Duty, Gossip, Wine, and Buoys by Gwanath Dagnir

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Chapter 1

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64 S.A.

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“Now Elrond, as you are new to this high-born lifestyle, I shall explain what these courtly affairs are all about.”
The High King stood in the foyer of his personal quarters, arms spread like wings while attendants swarmed around him, busily arranging his clothes and hair.
“Half of it is business, obviously, though it is an unspoken rule that we keep such dealings as subtle as possible, otherwise it is considered boorish. The other half is a mixture of these things: either searching for a mate if one is unwed, or if one is already wed, then going above and beyond to drive your spouse wild with jealousy or with lust – all the rest is just gossip, and wine. Let me know what questions you have. By the way, that hair will not do – how are you styling it?”

Elrond had to pivot where he stood to allow the king’s assistants to pass him by as they scurried out of the room. He turned his attention back to Gil-galad. “My… sorry, what? You only said I needed to wear something more appropriate before.”

Gil-galad had retreated to a vanity where personal trinkets were pushed aside to make space for stationery. “Oh, and you are indeed! That ensemble used to be my favourite when I was young like you.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder before returning his focus to something he wrote. He was less than a century older than Elrond and enjoyed making a joke of his advanced years because of it.

Elrond shifted in the unfamiliar clothes, layers upon layers of clothes, loaned to him by the High King for this occasion. The whole ordeal seemed a bit absurd. He had arrived at Mithlond weeks ago and already met most figureheads in the king’s orbit, whether they held noble status and served him directly or were integral to some facet of operating the city. This would be a gathering of mostly those same people for the purpose of meeting Elrond again under fancier conditions, where he would be officially named to the High King’s court. And now he needed different hair on top of it.

Gil-galad set his quill aside and while the ink dried, he appraised Elrond standing behind him in the reflection of the mirror. The stately attire wore like armour upon him, heavy and duty-bound, and within it, the bearer seemed braced for impact. “I could not think of a more fitting epithet, by the way. Is there something you would like me to proclaim? Maybe something you went by in the war? In the end, I suppose you are going to be called Half-elven no matter what.”

“Ai… I forgot you mentioned an epithet. Yes, Half-elven, fine.”

Gil-galad spun around on the bench, starting to realize the other’s discomfort. Elrond looked toward the window as if he planned to jump out of it, twisting a lock of hair between his fingers and his bottom lip between his teeth.
He thought back to his own introduction to formal engagements as a young prince – by that time, he had been schooled to the point that social theatre was already a practiced artform and just another duty his title commanded. If Elrond were not already at war by that same age, then he would have still been held polite prisoner by the Fëanorians among what remained of their destitute host. Gil-galad felt moved to ease the burden of this last task undone.
“Here, come sit yourself down. The bells will soon ring, let me help you with this quickly.” At an increasingly vigorous waving of his hand, Elrond obeyed, switching places so that Gil-galad stood behind him facing the mirror. “No one will write poetry about my handiwork, but Círdan would disown me if I could not manage a good fishbone braid after all these years.” As he prepared the long strands with a brushing, everything about Elrond seemed to go further on edge. After setting down the comb, he turned his hands over, half expecting to see thorns that had drawn blood. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

His return to work garnered the same reaction, like his fingers were made of ice. “I- I’m just seeing which way it lays best. Everyone has a side that suits them.” Gil-galad gathered the hair back up and switched sides, combing through it with his fingers to arrange the long tresses on the left. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Something. You are stiff as a tree. Did I pull?”

Their eyes locked in the mirror image, and whether the sharing was intended or not, Gil-galad glimpsed a strain of truth in story form; a tale of absences. Whether encamped at war or with the Kinslayers, there had been no lessons on courtly manners, no banquets, no ceremonial clothing, no flirting with new acquaintances, and evidently no communal braiding of hair for Elrond Half-elven growing up. All these things which Orodreth sent his young son away to ensure he would have. All these things denied Turgon’s heirs, because of fealty to a jewel.
He released the hair to fall naturally, how it was usually worn if not tied simply back, and absently stroked the raven strands until Elrond began to relax, acclimating to the touch.
“It occurs to me that I am asking a great deal of you in rapid succession,” he said. “And so unflinchingly have you weathered it, that I forget how this all must seem very strange and new.”

