Many Meetings by Gwanath Dagnir

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The High King

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.”

 

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