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'Circle of Silver'

Circle of Silver
 

The young elf lay sprawled comfortably in a sheltered hollow amongst the rocks, idly watching the children down on the beach at play beside the water's edge. Their excited cries and laughter mingled with the voice of the ocean and the raucous calls of the sea birds, creating a sound that he would always regard as the essence of home.

He was tall and strongly built, broad across shoulders and chest, with long, muscular legs. He had a mane of almost-curly black hair, strong, springy stuff that gave back glints of red to the sun's light. By contrast his eyes were palest blue, and his gaze had a measured intensity that many found disconcertingly direct. His face was broad, with strong chin and cheekbones and a humourous mouth. Currently he was at peace with the world, as evidenced by the complete relaxation of his pose. The sun was warm, the hollow protected him from the breeze, and for the first time in weeks he had absolutely nothing to do and all day to do it in.

He had returned home the previous night after a long, dangerous month on the mainland. Most of that time had been spent either gathering information or attempting to improve the defenses of a string of coastal villages. Twenty of the twenty-five elves who had originally set out had returned with him. Five lives had been lost during skirmishes with the Enemy's creatures and, of the remaining company, nearly half sported injuries serious enough to require professional attention, which was only available at home. Healers were seldom permitted to travel with the fighters - their number was few, their services essential, and their lives were too precious to place at risk.

After they made landfall, he had resisted the urge to head for home where a hot meal and his bed beckoned. Instead he had done as both instinct and his upbringing in the shipwright’s house suggested, joining his commander on the painful round of visits to each household where loss had occurred. Five times they had to explain to the bereaved how a loved son, brother, mate or father had fallen and where their bodies lay. After that, he had gone on alone to call on the families of those whose wounds would keep them in the infirmary for at least the first night, offering as much detail and reassurance as he was able. It never occurred to him that this attention to the needs of others was in any way exceptional, especially in one so young. It was simply the way he tended to do things.

When he had finally arrived home, Ithil rode low in the sky, but his foster father had still been awake and waiting for him. After a brisk scolding for staying out so late - much like any number he had received as an child - he had been checked for injuries and instructed to have something warm to eat and get directly to bed - he could lie in a little come morning if he wished. Sometimes he suspected the fact that he had just passed his majority was forgotten; a span of sixty-five years probably made him appear little more than a babe in arms to one who had woken in the gloom beside the waters of Cuiviénen so very long ago.

A voice broke through his rambling thoughts, shrill, insistent. "Hîren wants to see you. He says you're to come now."

He rolled onto his back and contemplated the child who stood on the rock above him and looked down at him with demanding eyes. "Did he say what he wanted?" he asked lazily, loathe to leave the warm sun and the merry voices rising from the beach, reluctant, too, to face again the sense of impending ‘otherness’ that had been with him since he woke..

The child shook her head. "He just said you were to come at once. Strangers came from the mainland - they said they had news, but only he knows what it was."

A thin trickle of cold squirmed between his shoulder blades, a vague unease, the sense of something moving, something different. News tended to spread fast around the island, especially when brought by visitors sailing over from the mainland on a warm, lazy day devoid of other distractions. With a pang of regret he vacated his haven and hauled himself up the rocks and onto the rough path above.

The main door to his foster father’s house stood open to the world, as it ever did - the master mariner never turned away anyone seeking his advice or assistance. This belief that authority should be exercised through service and responsibility was integral to Gil-galad’s experience. He had grown to adulthood in this household, and retained little memory of his family’s more autocratic style of governance.

He was quick to note that the door to the office was firmly shut, a state that usually signified discussions of a confidential nature were in progress. Assuming he was to be introduced to the visitors, he paused to neaten his hair and brush off the worst of the sand and twigs that adhered to his clothes. After a moment’s consideration, he decided also to give his face and hands a quick rinse in the fountain in the central courtyard around which the house was built, Turning, he discovered he was being scrutinised by a pair of huge, solemn eyes. The watcher was an child - a skittish-looking little thing, long limbed and skinny, all amber eyes and black hair.

"Hello," he said, instinctively keeping his voice soft. "Almost didn't see you there. What's your name? We haven't met before, have we?"

The child shook his head firmly, his waist-length hair, silky smooth as a wood elf’s, swaying with the motion. "We came on a boat," he offered shyly. "I am called Erestor. My Ada is in there," he gestured towards the closed door. "Can I go in now, too?"

He looked fragile and none too clean, and more than a little lost. Gil-galad, who liked children and was usually well-liked in return for his habit of never talking down to them, crouched to place his hands on the child's thin shoulders. Wide amber eyes turned up to him, serious and more than a little worried.