Elrond managed a wry smile. “Better strange and new than what might seem to me familiar and tired.”

“War? Vagrancy? Yes, I should hope so!” Gil-galad chanced a dose of humour to help elevate the mood to party readiness. “It also occurs to me that I owe you a confession! I had wrongly assumed you left your hair untamed like this to cloak little mannish nubs.” He slinked the locks back to nest behind perfect elf ears and bent the elongated ends playfully. “Maybe you know our minds burn with curiosity if left to wonder, so you toy with us this way to amuse yourself, hm?”

“Only full-blooded elves care that much about the shape of someone else’s ears, my Lord.”

“Ah-ha, so you do not deny it!” Laughing, he lowered his hands to the top of Elrond’s shoulders, satisfied that they were less tense. He considered their combined reflection, his own of conventional elvish beauty, and the other... Gil-galad blinked. “Well, I deem you are too much in both worlds for a one-sided style after all. So I will give you this instead: one braid centered in back, and your secret stays safe with me thereby.” Draping the hair loosely on each side, he left the pointed ear-tips covered by the hair pulled back and began to braid.

The whistle of a labourer’s tune closed in from down the hall, followed by a rhythmic knock at the threshold. “Ahoy,” Círdan let himself into the chambers and came to inspect the work underway. “O yes yes yes, now that is a fishbone worthy of an honourary Sindar. Well done, my lad.”

Gil-galad looked up at the ceiling and side to side. “Hello, who’s there? Do you hear something, Elrond? It sounds like Círdan, but surely he must be at Sea forgetting all about important events like usual.”

Círdan scoffed. “Nonsense.” He took to straightening his clothes; layers of silver and light blue with white embroidery like rolling waves. “I would not miss this- this thing, not for all the treasure of every sunken ship. Look, I even gussied up. Mm, now remind me, what is tonight about?”

“I am naming Elrond. Also, I’ve commissioned Celebrimbor’s expedition East he’s been clamouring about, so that will be announced. And Lindir insisted the Forlond Quartet entertain, for some reason, but the Harlond Harmonics came to defend their honour.”

“Then it will be a musical duel of epic civility, no doubt.” Círdan put a sympathetic hand on Elrond’s shoulder. “Speaking of the festivities, have you been appropriately briefed? The wine, the gossip, the women, the buoy system?”

“Alas, not that last part.”

“Ah yes, allow me to explain.” Gil-galad handed the tail end of the braid to Círdan for tying off and stepped to the side, using his hands to elaborate. “See here, you are new to this court and as such, you will stick out amongst the crowd like a prime selection of dry kindling. And everyone here is looking to make an easy fire to warm their aspirations in front of. They will lure you in and snatch you up and set you alight and enjoy your brightness until you are extinguished, if they are allowed to. I am being dramatic. But the point is, that’s not how you meet women.”

“The point is,” Círdan interjected, “Stay close to your buoys. Myself, the High King if he is not inundated, Celebrimbor, or Celeborn and Galadriel. We will keep you from being swept adrift.”

Gil-galad muttered, “Celebrimbor will not keep you from drifting to sleep…”

Elrond pulled at the collar slowly choking him. “Is this going to be as awful as it sounds?”

Círdan nodded. “Sometimes worse. But at least we look nice.”

 

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Lindir glanced up from the rim of his glass, his eyes going as round as the brim as they took focus across the bustling hall. “Oh Valar, that must be him then – the Half-elven?” Lindir had come late to join the attendees on the floor, being occupied with his official duty directing the musical entertainment for the evening.

Celeborn twisted to follow his line of sight. “Standing beside my wife, yes,” he confirmed, turning back to the circle of those conversing. He also noted a cluster of Unweds lingering in the peripheral, whispering behind jeweled fingers while they waited for Galadriel’s guard to waver so they may pounce.

