Chapter 21

It was close to sunset when Gil-galad finally decided to return to Master Edhelûr’s house. The air high above the town was cool and clean, and the trees hissed and rustled and spoke amongst themselves. What they said was closed to Glorfindel, who was a foreigner to these shores, or so the soul of the Forest apparently believed, though he found himself wondering for the first time if Gil-galad, the child of a Sindarin mother, could understand their speech.

When they reached the house, he noticed several members of their party strolling the grounds or sitting out on the wide verandah, while the scents of cooking and the sounds of clattering pots and raised voices greeted them as they passed the kitchen entrance on their way to the stables. Glorfindel handed Carob over to a serious-faced young groom and was following the path round to the front of the house when the King, who had stopped to speak with Thenin, caught up with him and fell into step. Glorfindel gestured back in the direction of the kitchen. “Well, at least it doesn’t sound like we missed dinner.”

“Worked up an appetite, have you?” Gil-galad asked with a grin and a suggestive quirk of his eyebrows. “Beer and good company can do that.”

Glorfindel snorted in answer, then caught sight of something that brought him to a stop, unconsciously placing a hand on Gil-galad’s muscular arm. The object of his attention was Elros, who was deep in conversation with three of the young Men who had travelled from Lindon with him. Glorfindel had never before seen him wearing the style of clothing adopted by Men, and he was startled by the transformation. Close beside him, Gil-galad said quietly, more to himself than to the warrior, “He’s finally cut his hair.”

“What…? Oh yes, of course. But why? It barely reaches his shoulders now.”

His thoughts obviously elsewhere, Gil-galad answered, “Eönwë’s been on at him to look and dress the part, but he’s always resisted till now. I suppose it was finally time...”

Reaching a decision, he looked round for Thenin. “Send someone to ask Lord Elros if he could spare me a few minutes. I’ll be in my rooms.” To Glorfindel he added, “I have a gift for him – and a question that’s needed answering for nearly thirty years.”

Gil-galad glanced round at the sound of the door and, with a nod of welcome, gestured for Elros to join him over at the large bay window. After exchanging a greeting, they stood for a few minutes watching the remaining boats on the darkening sea until Gil-galad finally broke the silence. “ Your hair suits you like that. Ready to go then, are you?”

Elros gave a brief laugh. “My last vanity. I held onto it as long as I could. I got Faengil to cut it this afternoon. I’m keeping it tied back for now - when it’s loose it looks wilder than Elrond’s.”

“Faengil?”

“Her father’s been selected as my Treasurer. Anyhow, she says it’ll settle down eventually.”

Gil, whose thigh length hair had never quite ‘settled down’, grunted and nodded noncommittally. Watching a fishing boat on its way into the harbour, he asked, “Checked that everything’s ready? Nothing’s been overlooked?”

Elros raised an eyebrow. “All checked. Eönwë has a list… Everything else will be provided, he says.” His voice was pointedly neutral.

“Yes, well, in your place I’d be trusting my own judgement rather than Eönwë’s list,” Gil-galad said evenly. “I was thinking more about personal items. Mementos, favourite books and the like.”

Elros seemed to think about this. “I have everything I need,” he responded finally. “I had my own list. I brought what I could.”

Gil-galad nodded. “Including the dog, I noticed. I was surprised about that. I assumed you’d be leaving her behind with Elrond.”

Elros rolled his eyes slightly and sighed audibly. “Yes, I know. And yes, he asked me to. The animal was a gift, Gil-galad. Leaving her behind would be insulting, and I’d explained that to him before. Besides, what would be the point? How long do dogs live? Five years? Ten? Less even than horses anyway. How many Elves do you know who keep pets as Men do?”

Gil-galad inclined his head and held his tongue. The honest answer was that one of his councillors had tamed a wolf, several of his acquaintances, surprisingly, kept cats, and Glorfindel was forever fussing over his horse. He was rather taken with the idea of a hunting dog himself. One of the large ones with floppy ears that Men seemed to favour.

Changing the subject, he asked, “You’re not spending the night with your people? No final details to arrange?”

