Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 21/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: the faces of love.

Beta: Enismirdal





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 emanat
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.





* * * * *







Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 22/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: leaving

Beta: Enismirdal





Chapter 22





The dawn was bitterly cold, though the clear sky spoke of an
unseasonably fine day ahead. The ground was soaked with dew and the
Elves’ breath misted white on the air before them. After riding
through the night, Erestor had called a halt at a roadside clearing,
suggesting it would be a good place for the escort to make camp and
wait while he and Lord Elrond were elsewhere occupied. He offered no
further explanation but  waited till the fire was burning properly
and then set about making tea with quiet efficiency.



Elrond sat cross-legged before the fire, long-lashed grey eyes
slitted against the smoke. He stared unblinkingly into the flames,
absently tidying his hair while he waited.  At some point in the
night he had finally reached a compromise with the unruly dark mass,
fastening a generous amount back from his face to hang in a thick
braid down his back while leaving the rest free. It was a style he
would eventually adopt almost permanently.



He kept quiet for as long as he could, having developed the suspicion
that the more questions he asked the more Erestor was laughing at
him, but eventually it became more than he could stand. “All right,
so we’re meeting someone here. Are they late, are we early or are we
going to spend the next few days camped here? If that’s the case,
you’ll excuse me if I catch up on my sleep rather than keep you
amused?”



The pot began to boil and Erestor moved it carefully to a flat stone
beside the fire before adding tea from a small pouch and sitting back
on his heels to wait for it to infuse. He looked across at Elrond
from under thick  black lashes and smiled very sweetly. “I told you
it was meant to be a surprise. You’ll understand soon. We made good
time and we’re a little earlier than planned.”



Elrond sighed and moved over to join him. “All right. We rode through
the night to be on time for something… or someone. Now we’re early
and we’re going to do what? Sit here and drink tea and wait?”



Erestor nodded cheerfully. “Yes, that’s about right. You catch on
really fast, don’t you?”



Elrond pushed him sharply though without rancour. “I used to think
that,” he agreed. “ Of course that was before I blindly followed you
out into the night. If I was so smart, I’d have given that a bit more
thought.”



The long ride had in fact been an excellent opportunity to think,
while at the same time reducing the inclination to dwell too morbidly
on his personal catalogue of loss. He had explored memories of his
brother and of his parents, and had spent the best part of an hour
wondering what might have become of Maglor based upon the rumours he
had carefully pretended not to listen to, but this had all been
balanced by a sense of anticipation and overwhelming curiosity. He
assumed this had been at least part of Erestor’s intention.



The tea had been poured and they were sipping it when Erestor
suddenly raised his head and sat very still as though listening,
after which his face warmed into an anticipatory smile. One of the
warriors half rose, but Erestor caught his eye and shook his head and
he relaxed again. Centuries later when Elrond encountered the mortal
belief that his kind could appear and disappear at will, he would
remember that early morning alongside the road and the way that,
without warning, the empty clearing suddenly filled with Elves.



Erestor reached out a hand before he could give voice to his
confusion and drew Elrond to his feet. Indicating a tall Elf with
red-brown hair, he explained, “This is Araslagor, leader of my
Company. He has given permission for us to pass the day with them.”



The tall Elf approached them, dark grey eyes glittering in the half
light, and placed a hand over his heart, inclining his head gravely.
“Elrond Eärendilion, you are welcome amongst us. If we could leave at
once? Time grows short, and we wish to be in Forlond by midday.”





----------





The day that Elros and his people were due to leave for the New Land
got off to a bad start for Gil-galad. He woke spooned up against the
warmth of Glorfindel and had lain content for the few minutes it took
before he realised he was in Forlond, he was not in his own bed and
it was probably almost time for breakfast. He had already dressed and
kissed his sleepy and slightly confused lover good morning before he
thought to open the drapes and look out the window, to discover that
what he had thought to be morning light came mainly from Vingilot. It
now hung so low above the sea that the shape of the great ship could
almost be discerned.



He breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the door, ready with a
story about an early morning walk should he encounter anyone other
than his personal guard. As he was leaving, a drowsily amused voice
from the bed told him, “I warned you not to fall asleep. I’ll see you
after the hunt.”



He would have liked to ask what hunt, but the door was already open
and anyway Glorfindel had turned over and was settling back into
sleep.



He reached his rooms more or less simultaneously with his early
morning tea, brought to him by Medliel who, since his arrival in
Círdan’s household all those many years ago, had taken care of him
with the same common sense affection she showed her three sons.
“Overslept,” he replied to her cheerful query as to why he was up so
early. He wondered if others found his own early morning good humour
irritating, too. “That damn light kept me awake most of the night.”



She knew where he had been, of course. She knew all about him and
Glorfindel. At home the tea was left in the sitting room after a
discreet knock on the bedroom door.  She never referred to the
relationship, and neither did he. He preferred not to know if she
disapproved as much as Círdan did. He supposed it was likely.



After requesting a large breakfast to set him up for a long and
tiring day, full of speeches and high words – and Eönwë, who he would
have to remember not to attempt to throttle on sight – he drank his
tea in moody silence, thinking back over the previous night’s
conversations with both Elros and Glorfindel.



