.”

The firelight warmed Celeborn’s chiseled features, at first furrowed with thought, then bending to amusement. “Reveal then the true nature of my own desire that eludes even me, kinsman – and if you can make better sense of it than I have tried to, I shall defer to the wishes of Gil-galad in this matter and say no more.”

Elrond leaned toward the challenge, saying somberly, “In my youth at Sirion, I studied the sad yearning for bygone glory that haunted the broken hearts of Gondolin’s survivors, and Menegroth’s. But not my parents. For them, a kingdom such as their forebearers ruled would be only the blank canvass upon which to paint their own achievements. Whether they foresaw it or not, as I since have, the legacy of we Half-elven will not be remembered for great innovation or fortifications or conquest, but for sacrifice.” He sat back, contemplating. “Hm. You know, it occurred to me that the Gallery of Honour here in the capitol features less acclaim than it could for feats of the Sindar. Tell me: what portrait would you petition to commemorate Thingol’s legacy? Would it be the Silmaril he died for, perhaps – or Melian’s enchanted border, maybe the dwarven stonecraft of Menelrond?”

After thought, Celeborn nodded. “No. Though such wonders gladdened our hearts to behold, always my thoughts stray to that which is most precious to us lost in those days. My niece Nimloth, her twins... I see where you have led me with this. Lo! If such a portrait were made to honour Thingol’s legacy, it should be of his progeny. Joy beyond measure did we know at the temple of our King’s carven seat under the glittering dome of his hall – for that is where the children played.” His head bowed at the revelation.

Galadriel ended the lengthening silence to say, “Perhaps the greatest accomplishments of the Eldar in these Ages left before us will come not from building thrones in the manner of our forefathers, but cradles.”

“Long have you foreseen it, beloved, whilst I looked in vain toward the past. Very well – let sad yearning for bygone glory haunt my heart nevermore.” Gathering himself straight again, he gestured to Gil-galad. “I defer to your judgement, High King.”

“Splendid! That is-” Gil-galad returned to a relaxed position after almost springing out of his seat. Kingly again, he continued, “Well spoken, and well received. Now dear Auntie, what say you?”

Galadriel gazed upon the pendant hanging from the necklace that Elrond wore: a nightingale with outstretched wings. It was worn by Melian in Doriath while she dwelt there, and of all things, must have passed to Elwing and onward through unfathomable peril to salvation. “I think it is not by happy chance alone that so many strange fates have converged upon this very crossing, to the boon of us all – and I cannot see a more fortuitous path than that upon which we have found ourselves! Therefore, I defer to the wisdom of my father who sent Elrond hither, and to the foresight of the Half-elven should he choose to abide, with but one caution: if indeed sacrifice be your legacy, whatever you earn here may be lost to you in the end, though Middle-earth shall reap the reward of your long toils.”

“That doom is upon me, lady, here or elsewhere.” Elrond looked to Gil-galad who had inched to the edge of his seat where he balanced, waiting. “Yet here, greater is the calling – and greatest the reward, I hope.”

At that, Gil-galad sank back with the sigh of one emerged triumphant from battle and primed for the next. “Then so be it. And so it begins!”

~fin~