Elros shrugged. “It’s all under control. I wanted to come and share a last meal… Should I not have done this?”

In the early days when Gil-galad started giving his cousin practical lessons in statecraft, Elros had been hesitant and unsure of his judgement. The searching look that now crossed his face was reminiscent of that earlier time. The King’s first instinct was to put an arm around his shoulders as he had done so often in the past and reassure him, but the tension emanating from the Man at his side made him pause. Instead he turned to a nearby table, picked up an item wrapped in black cloth and held it out. “If anyone asks, tell them I invited you. Here, this is for you. Something for the days when you miss home…”

The gift was a small painting, a re-creation of the palace garden that showed the entrance to the apartments he had shared with his brother, done on parchment in glowing colours. It was mounted on thin board, and had an edging of finely beaten gold which framed the picture in warmth. Elros looked down at it, wordless, for a time, then up at Gil-galad out of eyes that were suspiciously bright. “This is beautiful,” he managed finally. “It’s Mebedir’s work, isn’t it?”

Mebedir had been one of the premier artists of the First Age, and had declined the opportunity to sail West at the end of the War and the lifting of the Ban while there was still so much left in Middle-earth to challenge his skill. Gil-galad nodded, coming to stand where he could look over Elros’ shoulder. “He finished it last week. I was starting to worry. Got Glorfindel to ask him to hurry things along, one artist speaking to another. Look, it’s early morning – the door’s open but not the windows, and he’s got the shadow just right… And over here, just off amongst the bushes, one of the kitchen cats…”

They examined the painting together, Gil-galad pointing out features that had impressed him, Elros nodding, his fingers very gently touching the window of what had been his bedroom, the open door, the white rose he had personally planted in memory of his mother. Gil-galad fell silent, watching him and then, keeping his eyes on the fingers lightly tracing the familiar, he asked quietly,

“You didn’t really want to do this, did you? It’s taken you till now to change your hair, your clothes, you’re here tonight, not across town sharing in the excitement… Why are you going, Elros? It makes no sense.”

Elros moved abruptly away from him, away from the deep, reassuring voice, the aura of strength and safety, and found himself looking out over the sea again, at the line of pale, unnatural light reaching from just outside the breakwater to some point in the far West. The green-tinged light was cast by the Silmaril that had been around his mother’s neck the night when the world had changed, the Silmaril now bound round his father’s brow as Eärendil steered Vingilot across the sky. He remembered the great ship clearly from his earliest years, moored at Sirion, sailing off into the sunrise, returning after long absences… And now there it was again, strengthened and hallowed and showing him the road to death.

There was no moment of choice, there was no thought that told him to disregard what he and Elrond had decided over thirty years previously. Without turning his head he said, “Because Eönwë told us we had to do it this way. Because one of us had to pick mortality and one eternal life, and I thought I could do this better than Elrond. Because I am the eldest. Because I didn’t want my brother to die.”

He felt Gil-galad’s stillness, the warning quiet that came so often before a burst of rage that would send people running to do the High King’s bidding, put right the wrong, but they both knew there was no rectifying this. Eönwë had been nothing more than the agent of the Lords of the West and nothing could gainsay their will. Gil-galad said nothing, just put an arm around his shoulders and stood running his fingers gently over the shoulder length hair which only that morning had reached to his hips - smooth, shining Elven hair, unsuitable for a King of Men. Elros gave a tired sigh and moved into the loose embrace, resting his head heavily against his cousin’s shoulder. Closing his eyes, he stood in this final safe haven, allowing the tears to slide silently down his cheeks.

~*~*~*~*~

Elrond sat on a cushion on the small patio outside his apartment picking at the remains of his dinner while debating a visit to see what, if anything, healers did at night. In the King’s absence there was no organised entertainment in the main courtyard, a discreet search for his companion of the morning had proved fruitless, and he had no intention of spending the night listening to the empty silence.