Hot water was brought for washing, after which, pulling a face at the
ornate formal robes that had been laid out for him, he dressed
casually in loose pants and a plain shirt until it was time to leave.
His hair was a more complicated matter and he spent some time
carefully twisting and knotting it into the style, popular long
before his birth, which he favoured for public occasions. Finally,
after searching through the small selection of jewels that had been
brought along for him, he circled his brow with mithril set with dark
blue sapphires, a crown that had apparently been favoured by
Fingolfin.



The day, however, continued as it had begun. The relaxing interlude
ended when a knock at the door, which he thought heralded breakfast,
announced instead the arrival of Thenin carrying the obligatory
collection of papers for him to read and approve. His assistant
looked at him in surprise.



“Aren’t those clothes a little – unusual – for a council meeting,
Sire?”



Gil-galad looked at him blankly. He had a faint memory of Thenin
outlining the schedule for the day and of nodding agreement, his
attention elsewhere. Thenin was good with dry detail and the King
tended to leave him to get on with it. This approach worked better on
some occasions than others.



“You agreed to attend a meeting of Master Edhelûr’s council this
morning,” Thenin reminded him. “The full council, plus a number of
senior trades people. After which…”



“I saw every trader I had any need to talk to yesterday, and as for
Edhelûr’s council, they’re his concern, not mine. I get the reports,
I read them, he does an excellent job, that’s all I need to know
about it.”



“After which,” Thenin continued as though he had not been
interrupted, “you are expected to join them for a light lunch. You
will spend the afternoon down at the harbour, of course, attending
the formal farewell and watching the ships sail. Then this evening
there is a formal dinner in your honour which will be attended by the
town’s dignitaries and their families.”



“Damn it, Thenin, this was meant to be a break from work, not one
long round of formalities…”



Thenin, who knew how to manage his King, was adamant. “I’m sorry,
Sire, but this was all arranged well in advance – and presented to
you in comprehensive detail, I might add. If you absent yourself now,
it will be regarded as a slight.”



Gil-galad grumbled but, with no one to blame but himself, was forced
to somewhat gracelessly concede defeat. To make matters worse, he had
to watch those unencumbered by responsibility ride out to take part
in the alternate activity arranged for the morning, namely a boar
hunt. The sight of sunlight glinting off golden hair did nothing for
his mood. Even his lover had deserted him. Growling softly at his
unsympathetic assistant, he exchanged the crown for a simple gold
circlet, hid his clothing under a comfortable old surcoat and
prepared to work.



As Thenin  was well aware, the day to day business of running a large
town always interested the King and he was soon immersed in ideas to
extend the farmlands and plans regarding increased trade with
settlements beyond the borders of Lindon. Nýrád was also present to
put forward the intriguing possibilities of expanding trade with the
Dwarf realm in the south-east, which had been Master Edhelûr’s main
reason for seeking Gil-galad’s presence at the meeting. Only the King
had the authority to approve trade outside the borders of Lindon.



It proved a pleasant morning. Gil-galad believed that these smaller,
more mundane concerns were what built a strong, secure kingdom, far
more so than wars and mighty deeds. He suspected that his illustrious
predecessors might not have agreed, though he had recently been
quietly pleased to discover that Glorfindel certainly did.





----------





Shortly after lunch and dressed in the more formal trappings of his
rank - heavy blue robes overlaid with intricate silver embroidery -
Gil-galad rode through town at the head of a procession made up of
his nobles, Master Edhelûr’s councillors and other leading citizens
of Forlond. When they reached the harbour, they found that many of
the ships were still awaiting their chance to come alongside the quay
and take on board crates and bags and furniture and even livestock
from the wagons that trundled in a steady stream down the path to the
water’s edge. There were people milling around everywhere, both Elves
and Men, some working, others waiting for the formalities to begin.



The noise was remarkable.



The guests’ horses were taken with smooth efficiency by members of
Master Edhelûr’s household, sent ahead for that purpose. The King’s
party were conducted away from the traffic and up hastily constructed
wooden steps to seating in a casual though exquisite shelter of silk
and tapestries. Edhelûr had shown his usual attention to detail,
right down to small tables bearing plates of pastries and dried
fruits and jugs of a highly popular pale, sweet wine.



Finding himself walking next to Dalbros, who was scribbling away with
graphite on board in a harried attempt to take notes, Gil-galad
remarked, “You’d hardly say it was the same quiet place we visited
yesterday, would you, Master Dalbros?”



“Sheep!” Dalbros responded in an amazed voice, barely noticing to
whom he was speaking. “They are taking sheep with them? Ah, that
would be for the wool of course...” He hurriedly made another note.



Gil-galad turned to watch the uncertain progress of the sheep, his
lips twitching with amusement. Perhaps, he thought, reconciling
himself to the extreme discomfort of a throne-like, high backed
chair, the afternoon would be less tiresome than expected.





----------





The ceremony followed a predictable pattern: speeches, a long
monologue from Eönwë on the wonders awaiting the travellers to the
New Land, a respectful response from Elros who disclosed a gift for
making carefully rehearsed replies sound spontaneous and sincere,
more speeches… Other than declarations of war – and dubious oaths –
experience had taught Glorfindel it was quite safe to ignore the sort
of wordy politeness produced at formal gatherings. He had no part to
play in the proceedings, and was occupying himself with watching the
other guests’ attempts to look awake and interested.