“Mm. I have seen him being toured about, but we have not spoken,” said Galdor with a tone of disinterest. “Would be a shame if he does not live up to all this fuss.” He looked appreciatively at his wine raised to catch the lamp light – a new vintage brought from the valley of Evendim for this occasion. “You should go introduce yourself, minstrel, once your cheeks are a different shade than this fabulous rosé.”

“I fear the color would return as soon as his gaze laid upon me,” said Lindir, looking appreciatively at the new vintage in the High King’s court. “What a specimen,” he sighed.

Galdor made a sound in his throat. “You should have seen him the day he arrived, fine as a pauper. He caused such a commotion by not properly announcing himself. Did you know the High King was summoned to meet Elros Tar-Minyartur and suffered correction in his own Hall publicly? Somehow the offence was just laughed away, and now they are friends apparently.”

The rest of the story went through Lindir, enraptured by the thought of not one but two creatures so fair. “I never saw his brother, though I knew Elros with the Edain dwelled in Mithlond for a time. I remember hearing they are twins.” Lindir raised his glass toward Celeborn. “You come and go like the tide, lord, with your business on the agriculture commission. If you knew Elros, can you tell us whether they were identical?”

Celeborn turned back to look again, rekindling the memory of his interactions with Elros. Not for the first time, he was struck by another semblance, that of the Half-elven brethren to their maternal parentage whom Celeborn dwelled with in Doriath as Thingol’s kinsman. A selfish part of him rejoiced that he never saw Eärendil’s sons together, as it surely would have exemplified their likeness to Dior’s twins – within Celeborn, the wound of their cruel murder may never close.
“In body, they were alike as the mirror image of each other. And in spirit, so similar in my observation that I marvel they chose different fates.”

“And what a strange fate indeed.” Gildor joined the conversation at what he saw as an opportunity to steer it toward substance. “Now we know Elros is mortal of course, accepting the Gift of Men along with his kingship over them. But of Elrond’s progeny, can their fate be foretold? And -unseemly though it may be- what if he bred with a mortal, I wonder.”

“That might be all he is permitted to do,” said Galdor. He flung his thick braid, entwined with embroidered ribbon, off one should and slinked it onto the other. “What wise Elf would give their daughter’s hand in marriage to one whose offspring may die?”

The elves shivered at the prospect, save Celeborn, who alone of those present had beheld the love that bonded Beren and Lúthien firsthand.
“If not for wise Elves who did precisely that, all of the lands and living things in Middle-earth would be destroyed or thrall to Morgoth at this very moment.” Celeborn drank wine while his companions reflected on their convictions, and their own blessings. Once they squirmed in what he saw as an appropriate manifestation of chagrin, he added, “It would be most wise of us, I think, not to pass casual judgement on divine matters too profound for the gaiety of Gil-galad’s Hall. Suffice to say that the Half-elven known to this world have made great triumphs of the perilous tasks fallen into their hands, to the boon of us all – and we could expect the same may prove true of Elrond and his kin.”

“Very well then,” said Galdor, trying to salvage Celeborn’s opinion of him with levity, “When you have a daughter, she can marry him!”

They laughed until Lindir choked on air and grasped the arm of the person closest to him. “He’s coming- be quiet- act natural- O Valar!”

The crowd parted to make way as Galadriel led Elrond -with the appearance that the opposite were true- across the hall and positioned him between herself and Celeborn. Flanking them, a procession of Unweds circled once, determined eyes sharp on their mark, and disappeared back into the forest of mingling elves.
“Greetings again, fellows,” Galadriel said to the group, her hair cascading in a curtain of gold as she bowed her head.

Gildor smiled easily, confident that he had gossiped the least amongst his companions. “Greetings, lady, and Elrond – best you get a cup into that hand before the High King sees it empty or he will think you are miserable.”