Accustomed to Laslech's warning bark, he was startled when a figure appeared, soundlessly crossing the grass towards him. Pushing down an instant rush of heated anticipation, he rose, mentally assessing the relative untidiness of the apartment and telling himself to act naturally, just act naturally. "Erestor. I was looking for you earlier. Come inside out of the wind."

Reaching him, Erestor smiled and shook his head, displaying the dimples that were the main reason he normally cultivated a sober expression. Dimples, he had discovered early in life, were seldom taken seriously. Not without a lot of persuasion anyway. “No, not now, thanks. I came to see if I could talk you into sharing an adventure?”

Elrond belatedly registered his visitor was wearing loose pants, a belted tunic and well worn boots. His hair was drawn back from his face in a series of neat little braids, and there was a white-handled knife at his belt. There was a sense of danger about him; he looked somewhat less the efficient administrative assistance, and far more as Elrond remembered him from earlier days.

“Adventure’s always good. What did you have in mind?” he asked. Certainly anything was better than staying in the empty apartment, and there was no one he could think of that he would rather spend the evening with. No one currently available, in any event.

Erestor shook his head, the dancing braids caught by the light shining from the apartment. His smile deepened mischievously. “No, it’s a surprise. How far do you trust me?”

“Trust…?”

Erestor shrugged slightly, and made a vague gesture. “Just a little – I’m not asking you to put your life in my hands or anything like that, just to bring a change of clothing and meet me at the stables. We’re going for a ride.”

Elrond looked at him blankly as thoughts of an intimate evening spent picking up where the morning had left off were replaced by the irresistible lure of curiosity. The Half-elf could never withstand a mystery. “Just a change of clothes? How far are we going?”

Erestor, who had rightly assessed curiosity to be Elrond’s main weakness, shook his head again, his amber eyes sparkling with amusement as he turned to leave. “No clues,” he said with mock firmness. “Don’t even try. Come, get packed. We’ll be waiting for you.”

“We..?” the Half-elf began, but to no avail. He found himself addressing Erestor’s very attractive back view, as he went off across the garden, blending with the darkness in moments.

Elrond dressed warmly, tied back his hair, fastened on his sword, and discarded the current court wear of embroidered slippers in favour of sensible boots. He shoved a clean tunic and leggings and an extra cloak into a woven bag that had belonged to Elros, and which for some reason had been left behind, and made his way down to the stables. He was surprised and intrigued to discover a small military escort were already mounted and waiting – not trainees, he noted as he passed them, but four experienced warriors, no doubt personally selected by Erestor, whose authority as a junior military advisor probably stretched as far as safeguarding the person of the King’s cousin.

Erestor was waiting with their horses. He held out his hand for the bag. “I can put that in with mine, there’s space,” he suggested.

“An escort?” Elrond asked, handing it over. “Where are we going that we need an armed escort? What are you up to? Come, Erestor, tell.”

Erestor flashed him a grin, widely amused. “Not a word. I told you, it’s a surprise. And the escort is because you’re close family to the King, and I would be remiss in not paying attention to your safety.”

“Erestor…”

Erestor gave his pack a final tug to check all was secure and, nodding in satisfaction, mounted his horse in a smooth, graceful motion that sent a tingle of desire through Elrond. He looked down at the Half-elf and indicated the waiting horse. “Come on, the night isn’t getting any younger. The sooner we leave, the sooner you’ll know where we’re going.”

“What do you mean, you knew? How could you know something like that and not tell me?”

Glorfindel placed his hand over Gil-galad’s mouth to quieten him before the too-familiar voice drew attention. “What did you expect me to do? Elrond told me in confidence. I could hardly run and tell you. I could only hope one of them would eventually show some sense. Of course you had a right to know – but it wasn’t my story to tell, Gil.”

They were in Glorfindel’s room, lying naked and entwined in the small bed, talking. Gil-galad had been playing with Glorfindel’s long, blonde hair, while the warrior lay wrapped half around him with his head on the royal shoulder. After Gil-galad’s solitary night with the wine flagon and Glorfindel’s ultimatum, the King had suggested they try using the time before lovemaking to share the events of the day. To begin with it had seemed forced and uneasy, but they had persevered and the chance to talk and laugh as they started to relax before pleasure took hold of them was becoming something they both looked forward to.