Gil-galad sat straight and alert, apparently giving each speaker his
full attention, occasionally nodding in agreement at some sentiment
expressed. Glorfindel very much doubted that he was hearing more than
one word in ten. Círdan looked tired. Rumour had it he had been up
all night, conferring with his mariners and double checking Eönwë’s
instructions. Edhelûr looked satisfied and relaxed, his town having
acquitted itself admirably. As for Elros… the King of Númenor’s face
had remained blandly expressionless,  though his eyes betrayed
tension.



Glancing over at him, Glorfindel was just in time to see Elros’ face
suddenly soften, touched by a smile that began in his eyes. Following
the general direction of his gaze, the blonde  scanned the crowd.
After a few moments he caught sight of the familiar and utterly
unlikely figure of Galadriel standing amongst yet slightly apart from
the crowd. As he watched, she raised her hand to her forehead in
greeting and salute and nodded to Elros, smiling in return.



No one else seemed to have noticed. Leaving his seat, Glorfindel
moved quietly to the side of the pavilion and dropped lightly to the
ground. As he made his way through the crowd, he wished he had some
way to cover his distinctive hair. He hoped that when his absence was
noticed it would be assumed that he had either gone to relieve
himself or else had become bored with the endless formalities.



She was watching the company in the pavilion, an eyebrow slightly
raised in a cynical expression that he remembered from childhood.
Círdan had begun speaking in a slow, carrying voice that suggested he
intended to continue for some time. A glance at Gil-galad’s
expressionless face and still form confirmed this. The King was
present in body only at this point. He had probably already heard
portions of the speech rehearsed several times.



The blonde almost managed to catch Galadriel unawares, but she looked
around at the last moment, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. He
threaded his way between a small family, a husband and wife and three
children who were torn between respectfully paying attention to the
speeches and excited speculation as to which would be ‘their’ ship,
and joined Finarfin’s daughter in leaning against the side of a
storage shed.



“What are you doing here?” he asked, made blunt by concern.
“Where’s…Celeborn?” It took him a moment to call up the name. He had
not yet had the chance to meet the Sinda.



Galadriel treated him to a bland look. “Nice to see you as well,
cousin. At home I very much hope. This held little interest for him,
so I came alone. It’s a lovely trip down the coast on the ferry. Have
you tried it yet?”



“You can’t travel alone like that, it’s…it’s dangerous!” He knew he
was defeated before he even opened his mouth, but he felt compelled
to try.



Eternally self-assured, Galadriel chuckled. “Of course I can. The
babe’s not due for at least another month, and it’s by far the safest
way to travel – there were at least four members of the palace guard
on board, in fact. What could possibly go wrong?” She looked at the
uncertainty written large on his face and her tone softened. “It was
quite safe, my dear. A quiet sail could do the babe no harm, I would
never do anything to put him at risk. And I am fit and strong and
well able to take care of myself; I’m pregnant, after all, not ill.”



“But why…?” Galadriel was impulsive, he knew, but she never did
anything without a reason.



Her eyes darkened and her face grew serious. “So many here to see
them leave,  so many who want to be able to tell their children they
saw the sailing of the Secondborn to Númenor… I wanted Melian’s
kinsman to know someone had taken the trouble to be here for him
alone, to wish him good journey and watch him sail. Other than
Ereinion, I doubt there is anyone else here he feels close to.” She
paused, looking westward across the sea. “Such a brave thing he
does,” she added softly. “He deserves to know someone cares.”



Glorfindel had been unaware she knew Elros all that well, but he
certainly agreed with her sentiments. “You know the reason why he and
Elrond are following different paths then? Did Elros tell you? Gil-
galad only found out last night…he’s - not pleased.”



“Oh, no one had to tell me anything. I never imagined there had been
any kind of choice involved,” she said with a slight shrug. “Elrond
has abilities that are the heritage of Melian’s line; that power
belongs amongst us. Elros…” She turned from the sea to him, her face
sad. “He has other gifts. He will make a great king.”



He nodded silently, remembering Elrond describing that afternoon on
the beach with Eönwë and the way Elros had taken charge. One thought
led to another. “Nerwen, I’m sorry about Elrond, about the training,”
he said hesitantly. He had never crossed Galadriel’s will before.



She slanted an unreadable glance at him, then shrugged and said
evenly, “We must each listen to our heart’s wisdom. We shall see what
comes of it. No doubt it will all fit in admirably with Their plan.”



Before she could pass any uncomfortable comments on the less likeable
aspects of the Shining Ones, Glorfindel hastily changed the subject.
“Have you any idea what the crossing will be like? I don’t think I
understand what they mean about the sea being bent…?”



She raised an eyebrow. “Anything would be better than the road we
survived to reach here, would it not? I believe they sail to a point
where the water drops away beneath them, rather like a gigantic
waterfall, but at the same time the sea flows smooth ahead. A few
hours of turbulence and careful sailing and then a calm journey into
the Uttermost West.”



“How do you know that?” An icy chill ran down his spine as he
considered the possibilities. He had no idea of the extent of her
power, or how far her mind could range.



She guessed his thoughts and gave an unladylike snort of laughter. “I
asked one of Círdan’s mariners of course. How else? I like to know
how things work, remember.”



He had barely nodded acknowledgement, his face flushed with
embarrassment, when she was distracted by a particularly large wagon
making its way down to the edge of the quay. “Oh look at the size of
that one. I wonder what it carries.” Suddenly all eager curiosity,
she turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “Come, let’s go and look.”



