Many Meetings by Gwanath Dagnir

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The Council

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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~