They soon found that there were different levels of sharing, and each had its place. The time after love, on the edge of sleep, was when deep confidences and heart-held secrets were slowly starting to be alluded to, and was becoming the place where trust was built, but the early part of the evening was for friendship. This was where they wove the fabric of their day together, drawing ever closer as they exchanged insights and explored their likes and dislikes and started to form opinions held in common as a couple

Glorfindel had been lying tracing his fingers lazily across Gil-galad’s broad chest, listening to him talk about people they had met during the day, where he had known them from, mainly stories about Balar, a place he had seldom mentioned before. Presently, after a thoughtful silence during which Glorfindel placed a couple of enquiring kisses along his jaw line, the King began to confide the details of his conversation with Elros. His response to Glorfindel’s confession that he had known about Eönwë’s ‘choice’ for some time was predictable.

Outrage expressed, Gil-galad settled back against the pillows with a sigh. Glorfindel leaned over him, looking down, concern in his summer-blue eyes. “I told Elrond he should tell you,” he said, tracing a finger over Gil-galad’s top lip and then bending to kiss him softly. “He said at the time you were an unknown quantity – they had no reason to believe you would do anything. After, when they knew you better, they worried you would feel responsible. They didn’t want to upset you, Gil, that’s all.”

Gil-galad wrapped a skein of golden hair round his wrist and pulled the blonde down into a more thorough kiss, open-mouthed, tongues tasting experimentally before twining slickly against one another. Glorfindel slid over him, taking his weight on his elbows so that they were lying skin to skin and cupped Gil’s face with his hand as they moulded against one another, savouring the closeness.

The kiss ended in its time, and Gil lay holding Glorfindel loosely, stroking his hair, his eyes still troubled. “It was wrong, Glaur. They were hardly more than children, their lives had been turned inside out from the day their mother…left. There was no choice involved in this…”

Glorfindel hushed him with another kiss. “It was wrong,” he agreed. “I thought Elrond was exaggerating till I met Eönwë, but…he fits the description. There really is nothing you could have done, Gil. Nothing at all.”

He kissed Gil-galad again, and the heat began to build within him as the King’s burgeoning hardness grazed his hip. He started moving slowly and rhythmically, grinding his erection against solid muscle in invitation, and began to trace his tongue along the line of Gil-galad’s ear. The King, however, wasn’t finished. “What do you mean, I could have done nothing?” he demanded, moving his head away. “I could have gone straight back and told that reptile that they were to have time to make up their minds – from what Elros tells me it was almost blackmail…”

Glorfindel sighed and shook him firmly by the shoulder. “And that would have achieved what?” he asked. “The will of the Valar is not something likely to be left to the preference of two young Half-elves, I’d think. It had little to do with choice, Gil,” he added more gently. “I think this was all decided from the moment Dior’s daughter and Idril’s son conceived twin boys. Nothing could have changed it.” While he spoke, he was kissing the King’s neck, punctuating the words with light nips.

Gil-galad sighed and nodded, and submitted to the mouth on his throat and the insistent hand roving over his arm and shoulder. He began to move his hips, shifting so that his shaft rubbed steadily against Glorfindel’s erect cock, grunting in satisfaction as the blonde twined a leg under his, and began moving his pelvis in unhurried circles in response. Glorfindel gave his throat one final nip, then returned to his mouth, claiming it hungrily.