Glorfindel tried to point out that the footing was rough and that she
needed to take care, and that this was probably a good time to go and
join Gil-galad in the pavilion, but his arm was taken in a firm grasp
and he was forced to join her in hurrying alongside the road down
which the wagons still moved. “Oh do stop fussing, Findel, I’m fine.
And why would I want to go and join Ereinion in pretending to listen
to Círdan trying to out-bore Eönwë? And don’t tell me you aren’t
interested in ships. All males love ships.”



As ever, there was no arguing with her.



Most of the attention was on the pavilion and the dignitaries
gathered there, and little heed was paid to the tall, strikingly
blonde couple as they made their way along the quay.  Glorfindel soon
found them excellent seats atop bales of hay on an unattended cart.
Galadriel was forced to put aside her independence for once and allow
him to help her up.



“I think this might all belong to Elros.” Glorfindel recognised a few
items of furniture from the private wing of the palace as well as
several pieces he had noticed on the journey to Forlond. “Fit for a
king’s household anyway.”



Nodding, Galadriel sat swinging her feet lightly, watching the calm,
blue-grey water and the ships jostling close to the quay. Eventually
she turned her attention back to her cousin. “Who was the young girl
I saw him talking to earlier? With the pretty brown hair. Do you
know?”



“I think her name’s Faengil,” Glorfindel replied after a moment’s
consideration. “She’s the daughter of his Treasurer. Why do you ask?”



She shook her head, her eyes distant. “I just wondered. She seemed to
fit well with him, and she looked like a sweet child. He deserves
kindness.”



They sat together on the cart in the clear winter sunshine and
watched the assortment of items being wrestled into place over the
side of the ship. From the shouts being exchanged between crew and
shore workers it appeared the wagon had been delayed and the ship
should have been loaded long since. In the background Círdan’s voice
droned on, while in counterpoint they could hear the murmur of the
crowd, the swell of the ocean, creaking wood and crying gulls.
Glorfindel felt unexpectedly peaceful and at ease, and rather as
though he were playing truant. Not that he had much experience of
that. He had been a dutiful child. According to her admiring
brothers, Galadriel had been a complete terror.



She placed her hand on his arm. “Findel, look! Why is Elrond’s dog
going with them? Rather an extreme gift surely?”



Laslech was being hoisted off the wagon as she spoke. The dog was
curled up on the floor of the cage and her whimpering carried clearly
to them. She must have been terrified, Glorfindel realised. Rather
like Elros, he supposed. “She was a present to Elros,” he explained.
“I don’t think he has much interest in dogs – Elrond took a liking to
her and she adopted him. Elros refused to leave her behind, he felt
it would imply he didn’t value the gift. I asked Gil to speak to him
about it, but…”



Galadriel’s total outrage surprised him. “What absolute nonsense!”
she exclaimed. “Since I arrived in Lindon, I don’t know that I’ve
ever seen Elrond without her. Really, I would have expected Ereinion
to have made a bit more of an effort to persuade Elros…”



“I think he had other things on his mind, Nerwen,” Glorfindel cut in,
quick to defend his lover from the implied criticism. She threw him a
glance dripping with scorn.



“I rather expect a king to be able to focus on more than one matter
at a time,” she retorted.



What Glorfindel might have said next was swallowed in a round of
polite applause; Círdan had finally finished speaking. Instead of
returning to his seat, however, he left the pavilion. Glorfindel
glanced at Galadriel, his eyebrows raised and she shrugged. “Probably
needs to give some last minute instructions,” she suggested. “The
more I get to know him the more I realise he would never delegate
anything he could reasonably expect to see to himself.”



“Like you, in other words?” Glorfindel asked blandly, his face
expressionless. She punched him amiably in the ribs, rather harder
than he might have expected.



“Like me I suppose, yes,” she admitted. “I drive Celeborn insane. He
keeps saying he cannot see the point of us having servants as I have
such a compulsion to do everything myself.” She looked suddenly
almost ordinary and rather endearing as she added, “I like seeing to
things for him, sewing on buttons and the like. Taking care of him.
I’ve never had someone to take care of before.”



Glorfindel impulsively slid an arm around her waist.  “I’m sure he
loves every minute of it,” he said affectionately. “He must be
exceptional. I look forward to meeting him.”



“My brothers weren’t too impressed.” Her expression was momentarily
wistful. Of all Finarfin’s children, only his daughter had survived
the vicissitudes of life in Arda.



Glorfindel gave her a sympathetic hug. “Your brothers adored you and
thought no one good enough for you,” he reminded her. “Had there been
time, I’m sure they’d have approved, especially once they saw how
happy you were with him. You are happy, aren’t you?” The old
Glorfindel would never have dared ask such a question, even of
someone he was as close to as Galadriel.



She gave a laughing sigh and returned his hug. “Yes cousin, I’m very
happy with him. We fight like cat and dog of course, but that’s to be
expected. We both have strong wills and stronger ideas – and somewhat
different views on the world. But we’ve become rather good at
compromise.”



“My lady, I had no idea you were expected. His Majesty mentioned
nothing to me.” Cirdan, wearing his formal best and looking none too
comfortable in it, had arrived beside them unnoticed. He looked
vaguely shocked, which Glorfindel thought was a reasonable response
to discovering royalty sitting on a bale of hay.