"I don't think you can come in with me, Erestor," he said carefully. "I think this might be a grown up matter. Why don't you go to the kitchen - down that way, past the blue flower pots - and see what Lagorwen can find for you to eat? I'll tell your father where to look for you when his business is done."

The dark head shook once, firmly, and Erestor gestured to a seat near the fountain. "I can wait here," he said. "I will be quiet."

Gil-galad looked at him thoughtfully. This child had been through more than a boat ride and a visit to a stranger's house. He was tempted to ask more, but instead just nodded. "Quiet is good," he agreed. “Wait there, and later when I’m free we can visit the kitchen together, if you like.”

The room where his foster father saw to the affairs of the community was plain and functional, furnished with a desk and a few simple chairs. Bookshelves lined two walls and a detailed map showing the north-western coastline of Middle-earth was stretched on a frame in a corner. The window to the left of the desk looked out over the harbour, and through it Gil-galad caught a brief glimpse of a small ship that had not been there the previous night. Two elves were seated in the chairs set for guests, their clothing stained and torn, their general appearance disheveled. They looked as though they had spent days on the road.

He opened his mouth to greet his foster father, but froze into silence when all three elves rose to their feet to bow before him, hand to brow. His mind empty of thought or speculation, he turned to Cirdan and waited. The Telerin straightened up and returned his gaze steadily with wise, far-seeing grey eyes. He looked almost old, but perhaps it was a trick of the light combined with the way his beard sometimes marked his face with shadow. His appearance suggested he had been taken unawares by his guests; his hair was fastened back in a sailor’s braid and he was wearing the old blue robe he normally kept for the occasional morning spent pottering around the house.

When the mariner spoke, his voice was level but grim. "They attacked Gondolin at dawn on a festival morn when all minds were turned to lighter matters. Turgon is dead, the Hidden City overrun, her buildings in ruin, her towers overthrown. These are two who survived the attack. They have been sent by your kinswoman Idril to bring word to you. She and her mate and son are part of a small group who survived and managed to escape over the mountains. She sent this..."

He gestured to one of the elves, who stepped forward and, bowing again, held out his hand. Gil-galad was already starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable with all this formality. He took the tiny suede pouch that was proffered to him, knowing he should be asking questions or at least saying something, but his thoughts were whirling and, for the life of him, he could think of nothing. He pulled open the drawstring and tipped the contents of the pouch into his palm. It held a ring that was made from a light, silvery metal and set with a scarlet gem, upon the face of which an intricate design had been deeply etched.

He turned it to catch the light and recognised, without surprise, the formal seal of the High Kingship, unseen beyond Gondolin during the reign of the reclusive Turgon. The room was quiet, the world felt empty, all his awareness was held by the circle of silver gleaming in his palm. Names of legend whispered through his mind - Fingolfin, Fingon, Turgon - his father Orodreth who had died a stranger to him, his uncle Finrod who was a vague, faint memory of golden hair and laughing blue eyes. Dead, all dead, an imposing list of the great and the glorious. And by dying they had all contributed to the creation of this moment.

The world returned abruptly and with it came an awareness of who he now was…the High King of the Noldor East of the Sea. He tried the title in his mind, grimaced slightly at the weight of it, but then his practical nature took over. Turning to the survivors of horror who had travelled so far to bring him the news, he suggested they take time to eat and rest before answering the questions he would soon have for them. It was his first command as king, and its common sense and compassion would set the mark for a reign that was to last for almost three and a half thousand years.

After they had been ushered from the room by Cirdan, who could see his foster son needed to be left alone with his thoughts, Gil-galad moved to the window and, gazing out over the harbour with unseeing eyes, finally slid Turgon's ring onto his finger. He looked down at it when the light caught the stone and found himself marvelling at the fit, at the way it seemed almost to have been made for his hand.

He was not wholly unprepared, for Cirdan had often mentioned the possibility of this happening. In fact his foster father had always been highly sceptical about Gondolin’s chances of remaining hidden indefinitely. Despite his youth, Gil-galad had been bred to war and trained to be a leader against the day when he might be needed to stand as a rallying point for the forces opposing the darkness that all but blanketed Middle-earth. However, all that had been no more than a possibility, a precaution for the future. Now that it had actually come to pass, he found he had no idea where to begin.

Tomorrow, he decided firmly as reality threatened to overwhelm him. Tomorrow was time enough to contemplate the enormity of what he was being asked to do. For today he would just concentrate on dealing with the more mundane tasks of everyday life. Turning back from the window, he left the room and went in search of the child, Erestor, whose sad eyes must recently have witnessed the unimaginable. A visit to the kitchen had been discussed. It was a small matter, but it gave him somewhere to begin.

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Finis

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Beta: Phyncke