They lay on the narrow bed in the quiet room, kissing and murmuring and running their hands over each other’s bodies. Glorfindel took the lead this time, alternating between kisses that were deep and passionate and pauses to lick Gil’s mouth or languidly swipe his tongue across eyelids, nose, the little groove between lower lip and chin. Finally they reached the point where their writhing bodies were smeared wetly across stomach and hip and thigh with the precum from hardened arousals, and their breathing had been reduced to hurried gulps of air between kisses. Gil-galad tightened his arm around Glorfindel and made as though to turn him over onto his back but the blonde broke the kiss, pulling his mouth free to gasp, “No, you stay, you relax and enjoy, let me…”

Reaching over to the nightstand, he sought and found the little jar of multi-purpose salve he had begun keeping handy. It was apparently good for dry lips or for abrasions caused by all manner of daily mishaps, but it was also, he had discovered, wonderfully slick and not quickly absorbed. Claiming a generous amount on his fingers, he straddled Gil’s thighs, smiling as his eyes roved over the King’s powerful body. Wrapping a steadying hand round the base of Gil-galad’s thick, engorged length, he applied the salve, doing so at a leisurely pace and being careful not to work it into the skin. His chuckled wickedly as the hard flesh in his hand twitched and Gil-galad closed his eyes and groaned and shifted under his touch.

Methodically returning the jar to the nightstand, even though the grip of hands on his arse had tightened demandingly, he knelt looking down at Gil, his eyes serious, his face intent. Their gazes locked, and the blonde reached behind, grasping his cheeks and spreading himself open. Gil slid a hand down to grasp and guide his arousal to press against Glorfindel’s tight entrance. The warrior sank slowly back and down, feeling the painful pressure and resistance, then the sudden, burning fullness as he was breached and entered.

He tried to relax his muscles, accepting the invading hardness into himself, while watching Gil-galad’s face tense almost as though with pain as he slowly lowered himself inch by inch onto his cock. Glorfindel let his head fall back as he took the King in deeper, drawing in gasps of air as he was stretched and filled. Finally, with a groan that was echoed by his lover, he was sitting flat on his lap, thighs spread widely, aware of little besides the thick, pulsing hardness thrust up deep within him, the throbbing tension of his own jutting erection, and the crisp dark curls at the base of the Gil-galad’s length that brushed erotically against his cheeks.

He began to rock back and forth, concentrating on the sensation within him of rod-like hardness and rising, swirling heat. Gil, panting softly, had his hands resting on Glorfindel’s hips, but soon he reached to grasp his length, closing a large, hard hand around it and beginning to stroke in time to Glorfindel’s movements, rubbing his thumb across the slit and spreading the leaking fluid he found there over the plum-shaped head and under the sensitive rim.

Glorfindel slid his hands up Gil’s body, ghosting them over ribcage and chest and shoulders to brace them on the pillow on either side of the King’s head. He began to ride him in earnest then, taking the slick, solid flesh deep within him and gritting his teeth as each downward lunge brought Gil’s cock into contact with his prostate, making him jerk his head back in a swirl of golden hair and hiss with pleasure. The world shrank and time seemed to stop, then finally Gil's eyes closed and he gave a growling cry, grasping the sheet convulsively as he came with a final series of plunging thrusts, releasing deep within Glorfindel.

The blonde warrior leaned forward, panting, resting his forehead briefly against Gil-galad’s. He was about to move onto his side, but the King’s steadying hand on his hip stopped him. Glorfindel sat up slowly, obedient to his touch, and looked at him in confusion. His fair hair hung in a tangle over his face and shoulders, his eyes looked dazed, the pupils dark and large, and he was breathing hard. Sweat streaked his face and chest. Gil-galad drew his knees up and said quietly, “Lean back against my legs, go on. This won’t take long, I think.”

Making a low, moaning sound in his throat Glorfindel leaned back, Gil’s erection still inside him. Gil-galad reclaimed his lover’s by-now aching length and resumed stroking him firmly and quickly, running his other hand over sweat-streaked thigh and hip, murmuring softly, “Come on then sweetheart, your turn now, don’t think of anything, just come, just come.”

Glorfindel’s breathing began to hitch raggedly, and then stopped as his body went motionless save for the trembling in his thighs. Raising a hand to his mouth and pressing the knuckles against his teeth to keep from crying out, he came, leaning up into the King’s grasp, creamy, viscous cum pumping over Gil-galad’s stomach. When his lover’s hand slowed and stopped, and the other moved to his waist, Glorfindel slid forward into Gil-galad’s arms and all but collapsed onto him, burying his face in his neck with a final, shuddering groan.