Galadriel looked at him with complete equanimity, though her nails
digging into Glorfindel’s arm were a stern instruction that he resist
the impulse to get down until she was ready. “A spur of the moment
decision, one I’m afraid I neglected to discuss with Ereinion. It
never occurred to me that I might need his permission to watch this –
unique event.” She had her head tilted slightly to one side, her
expression all polite concern. Glorfindel surreptitiously kicked her
in an attempt to make her behave.



Círdan, however, had lived a very long time and was not about to be
intimidated by Gil-galad’s unconventional aunt. “I was merely
concerned that Master Edhelûr would feel he had been negligent in not
arranging seating for you,” he explained reasonably. “I assume you
came by sea? In that case, too, he would have wished to provide you
with a suitable escort from the dock…”



Galadriel flicked her eyelashes at him, but decided there was no
sport to be had here. “As I said, I decided this on a whim. No one
expected me. Glorfindel merely spotted me in the crowd and came to
keep an eye on me.”



She slid down off the cart unaided, all grace and golden hair and
sweetly feminine smiles, and accepted the arm the aged Telerin
offered. She paused to watch the last few boxes being loaded, while
from the ship itself they could all hear the sound of sharp,
concerned barking. Glancing at Glorfindel, she said, “Perhaps you
should go on ahead and give them a few minutes to arrange a seat for
me – and can you organise some apple juice? I’m very thirsty.” She
turned back to Círdan, gravely polite. “If you’ll be kind enough to
assist me up to the pavilion, my lord?”



As he left, Glorfindel heard her low voice continuing. “I was
wondering if I could ask you two small favours?  Firstly, is there
any possibility of one of your sailors going on to Tirion with
messages from me to my family? I may be exiled, but nothing was said
about letters…”



Glorfindel had no excuse to linger, so he regretfully had to miss
hearing the second request.





----------





There was a festive atmosphere on the hillside overlooking Forlond.
The Elves of the Wandering Companies had gathered from far and wide
to watch the spectacle of the fleet of ships preparing to sail into
the West. The departure itself was an affair of Men and had little
emotional impact on the Elves, unlike the wonder of a Silmaril
visible in daylight for the first time since the end of the War of
Wrath. Watching the light on the water, they were conscious of great
events in motion, driven by the will of those who dwelt in the
Undying Lands and held the governance of Arda.



The event also provided an excellent opportunity to spend time with
family and friends within other Companies and to exchange news and
gossip. This was also a rare chance for the younger Elves present to
meet potential love interests or to make new friends.



Two dark-haired Elves sat on a flat rock sharing bread and cheese and
a few early winter apples. They also had a small flask of liquor,
about whose type and origin Erestor was carefully vague. They ate in
comfortable silence, Elrond sitting up very straight with his eyes
fixed on the ships as they began moving out into the bay, while his
companion leaned casually against his shoulder. Eventually Erestor
tilted his head to look back and up at the Half-elf. "Was I right to
bring you here?" he asked softly. "You weren’t as angry as I
expected, but still…"



Elrond looked down at him, then rested his cheek briefly against the
top of Erestor’s head. The silky black hair was warm from the sun and
felt strangely comforting. "What, to bring me here to see them leave?
Yes, of course, otherwise it would never have been real - like my
mother changing into a swan or my father piloting Vingilot through
the skies each night. Just words… No, you were right. I’m sorry I
shouted at you – not that it seemed to bother you much. How did you
know what I needed?”



Erestor smiled and shook his head. He took another sip from the flask
and passed it to Elrond before straightening up and moving to sit
behind him. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “It was just a good guess.
Yesterday I saw Araslagor at the palace and I just – well, I usually
trust my instincts, so I went and asked him if we could join them.
That’s why I set such a pace last night,” he added with a grin, his
deft fingers busy unfastening the untidy braid Elrond had enforced on
his hair during the ride. “There was no time to make alternate
arrangements should we miss them at the meeting place. I expected you
to yell a lot more than you did, by the way. I certainly would have.”



“Your instincts are good,” Elrond assured him, relaxing under the
touch of Erestor’s confident fingers. “And there’s not much point in
yelling at you. You just stand there and blink and look bored.”



He watched the Elves around them, groups forming, splitting into twos
and threes, reforming, and he listened to the soft murmur of many
voices broken by laughter and the occasional call. They all knew who
he was; he had been greeted with courtesy and then left to deal with
a matter that they all respected as a private grief. These were the
people he would presently be sent to live amongst as part of his
training. They were, he realised, the Kindred of his choice, just as
those on the ships now leaving harbour were his brother’s. It felt
right to be watching the one from within the circle of kinship of the
other. 



He looked up towards Vingilot and wondered briefly if the legendary
Elf knew that his son was amongst the travellers whose way he lit,
and if so whether he even cared. There was no way he would ever know,
so Elrond let it go in a way he knew Erestor would be proud of when
he told him later. For now, he had no desire for speech.



A movement on one of the leading ships caught his eye as a banner was
unfurled. Even at this distance he recognised the crest of his house,
unmarked by the colours of Númenor. Elros’ final act was a silent
reminder that no matter the title and history that was about to
become his own, he left Middle-earth as a child of the First Kindred,
Elros Eärendilion, a descendant of Thingol and Turgon.



Erestor’s hands came to rest firmly on Elrond’s shoulders, steadying
him even as his eyes misted and his chest tightened. As they sat
watching, the soft wind that had been rising steadily over the last
hour suddenly increased, filling the ships’ sails. Guided by Círdan’s
experienced mariners who had been awaiting this moment, the vessels
moved into formation and, in a mass of green and gold, crossed the
bay towards open water, carrying the new line of Men and their King
to their protected home beyond the Sundering Sea.