“We will find one on our way and be merry!” said Galadriel. “Husband, will you stroll with us before Lindir’s next act takes the floor? – Elrond has never seen Snowthorn and I deem he should meet the plant that shares its namesake with Gil-galad’s weapon of choice.”

A walk outside translated from one buoy to another for a break overdue. Celeborn flung up his hand, looking skyward for forgiveness. “I forgot my promise to do so! Yes, let us away at once.”
The trio excused themselves and made their escape. Galadriel and Celeborn, hardened court-veterans, each seized a fresh glass from passing trays as they expertly weaved through the throng.

Near the arching doorways, they navigated around a group surrounding Gil-galad, himself draped over Círdan’s side and held steady thereby. “I love this salty old elf,” he was telling those who listened while looking adoringly at the Shipwright. “I know you thought I was unhappy when I first came to live with you, but it was only because I didn’t like you. Hold on, that’s not right…” Gil-galad pointed at Círdan, focusing his own attention to say, “You thought I didn’t like you, but it was only because I was unhappy. There it is. But I came to understand why my father had to send me away, and I’m grateful, and I love you, and I grew to love the Sea, and now I am king, so everyone wins – except my father who has perished. Have you eaten? Have all of you eaten?”

Emerging outside, they turned onto the porch that wrapped around the outer wall of the great assembly hall, breathing easier in the fresh air and walking with lightened steps under the starlight. After a moment of peace, Celeborn pointed beyond without looking. “Behold Snowthorn, yonder somewhere.”

Elrond nodded, also without looking. “Breathtaking.”

Now that they were kept honest, Galadriel came to business. “Celebrimbor has been elusive tonight since the announcement. Have you managed to find him to speak regarding the expedition?”

“No, he is avoiding me. I assumed he was safely basking in your company while I have been occupied elsewhere.”

“Have you not had your eye on me to know?” Galadriel smiled innocently as her husband’s glance swept over her -as indeed it had throughout the evening- betraying the subtlest hunger that only she would detect.

Celeborn said toward Elrond, “Speaking of which, their traveling party will seek your advice, having journeyed recently beyond Minhiriath as few here yet have. I heard Celebrimbor means to petition to take you along as guide – though even if you were willing, I doubt Gil-galad will release you. I have considered volunteering myself to accompany them, if Celebrimbor would tolerate my presence.”

“I could ask him to do so, lord husband, as a favour to me.” Galadriel looked at him sidelong, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Grinning at her game, Celeborn said, “Well, enough about my wife’s openly secret admirer! How do you like the wine, Elrond? And I should add, if you like it very much you have not tasted good wine.”

“I have tasted good wine,” said Elrond, politely leaving it at that.

“Evendim’s finest, indeed…” Celeborn tilted the glass against the moonlight. “They planted this vineyard because of the rain that comes consistently to that valley. I tried to warn them, a happy grape is as much about the soil, and the soil there needs help from more than rain alone.” He looked admiringly at his wife, that mediocre spirit making its way to his head nonetheless, along with her teasing. “My lady Galadriel could mend it with her formidable touch. I for one would encourage her.”

The singing of chimes echoed from the hall within, announcing a proclamation. They returned inside and caught Círdan’s eye, who motioned to Gil-galad standing in front of his chair on the dais. The king shaded his eyes as though the sun hung from the ceiling while he scanned the crowd. The trio approached the foot of the stairs until Gil-galad spotted them -at least one set of them- and signaled the musicians for a bell ring.
The crowd fell into a humming silence, waiting for him to speak.