~*~*~*~*~

“Just don’t fall asleep – you need to be back in your room before dawn.”

Gil-galad settled more comfortably against Glorfindel, nuzzling his face into golden hair with a satisfied sigh. “No, I’m not going to sleep,” he promised. “I just want to lie with you a while before I go back, that’s all. Talk to me, keep me awake.”

Glorfindel grunted, wriggling slightly against the warmth at his back as they lay spooned together under the light covers. The room was etched in a strange, otherworldly light that was creeping in through the thin drapes now that the lamp had been extinguished. “What do you want to talk about?” he muttered, struggling against the urge to sleep that tended to overwhelm him shortly after love.

The arm around his waist tightened. “Anything. It’s too bright to sleep, anyway. And it’s probably worse in the front where my room is.”

Glorfindel grunted in acknowledgement, then sighed. “What time do we have to be at the quayside tomorrow?” he asked.

“Mid afternoon as I understand it,” Gil-galad replied. “Círdan wanted to leave about two hours before sunset so they could get well away from the coastline and out to sea before it grew dark – or as dark as it’s likely to get.”

“Mph.” Glorfindel fell silent, distracted for a while by the sound of birds calling in the middle of the night. “Listen to them, they think it’s already dawn.”

“That light disrupts everything,” Gil-galad grumbled. “There’s been no time for the animals to adjust to it, they don’t know if it’s day or night anymore.”

The golden warrior nodded, his thoughts already drifting as he attempted to evade sleep. ”Oh yes, animals. Did you ask Elros about Laslech? The poor dog’s totally bewildered.”

“Yes, I mentioned her, I think it’s a bit of a sore point with him actually. Elrond apparently asked if he could keep her.”

“Oh?” Glorfindel looked over his shoulder, curious. “What happened?”

“He said she was a gift, he couldn’t leave her behind. He has a point I suppose. Plus, dogs seldom live even twenty years, you know. When she dies he’d be reminded of all this again. With Elros – well, she’ll be a tie to his brother and the time will seem longer too.”

Glorfindel frowned, his face thoughtful. "But when she dies the last tie to Elrond will die with her.” He yawned and stretched a little, then turned over awkwardly in the narrow space and settled his head on Gil’s shoulder. “And it would be a very pointed reminder of his own mortality. Elrond on the other hand… I think he might feel she trusted him and he failed her."

He lay playing absently with an ebony braid, running it through his fingers over and over. Finally he rubbed his cheek softly against Gil-galad's shoulder, giving the hair a light tug and Gil, who had been staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, turned his head to look down at him. “What?”

“Those who died in Gondolin – my people, the ones who looked to me as their Lord? It’s like mist, I can only see little things clearly, a face, a moment… I think it’s because I’m not ready to deal with it, so they’re just lost there…in the mist. Do you think I’ve failed them by not trying harder to remember it all?”

“Sweetheart?” Gil-galad turned to look at him properly. Glorfindel sighed again, then slid an arm and leg over the King, hitching himself closer, and rested his forehead in the curve of his lover’s neck.

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to remember,” he muttered, his voice muffled against Gil-galad. “And they deserve better than this, all the ordinary people who died there. If I don’t remember them, who will?”

Gil-galad held him, stroking his back gently. “But you remembered enough to be able to tell Elrond about Gondolin,” he said quietly. “I know because he told it to Elros as he’d heard it from you, and Elros mentioned it to me. And Elros takes the tale across the sea with him, and one day he will have children and he will tell them the story of the Hidden City and her people and of their great-grandparents… And of the golden warrior who bought their lives with his own. And they will tell their children, and so the story of the lost realm will carry down the ages, far away across the sea. And here as well, Elrond will take the same tale and tell it…”

He paused, settling them both more comfortably, smiling to himself as Glorfindel’s breathing slowed towards sleep. He tidied back long, golden hair, then bent his head to kiss the blonde softly on the forehead. “They would ask no more than that of you, sweetheart mine. You have already given them so much."