* * * * *





Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 23/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: leaving

Beta: Enismirdal





Chapter 23







“I came alone, the trip was uneventful, I see no reason I should not
return home in the same manner.”



The Númenórean fleet had reached the far side of the bay in a line of
green and gold and was moving out to sea, and most of the guests in
the pavilion were preparing to leave. Galadriel, however, remained
seated, apparently enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. Although
faced with the combined masculine disapproval of Círdan and
Glorfindel, she was less than intimidated.



“The fact that nothing happened hardly makes it right,” Glorfindel
was pointing out. “You are not travelling back alone – if no one else
is available, I’ll go with you myself. And no, I know you can look
after yourself. My concern is for anyone misguided enough to trouble
you.”



Galadriel chose to take this as a compliment and inclined her head
with a satisfied smile. “As you say, I can look after myself.”



“It would be a simple matter to arrange a small escort,” Círdan
offered swiftly. “If Lord Glorfindel were also to accompany you, I’m
sure everything would be in order.”



Círdan’s desire for Glorfindel’s early departure was not lost on Gil-
galad, who had left the thankless task of arguing with his aunt to
others and instead stood watching the ships. He turned now and
favoured his foster father with an expressionless stare. “Glorfindel
is expected here for dinner, Hîren. I see no reason to disrupt Master
Edhelûr’s arrangements. An armed escort will be sufficient. Or
perhaps we can persuade you to stay the night, Aunt?” he added
enquiringly, forestalling Glorfindel who had been about to object. “I
can send word to Celeborn, and Thenin can accompany you tomorrow. I
imagine he’s eager to return to work.” Thenin had mentioned looking
forward to a quiet day on the road, but Gil-galad decided his
assistant would probably find a few hours on the water equally
restful.



Galadriel’s attention was apparently wholly on the ships, but after a
moment she glanced up at him and nodded. “I can hardly attend a
formal dinner dressed as I am, Ereinion, but if Master Edhelûr’s lady
could perhaps find me something suitable to wear…”



She would have much preferred to go home to the comfortable little
house beside the ocean and the Sinda who had turned out to be her
soulmate, but fondness for Glorfindel and an ingrained curiosity had
persuaded her to stay the night. She had seen the intent behind
Círdan’s words and had swiftly drawn her own conclusions.



Círdan, silenced by the steel in Gil-galad’s eye, remained silent as
he glanced around, dissatisfied but outmanoeuvered. He suspected that
Galadriel had agreed to remain purely on Glorfindel’s account, but
her face was calm and unreadable. What she thought, she kept to
herself. The blonde warrior had returned his attention to the sea and
was watching the fleet, his eyes narrowed against the sun. He had
appeared blithely unaware of any undercurrents in the conversation,
but Círdan was unconvinced. He doubted that any lord of Gondolin
could have survived the rumoured machinations of Turgon’s court
without some degree of political awareness, to say nothing of a sense
for intrigue. Those clear blue eyes, the aged Telerin decided, were
less innocent, less ingenuous than most assumed. Including the King.



There was still a conversation due between Ereinion and himself
regarding the reborn Elf, but he knew that this was not the right
time. In fact he was beginning to wonder if there ever would be a
‘right time’.





----------





Master Edhelûr’s mate Emlinneth was somewhat shorter than the Lady,
but she managed to find an outfit that could be altered to fit their
illustrious and very pregnant guest. As Galadriel submitted to having
the garments – a light gown and loose over-tunic – pinned and tacked,
she chattered away like a young maid. Mainly she asked questions;
about Forlond, about the guests she would meet over dinner, about the
frequency of her nephew’s visits. Did he have many friends here, had
it not been difficult accommodating so many guests in her home, had
there been any problems or incidents of note? Had she met the Lady’s
cousin, Lord Glorfindel - the sweet-faced one with the golden hair,
yes? Was his room sea-facing, as was the King’s, or was he in some
other part of the house?



And so on, leaving Emlinneth quite flustered by the time they parted
company.



Later, as she and her husband prepared for dinner, Emlinneth admitted
surprise at how sweetly approachable the formidable-sounding
Galadriel - sister to the King’s father, full-blooded Noldo and
Tirion-born - had turned out to be. There appeared to be at least one
family trait she and her nephew had in common though, she added - the
Lady was insatiably curious. Edhelûr, who had experience with the
King’s apparently casual enquiries, wondered what particular item of
information Galadriel had been attempting to uncover, but held his
peace.





----------





Dinner spanned eight courses and was accompanied by a selection of
excellent wines, supplied by one of Edhelûr’s senior councillors who
had trade interests in the South. Gil-galad had the place of honour,
while Galadriel was seated beside their host. Glorfindel found he had
been placed next to Edhelûr’s daughter. His family connections were
impeccable and he was unattached; he doubted it was a coincidence. He
took a deep breath and set out to attempt, for the first time in his
life, to be courtly and almost - though not quite - flirtatious. He
had no wish to mislead her, but hoped it might allay one or two of
the rumours he was sure were circulating. He was regularly amazed at
the things he was prepared to try and do on Gil-galad’s behalf.



