By Fireside by Gwanath Dagnir

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

“By the way, I saw that you met Daegon tonight, at last. What impression did he leave on you?”

Elrond refilled his wine from the console that their chairs surrounded and sat back, thoughtful. “Plenty competent for his role, I would say.”

“Pfft!” The king swatted at the air. “Come, come, you needn’t temper your words here now. This is the council of inhibition and the hour of gossip. Er, or vice versa. Tell us what you really think.”

“There is no wrong answer,” said Círdan from where he crouched to revive the hearth fire. The trio had excused the king’s servants when they escaped to his study for private conversation. From under the door that separated this chamber from the Hall, muffled noises of guests still reveling after the evening meal grew quieter by the hour. Brushing soot from his hands, he gathered himself to stand, robes cascading from his impressive height like a sail unfurled. “The King is curious because Daegon has a reputation as being an acquired taste. To each their own and to some, not at all.”

“Then, in the spirit of the occasion of uninhibited gossip, I will add that he presents more dourly than seems befitting for a vassal’s emissary. Even Celeborn’s.”

“You’re still tip-toeing,” Gil-galad muttered from the brim of his cup.

“I hadn’t finished. And though his dedication to his duty may be admirable, the sheer force of his purposefulness is like a river that flows downhill without the discretion -or the agency- to yield for any reason.”

“That’s better!” The king raised his glass in solidarity. “I’ve always said that conversing with him is like trying to swim upstream. And he has as much personality as a fish floating belly-up who died from the effort.”

“tsk, Ereinion…” Círdan bowed his head, concealing his mirth with the motion of settling back down into his chair. “There is some history here, if you had not already deduced,” he explained for Elrond.

“He dubbed me the Child King, back in the day when it was true enough to be unmentionable,” said Gil-galad, ruffling as though it were yesterday. He refilled his cup with rich port to match his boldening mood. “Meanwhile, I had welcomed his house into my stronghold on Balar and recognized their high lineage with all due esteem, as appropriate. Imagine the audacity! Hmph. Came as no surprise to us when he relocated to Harlindon at its earliest establishment. Yet Celeborn elevating him to envoy, well… to each their own, indeed.”

“He coined the term with more endearment than it may seem, in the style of his humour; such as it is!”

Gil-galad scrunched his eyebrows over half-lidded eyes. “Excuses.”

Círdan smiled sagely. “I could tell a story that might convince you.” He shifted to Elrond sat at his side, though his gaze lingered fondly upon the subject of his speech. “When Gil-galad was just a lad and newly come into my fostering, at the havens of Brithombar we dwelt. Now though exceptionally bright by all accounts, the once-exuberant son of gentle Orodreth withdrew in those early days, despondent after the separation from family and the life he knew in Nargothrond. He dedicated himself to academic studies, taking very seriously his responsibilities as the last High Prince in Beleriand – foremost among them, to grow up as fast and as wise as he could! And well, I left him to it at the time… for all the good that it did in the end.”

“Hay!” Gil-galad’s preening smile morphed into an indignant maw.

Círdan recovered from a chortle to continue, “So! One day, I was home in between voyages-”

“Oh, that day. I remember that one day.” Gil-galad said to Elrond while pointing at the Shipwright, “I’m convinced his primary motivation for fostering me was so someone would be around to manage his dry-land affairs whilst he galivanted the coasts.”

“As I was saying – in the new light of that young morn, along I walked toward the pier where my work awaited me, assuming with all reason that little Ereinion, innocent Ereinion, dutiful and good-mannered Ereinion, was still tucked away in bed dreaming of what exciting lessons his tutors would unleash that day. But lo! There before the dock I froze, stupefied by that which I beheld.”

“Was it me?” asked Gil-galad with incredulity rehearsed almost as many times as the tale had been retold.

“None other!” said Círdan, playing along. “You see, alongside the pier on one side, a crop of fang-rocks that skirted the crag jutted out from the low tide like a phalanx of spearmen shimmering in the dawn. Now Elrond,” though Círdan addressed the Half-elven, he only looked more pointedly at Gil-galad, “can you guess why we called them fang-rocks?”

“…Because they were sharp?”

“Because. They. Were. Sharp. But despite my repeated warnings to that effect -which may even seem redundant given the implication of their very namesake- young Ereinion, impulsive Ereinion, naughty and stubborn Ereinion, had taken it upon himself to sneak out of his quarters and practice his balance upon that mire of peril this morn.”