“Hear ye fair Elves, gathered tonight so, uhm- fairly. With the long foresight of my forefathers, long have I foreseen this moment should come to pass: I, Ereinion Gil-Galad, High King of the Ñoldor, drunk at a party.” He paused while his own laughter mingled with that of his audience. “Therefore, I wrote a speech! Wait. Where is my speech.” Gil-galad patted at his clothes where no pockets were sown and looked around until seeing in his mind’s eye the parchment he left on the desk in his room. “Drat. Well, I do my best work from the heart no less.” He reassumed his stance of formal pronouncement and grew more serious to say, “I hereby name Elrond son of Eärendil to my court, and indeed the innermost circle thereof. In the manner of his good nature, to give and not take, no epithet will he accept, nor title or appointment at this time, but none does he need – only of his kind, bridge of Ages, harbinger of new fate unforeseen.” Gil-galad’s gaze found its focus upon the subject of his address, and the room became still. “Though Half-elven we may call him, it should be a name in jest, for he is not half of anything – child of Ilúvatar’s children and scion of all the noble houses thereof. Not lesser parts of a greater whole, rather the best parts of us all united.” He raised his glass, the audience following in kind. “A toast to this invigorated court, and to our long years of friendship, for I will have it no other way!” Gil-galad motioned with free hand for the music to commence, descending the stairs with calculated steps.

Coming to the trio, he said, “One more thing,” and handed his glass to Celeborn, freeing his hands to wrap Elrond into a long embrace before separating with a smile. “There, it is official, because I make the rules.” He retrieved his glass from Celeborn and passed it straight to Elrond. “And now if you love birds would like to go admire the moon a while, I shall keep Elrond at my side from here on. We should be stormed soon enough by – ah, here comes the seamstress brigade already! Elrond, stand your ground, if they smell fear it will only rile them more- Ladies!”

As a congregate of elaborately decorated hopefuls unfurled themselves before the High King, Celeborn and Galadriel strategically switched places with Círdan. Elrond noted they advanced like team hunters upon Celebrimbor, whose luck in evading them ran out the instant he stopped to entertain a passing tray of sweets with his back turned their direction.

Here the Shipwright shifted smoothly into role of chaperone over the coming exchanges, as Gil-galad greeted each of the new arrivals and introduced them to Elrond by name and association. A few made bold to immediately suggest a private walk or appointment to meet later, and Círdan fielded such advances with practiced canny that surprised Elrond and offended -but favoured- no one. Eventually more elves joined the assemblage and it fragmented organically into smaller and smaller circles that rearranged over time, until at last Círdan side-stepped and twirled, enclosing himself, king, and Half-elf in a union of three. He arched between them, arms over backs, making a tent with their heads.

“I know that look,” said Gil-galad. “Am I in trouble already?”

“What do you mean, already? Today is almost over!” said the Shipwright smiling. “And indeed you have been so well-behaved that I suggest ending the night on this very note. Your appointments tomorrow start late but are important. There is a clear escape route if you go now – I submit myself to remain as rearguard.”

Gil-galad leaned into Elrond but did not whisper, “Do not be fooled by his feigned sacrifice. This is how he gets the ladies to himself.”

“Aye, raising you was only a ruse to achieve my life’s true ambition: wrangling your would-be suitresses.” He rolled his eyes before giving a nod and a wink to Elrond. “See that he is not accosted along the way, will you? Goodnight, and good luck!”

They made off without interruption or notice, thanks to Círdan’s impeccable timing and whatever distraction he unleashed after parting from them.
Passing through the adjoining rooms, Gil-galad yawned as the music faded to silence behind them. He abandoned his cup on the rim of a potted plant and began loosening choice ties that secured layers to other layers of regalia. “So tell me, was it as terrible as you expected?”

Elrond laughed, the anxieties that wracked him earlier in the day seeming as distant and as silly as some childhood fear of the unknown. “No, I stand gladly corrected. And thank you for your words of me, I did not expect such praise.” Soon they approached a guard at the final threshold of public domain. He bowed low to Gil-galad and again to Elrond before posing with spear at attention as they proceeded into the High King’s private wing. “Hm. That is something new…”

“Indeed, my word travels fast- whoop!-” Gil-galad collided with a vase when turning the corner. He grappled with the priceless porcelain while Elrond grappled with him, together managing to keep both from toppling over. They somehow remained arm in arm after straightening and resumed their walk so linked. “As I was saying, now that you are named, expect all manner of formal courtesies, and opportunistic acquaintances of dubious intention. I will give you a list of people who are allowed to believe they may influence me through you, by the way. It is short.”