Where there were Elves there would always be song and dancing, and
after dinner the guests moved out onto the lawn for this purpose.
Before anyone else found the courage to approach Galadriel, Gil-galad
caught his aunt lightly round the waist and, disregarding her claim
to be currently neither agile nor light on her feet, insisted that
she be the first to dance with him. Glancing around, she registered
several disappointed expressions and chuckled sympathetically. “This
will be no more than a brief escape, Ereinion. I can’t dance all
night.”



He cursed mildly under cover of the music. “I feel like the prize
stallion at a horse sale,” he complained. “They’ve assessed my looks,
watched me eat, and now they want a chance to test my character and
personal hygiene.”



“Don’t be silly, dear,” she said, giving him a wide smile that in
some indefinable way reminded him of his father. “You’re High King.
They couldn’t care less about your personality and how close an
acquaintance you have with soap and water.



“I know,” he admitted irritably. “Which makes it worse. This is all
about family advancement, gaining a crown. It would scarcely matter
if I had two heads… Was it always like this? Before we crossed the
sea, I mean. When I was young I was told male bound to female for
love, two souls joined in bliss for eternity and all the rest. I’m
starting to see that in this, as in other matters, Círdan’s views are
a little old fashioned.”



Galadriel shook her head and laughed softly. “I know how you feel. I
was assessed and bartered over in Tirion and later in Doriath,” she
told him. “I think they believe that you merely need to get to know
them and true love will follow.” She paused then added more
seriously, “These aspirations always existed; ambition is older than
time. Though previously I think we might have fared better at hiding
the intent behind pretty words. I’ve often felt Fëanor was not
utterly alien to the rest of us – he was just more open about his
feelings, less inclined to hide them behind social conformity. I
rather liked that about him.”



It was more common to refer to Fëanor as The Kinslayer and find no
redeeming feature in him, Gil-galad mused. Usually by people who,
unlike his aunt, had little personal experience of the creator of the
Silmarils. “I suppose one knew where one was with him – more than
likely at the point of his sword, or walking across the Ice after he
burnt the ships,” he agreed mildly.



Galadriel glanced at him sharply, made once again aware that it would
be hard to find someone less like her loved but easily-led brother,
Orodreth. Her nephew thought for himself and was not easily shocked.
When the babe was born, Ereinions heir a
it was a boy – of course it was a boy, she told herself firmly, no
matter what Celeborn might think – she was sure they would have
little difficulty in reaching an accommodation of sorts. After all,
the future was uncertain and a rival claimant, a child of his own
blood, seemed less than likely from what she had observed. Elwing’s
son she dismissed as politically unsuitable, made so by his share of
mortal blood.



Putting aside future planning for a more suitable occasion, she
smiled at him. “How will you decide with whom to dance next? Much as
I enjoy having a partner taller than myself, I can hardly spend the
entire evening with you. And even if I could, the scandal would be
exceptional. Even for Lindon.”



“They’d be talking for weeks,” he agreed with a wry grin. “And I have
a tried and tested method for dealing with this. I remain distant but
courteous, dance with everyone no more than once and make a point of
not remembering their names. So far it seems to have worked rather
well.”



She laughed then nodded, her eyes suddenly kind. “They expect you to
choose a bride and wed soon, my dear,” she said, moving closer so
that her lips were near his ear, her words barely audible above the
music. “But marriage – binding for eternity and producing heirs – I
think is not for you. Am I right?”



Gil-galad was careful to show no outward sign of the watchful
stillness that instantly cloaked him. “Time enough for that later,”
he answered smoothly, aware, too aware, that if his instinct was
wrong and the child she carried was a boy after all, that child and
not Elrond would be the heir to the crown should he fail to provide
one himself.



Fail.



As though it were a test he had to pass to prove his worth, he
thought, suddenly tired of it all but knowing this self-doubt would
probably follow him the length of his immortal life. He had given the
future a lot of thought since that night of solitary drunken musing
and he was certain that marriage was not for him, never would be.
Knowing and accepting this simple truth about himself, however, did
not change the fact that his predecessors would have seen it as a
lamentable lack.



Almost as though she had read his thoughts she said, “Some of us are
made to wed and breed, some of us not. Those who are not drawn to
that life have each their own reasons – some prefer the arts of war,
some prefer scholarly pursuits… and some simply find another path
proves to be more suited to their nature. None of these choices is
right or wrong, Ereinion. What is wrong is trying to be other than
what you are.”



Could she enter his mind unnoticed, he wondered? Surely not…



They finished the dance in thoughtful silence. At the end she reached
up and lightly – with complete disregard for protocol – placed a soft
kiss on his cheek. “And now you need to start working your way
through the hopeful daughters of Forlond, while I…” She glanced over
to her left, eyes sparkling with mirth. “I need to go and rescue poor
Glorfindel. Emlinneth’s daughter is displaying excellent taste in
holding onto him, but very poor judgement.” Her expression sobered.
“I am very fond of my cousin,” she added pointedly. “He has a
generous, trusting nature. I would be extremely upset were someone to
attempt to take advantage of it.”





----------





The presence of the Elves of the Wandering Companies had transformed
the hillside above Forlond into a setting for impromptu singing and
dancing as they celebrated the beauty of the Silmaril which lit the
sea with a brilliance rivaling that of the full moon. Food was
produced, amounting to a small and varied feast, and the spirit of
warmth and camaraderie was palpable. Elrond would have liked to
remain longer, but Erestor insisted that, as Araslagor and his people
were leaving, so too must they.



