A Return Is Not a Homecoming by grey_gazania

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Chapter 3

“I missed the sea,” Gil-galad said. “All those years in Mordor, I dreamed about the sea.”

 

It was midnight, and she and Círdan were out on the beach, lying on their backs on an old blanket that they had spread over the sand and looking up at the night sky. Gil-galad had been with her friend for a week now, helping him in the shipyard, and she had yet to grow tired of breathing in the sea air or listening to the soothing sound of the ocean waves, in and out, in and out. For all that she’d been born in Hithlum – a land of mountains, mist, tall pines, and freshwater lakes – she’d fallen in love with the ocean almost immediately upon arriving in Eglarest as a child.

 

It was the sea-longing that so many of the Eldar felt, and depending on whom you asked it was either a gift or a curse. For her part, Gil-galad would come down on the side of it being a gift, but she knew that for her own father it had been more of a curse. He’d come to visit his family in Eglarest as often as he could, but he’d never gone into the ocean with his daughter. I love the sea, he’d told her once, but the sea does not love me.

 

She hadn’t understood what he’d meant at the time, but once she grew older, once she’d learned of his part in the First Kinslaying, she’d been able to hazard a guess. Fingon had feared the sea. He’d feared that Ossë and Uinen in their wrath would rise against him for his part in the deaths of the Telerin mariners.

 

“A little odd, I guess, dreaming of salt water when we were struggling dreadfully to get enough fresh water to supply our armies,” Gil-galad said, returning to her original train of thought. “But the sea got into my blood and my bones when I was a child and it’s never left.”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Círdan smile, and he said, “I also missed the sea in Mordor. And the stars. And breezes that didn’t smell of fumes and ash and death. That siege was the longest seven years of my life. And I’ve lived a long life.” Then, more softly, almost as though he were confessing an old fear, he said, “I saw you die, Gil-galad.”

 

Inside her own head, Gil-galad winced, but she managed to keep the expression off of her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “That can’t have been any more pleasant to watch than it was to experience.” Sauron had used his power to cook her from the inside out, and she couldn’t imagine what kind of state her body had been in when he’d finished with her.

 

“You don’t need to apologize,” Círdan said.

 

“I think I do,” she said. “Because the thing is, as much as I know my death hurt the people I love, if I had the chance to do it over, I’d make the same choice. I knew I was unlikely to walk away from that fight. But it was necessary. We brought Sauron down – maybe not permanently, but it was a step towards his ultimate defeat that needed to be taken. And I can think of worse things to die for.”

 

Things like Silmarils, or rings of power.

 

“I spent a lot of time in the Halls thinking about choices,” she continued, wanting Círdan to understand. “And there are plenty of things I’d do differently if I had the chance. I certainly could have handled the situation with Celebrimbor and ‘Annatar’ more proactively. But taking the war to Sauron’s doorstep? Facing him in combat? I’d do that again, and again, and again.”

 

Círdan wasn’t looking at her, instead fixing his eyes on the light of Eärendil overhead. “What was it like?” he asked, his voice very quiet. “Being in the Halls?”

 

Gil-galad didn’t answer at first, instead taking a long moment to put her thoughts in order. “I don’t remember all of it,” she finally said. “But…there was a lot of self-reflection. Thinking about what I’d done right and what I’d done wrong, and how to do better in the future. And I mean really a lot of that. More than you’d think.” She would have said, at the moment of her death, that she’d done the best she could with her life, but it had turned out that there were infinite moments when she could have acted differently.

 

“There was a lot of reflection on relationships, too,” she continued. “People I’d wronged, and people who’d wronged me. Celebrimbor. My father.” She paused, feeling her mouth twist unhappily, and then said, “Maedhros. But I’ll say this for the Belain: the Doomsman understands that forgiveness cannot be compelled. If I’d had to forgive Maedhros to come back, I would still be in the Halls.”

 

Glancing at Círdan out of the corner of her eye, she asked, “Why the curiosity? I know you well enough to know that that wasn’t an idle question.”

 

“Elu has yet to return,” Círdan said, his eyes still fixed on the sky.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how much you’ve missed him all these years.”

 

The death of his nephew Elu Thingol had devastated Círdan, Gil-galad knew. For her part, she’d never laid eyes on the man, but Círdan had respected him deeply and called him king. Thingol’s murder had been a terrible blow to many, but especially to Círdan.

 

Deep, abiding grief was written on Círdan’s features as he said, “I had hoped that when I arrived here, he would be waiting. I only wish I knew why he chooses to linger in the Halls for so long.”

 

“Perhaps he still mourns Lúthien.”

 

“Perhaps. Can grief keep you there?”

 

Gil-galad shrugged. “I don’t know for certain,” she said, “but I suppose if someone isn’t ready to accept that grief, they may not be ready to return.”

 

She couldn’t even imagine how painful it must be to lose a child forever. For most of the Eldar, at least, there was always the possibility of reuniting with one’s departed family members. But for those with mortal relatives, like Elu Thingol – and Elrond – some losses were permanent. Elrond had never really stopped mourning his brother, and now his daughter, too, was sundered from him until the end of time.

 

Elrond, though, had always handled grief exceptionally well, a trait that Gil-galad suspected was born out of how much practice he’d had. It was quite tragic, really, and she’d long admired her herald’s inner strength, his ability to withstand loss upon loss without shattering completely.

 

“I wish I could offer you a better answer,” she said to Círdan.

 

He gave a noncommittal hum and then said, “I suppose I’ll simply have to keep waiting.”

 

Círdan had had a lot of practice waiting, Gil-galad thought, just as Elrond had had a lot of practice grieving. He’d spent over three Ages waiting to depart Middle-earth and see the Undying Lands, waiting to be reunited with his kin. But she left the thought unspoken, because she didn’t want to lay further melancholy on her friend.

 

Now, for the first time since their conversation had taken this turn, Círdan turned to truly look at her. “You, at least, have returned to me, my dear friend. That can be enough for now.”

Chapter End Notes

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