Elrond thought glowingly back upon the novelty and magnitude of the evening. In times past, he had suffered being the only of his kind in a room full of curious onlookers as an unavoidable but onerous by-product of his very nature. Tonight, his uniqueness felt like a prestigious and even enviable distinction, especially after being announced to Gil-galad’s court without so much as a title. He bore the searching gazes of intrigued elves as a compliment for the first time and fielded their well-meaning (if banal) questions with easier grace. Now he walked elated beside the High King, fancy and fit and primed for the future.
“I think I checked all of the items on your list as for what to achieve, except subtle business perhaps. You were right that your Southern vassals have their eyes Eastward, though I could not devise how to learn more without plain asking. Oh! Is it such common knowledge that Celebrimbor covets Celeborn’s own wife? Galadriel is remarkably hospitable about it – the same credit could be awarded to her husband for that matter. And, well… I suppose that constitutes my dose of gossip for the nonce.”

“You still neglected something -other than a marriage proposal- for I saw your hand empty of wine half of the night. That’s why I feared you were miserable.” Without thinking, Gil-galad weaved his fingers between those of the hand he worried about.

Elrond’s reflex was to tighten in return. “Not at all. Although I have had better wine if I’m being honest, but far worse company. I mean- of the company earlier, I mean, yours is nice as well… never mind.”

Onward they continued with arms entwined and fingers threaded. Gil-galad wondered as to the customs of Men in such things -even Elrond might not know- but while physical contact was unremarkable among elf-kind, when their flesh touched, it seemed to resonate as if with song. Had the wine softened his resolve enough that he felt now what Elrond felt earlier in the day that made him seem restive? Suddenly he yearned to return his fingers to that silken hair and solve the mystery.
Coming to the end of the hall before engraved doors closed to the High King’s private chambers, Gil-galad untangled to lean his elbow against the wall, resting head on fist in a pose of casual leisure.
“May I ask you a question?” His balance wobbled – he caught himself by bracing against Elrond’s chest and left his hand there.

“Of course.”

“It’s something personal I wondered about.”

“All right.”

“You might consider it… unseemly.”

“Nothing about you is unseemly to me, Ereinion.”

“Oh. Oh?” Gil-galad searched for the full truth of that statement, to no avail. Elrond’s eyes were bright as any Eldar, but without the unimpeded clarity of an elf full-blooded. His shone with a complexity as if reflected through cut crystal, sometimes impossible to decipher. “Then you have not heard rumour of my vice for, shall we say, private dalliances. Or perhaps you have.”

Elrond’s posture straightened, the motion molding his form against Gil-galad’s palm. “I do not heed rumours. And my esteem is lessened toward those who peddle them.”

“That is decent of you. But of course you are very decent – and yet, though young, I cannot tell how innocent you are.” Gil-galad leaned closer, dazzled by that kaleidoscopic gaze. “Many things about you are occluded, in fact. Oft I look at you and think I might read better from a scroll held under moving water.”

Elrond frowned. Did he frown? No, this was his pout. “That should not be so. I have never withheld from you.” Suddenly he perked. “Many have remarked how I possess an innate talent for scrying, but there are also ways to train the ability. I could help you to hone it.”

“That was not my question.” Gil-galad shifted his hand to grasp the edge of fabric closing his own shirt that Elrond wore. He felt the cool metal of Melian’s pendant press against his knuckles in contrast to the heat of the Half-elf’s body.
“Has anyone ever kissed you?”

“Ai!” Laughing, Elrond said, “Was I so artless speaking with your admirers? Hopefully my ineptitude did not impede your own prospects.” He bowed his head and spoke lower, “But no, what I guess you already surmise is true. Not that I am unwilling- that is… even if I had met someone who seemed to be a good match, when would I have had time for anything like that?”