“It’s not that I underestimated the prudence of your warning,” Gil-galad murmured behind the brim of his glass. “I merely overestimated the traction of my shoes when dampened.”

“You were supposed to be studying.”

“Yes well, I studied some marine life, didn’t I...”

“Anyway. Just imagine this poor dear, Elrond – there was he, hobbling toward dry land and bloody beneath both knees, smothered by his fine clothes sopping wet like a net of seaweed, his mop of disentangled braids unruly as an octopus worn as a hat. Even from that distance I could see the pain in his eyes, the mortification, though such was his dedication to earn esteem in his strange new home that he held his head high, nonetheless. By the time we joined upon the path, an unwelcome number of bystanders had paused to take in the sore sight of him for themselves. So there, surrounded by the prying and pitying eyes of those he must grow to rule, the last High Prince in Beleriand stood square to me, and forced his lips tight with indignity into a smile to say, ‘If only someone had warned me about those fang-rocks, and named them better!’”

“If you can strain to imagine it, Half-elven,” said Gil-galad, displaying with his hand from crown downward, “this imposing manifestation of wise governance and regal propriety that you see before you now, was back then a rather cheeky boy.”

“And as keen as the rocks that had taken a bite out of him! Seeing me unmoved by levity, he summoned all the earnestness that his status commanded, saying on, ‘I evaded my watchers and defied you, lord – not for its own sake, but only to quell my curiosity about the newness of this place. I meant no harm by it, though harm has been had, and serves me right. If you see fit to punish my insolence, I will receive it and not begrudge you. For if I am one day to lead these good people with respect, they must see that I accept my dues honourably.’ Then higher held he his head, despite the embarrassment of this spectacle and dread for my temper that he had not yet tested.”
Círdan paused to sigh deeply. “Ah, but from the onset I had taken him into my heart to love as my own son, and from that day forward it may be filled with pride for his works or remorse for his misfortune, but never with wrath for any reason. So said I, ‘No more suffering shall you endure, if I can prevent it. And if these good people are to follow you with respect, they must also see that you are alike in kind: flesh and blood, and tears as well.’ As if taking permission from my words, his eyes filled like a wellspring – yet still he fought for his composure, trembling with the struggle!”

“That was from the cold,” said Gil-galad.

“The season was mid-summer,” said Círdan.

“I meant to say, it was from anticipation. Of my tutor’s exciting lessons that day. Behold!” Gil-galad held forth his hand, shaking like a leaf under torrential rain. “Even now I tremble with anticipation of how your story will make Daegon less insufferable.”

“Anyway.” Círdan angled further toward Elrond. “Thus he teetered on the breaking point, frowning at the angry cuts across his palms as he said, ‘Must I not show strength, so that they come to admire me?’ Kneeling before him replied I, ‘They may already. Strength of will brought you to this accident, and strength of character admitted to your fault. But stagger on homeward if you must parade your mettle this day. Or – permit me to carry you, and prove the strength of our alliance by entrusting me with your vulnerability. A king should not be too proud to tell which battles need not be fought alone.’ Then finally the tears flowed free, tears of pain and shame, and all of the sadness he had withheld since parting from family and home and the youth he strove so hard to surpass, and he surrendered into my arms. So there stood I, holding old Beleriand’s future High King revealed at last in child form for all to see. And as I turned toward the trek back home, our uninvited audience cast downward their softened gazes, and for the first time but not the last thereafter, one after the other, they bowed.”

As the silence lengthened, Gil-galad tapped his fingers on the carven armrests. “….And?”

Círdan sank back into the recess of his chair, satisfied. “And, highest in status and sternest of demeanor amongst those present, Daegon bowed first.”

Blinking, Gil-galad opened and shut his mouth, eventually surveying the remnants of his drink like a scrying pool. “Well. Suppose I was a bit distracted not to have noticed that.”

“Indeed.” Círdan swirled his wine. “There are of course other witnesses to your little escapade that morn, if you desire corroboration.”

“That’s perfectly unnecessary.”

“Quite a few witnesses.”

“Anyway.” Gil-galad mirrored the Shipwright’s earlier position, angling to Elrond who corralled his mirth behind one hand. “If you are finished denigrating my loyal friend Daegon, I wanted to ask your opinion of Galdor.”

~fin~

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Chapter End Notes

Daegon is an original character, and not as bad as people say.