“Are you busy now?” He smiled, allowing the proposition to be taken as jest. Elrond looked up at once, unflinching, and no doubt perfectly able to decipher Gil-galad. In response, he barely pulled on the garment, bringing them closer without resistance, and lowered his other hand to massage the bend of neck to shoulder, muscled as a warrior and lithe as an elf. “Since I cannot read you, tell me if I overreach.”

The space between them slowly closed from both sides until they were pressed brow to brow. With shallow breath, Elrond said, “Even now can you not? Pray try.”

Gil-galad put forth his wine-addled best effort to find the connection offered. He felt a warm welcome, reaching and inviting, indistinguishable from the strong touch that gently trailed up his arm. Sufficiently encouraged, he dove in to explore those lips yet uncharted and found himself received with matched eagerness. Their kiss evolved with the confidence of second nature and deepened with hunger unsated, anything but artless, and if it began innocently, it did not end so. Breathless and rapt and laced with the flavour of each other, they broke to rest again brow to brow, arms locked hand to bicep in a cage that kept them together and restrained at the same time.

“Well – now you know what all the fuss is about.” The face nested next to his smiled as Gil-galad nudged and caressed a path to the other side, helping himself to another taste of that willing mouth along the way. Once back at rest, through the windows lining the hallway, he happened to spy Eärendil’s star glowing dimmer in the last hours of night – it twinkled, as if casting one final warning glance upon this moment. A pang of sobriety stifled the flutter in his core, and he sighed as the ever-looming weight of his office seemed to materialize.

“What is it?” asked the child of Middle-earth’s saviour, sensing the disruption as keenly as he sensed so much.

“Oh, just your father up there, defying me to make a dalliance out of his beloved son.” Gil-galad tried to speak lightly, but his voice was drained.

Elrond shifted to look the same direction, undaunted by the grandeur of his own legacy. “My father is guarding the Void, Ereinion, not passing idle judgement upon our discretion.” Still lighthearted, he said, “Besides, the last time he saw fit to interfere in earthly affairs, it was to slay Ancalagon.” His grip moved on Gil-galad’s arms, squeezing exploratively. “You aren’t actually a dragon underneath, are you?”

Never had the urge been so strong to strip down and reveal himself utterly. “If you were anyone else, I-” he faltered. If not for everything Elrond is, he would be ordinary, and Gil-galad less tantalized. Círdan’s frequent observation proved true yet again: this young king is particularly adept at desiring things he cannot have.

That pout returned. “Your mood is changed. Did I do something wrong?”

“No, the fault is my own. Forgive me for forgetting myself. I know better than to engage frivolously like this, as if you were common. You must be held to a standard of conduct and of perception that is expected of nobles. And of all the things I may ask of you in the coming years, I cannot ask you to be my secret – it is beneath you, and it compromises me. Now the hour is late, I must take some rest before tomorrow’s work.”

Elrond drew back as these words came between them. “In that case, I- sorry.” He dropped his hands. “Seems I forget myself as well.”

Missing him already, Gil-galad said, “Will you please part from me as we came here, friends and allies? Later we can laugh together about this honest trespass once the exuberance of the nights’ festivities and the pain from too much wine has cleared from our heads. Please.”

“As you wish.” He slipped away despite Gil-galad’s motion to embrace him in farewell. The fragrant heat from their encounter seemed to follow him down the hall, leaving a dull and chill gap.

Pausing, Elrond half-turned. “You once asked how I could achieve my own healing by tending the wounds of others. Perhaps it is a similar concern that moves me to wonder, how do you appease your own heart’s desire, if the obligations of your throne are opposed and you serve it foremost?”

Desperate to end this torment of his abstention, Gil-galad blurted, “With someone of lower stature, if I deign. Or however I please, but often not at all! Do not concern yourself with the injustice of it – I accept my lot. Anyway, I’ve been High King longer than you’ve been an adult; I know my way around the prying eyes of my own court, and my subjects know their place.” He winced to feel Elrond’s presence recoil, even as he stood there still.

“Verily you are a good king, selfless and true. I should aspire to be as steadfast.” He bowed stiffly. “Good night.” As he walked away, he started to unbraid his hair.

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~fin~