“We can go back alone later,” Elrond said in an exasperated voice,
watching a small group forming around a young Elf who was playing
snatches of song upon some kind of fiddle. If they started dancing,
he would be sorely tempted to join them. “All we have to do is follow
the road. It’s only half a day’s walk.”



Wide dark eyes flashed him an expressive look as Erestor shook his
head firmly. “I’m not taking sole responsibility for your safety.
Bands of unemployed mercenaries regularly attack travellers on the
Forlond road. Why do you think I organised an armed escort in the
first place – my personal amusement? Practice? No, we travel back in
a group.”



“Coward. Where’s your sense of adventure?”



Erestor blinked, his expression deadpan. “I’ve had more than enough
adventure in my life. Explaining to the High King how his cousin came
to be kidnapped by renegades is more excitement than I need, thank
you. Come, Princeling. Time to go.”





----------





The small band of Elves moved with the silence of forest creatures,
following an apparently clearly defined path which was nonetheless
invisible to Elrond’s eyes. His attempts to keep up with them left
him feeling clumsy and aware, as seldom before, of his mortal
ancestry. On several occasions Erestor had to reach out a hand and
guide him through the undergrowth, showing him with quick glances
where to put his feet, when to duck his head. Eventually he gave up
pride and, placing a hand on the black-haired Elf’s arm, followed in
his footsteps.



It was dark under the trees. They had moved away from the road,
taking a straight line to the point where the escort waited, and were
out of sight of both thoroughfare and sea. The night’s activity went
on around them, barely disturbed by their passage – scurrying sounds
and sudden movement, night birds, the hunting cry of an owl, frogs
calling in some tiny puddle-kingdom, all punctuated by long stretches
of silence save for the sound of the trees whispering to the night.
The air was very cold, but they were sheltered to some extent from
the wind that had risen when the ships had entered the bay and which
had been increasing towards storm-strength since then. Tomorrow would
bring rain, he could smell it on the air.



The pace was moderate and Elrond soon lost all track of time. With
nothing to do but follow Erestor as carefully as possible, his
thoughts began drifting from one thing to the next like a leaf on the
rising wind: the evening on the hillside and the ships, how small
they had seemed; curiosity about the liquor Erestor had shared with
him; Laslech, how she would have liked the scents and sounds of this
walk through the woods… It was a very short step from that simple
fantasy to another – of Laslech, caged, frightened, surrounded by
cargo or other livestock.



He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, banishing the image. It was
almost easier to try and guess what Elros might be thinking, now that
there was no turning back. He had no answer to that question, of
course, and never would, so he banished it and tried instead to
concentrate on what might have been happening at sea since nightfall.
This proved a far simpler matter. They would be resting now, he
decided, the men and women on board those frail-looking vessels. It
had been a long day, and it was now the middle of the night. Unlike
Elves, Men could seldom go through the night without rest.



How much sleep they would get with that blinding light above them
was, of course, another matter



He wondered how Glori had enjoyed Forlond. He was glad Gil-galad had
been there, of course, because it meant there had been at least one
person present his brother would know genuinely cared for his
welfare, but for the rest… A voice in his head dismissed their
interest with distaste as idle curiosity of the type that encouraged
the makers of the songs he so despised. He hesitated to include
Glorfindel in this description – he was there at Gil-galad’s request,
after all – but it had been a long day and he was tired and his
opinion of the world in general was less than charitable.



Currently, he felt empty and strangely detached and his strongest
emotion was a sense of tired anticlimax. The horror had happened.
Elros had left; the little ships, green and gold sails flapping
bravely in the afternoon sun, had sailed and now he was going back
home, alone. Tomorrow would be another day, simply the next in an
endless lifetime of days. No more excitement. Nothing to fear or
anticipate beyond loneliness…



His foot caught on a root and he staggered slightly, but Erestor’s
hand moved at once to his elbow, steadying him. There was a murmured
exchange of “thanks” and “careful”, and they continued in silence.
Elrond considered the Elf walking beside him, his shadowed face
inward-looking and distant. The Half-elf had left naïveté behind on
the night when Sirion burned and his mother had answered the call of
fear. He knew his dynastic importance and he had considered the very
real possibility that Erestor’s apparent interest in him was nothing
more than sympathy combined with good political sense, but instinct
said not. The depth of the concern and tenderness he had been shown
the previous night had felt sincere, as had the morning’s interrupted
pleasure.



Which, he finally realised, meant that tomorrow might well hold the
promise of more than a little excited anticipation after all.



He slid his hand down Erestor’s arm and linked their fingers and his
companion turned to him and smiled. In repose, Erestor’s face had the
cool perfection of a sculpture created by a master craftsman, but
when he smiled his features softened and warmed. The amber eyes
sparkled despite the gloom and Elrond smiled back. Although he was
feeling drained and emotionally exhausted, he knew this would change,
that presently the pain of loss would return. He also knew that there
would be someone beside him when that time came.





----------







Galadriel left for the ferry at first light in a manner befitting the
daughter of a King, accompanied by the promised escort of warriors
and with Thenin, at Gil-galad’s insistence, in reluctant attendance.
Glorfindel had again offered to travel back with her, but she turned
him down with a knowing look and the suggestion that the overland
journey would be more to his taste. Afterwards he wondered about a
brief, low-voiced conversation he had witnessed between her and
Círdan, which had left her looking distinctly pleased with herself.
Youthful observation had taught Glorfindel to be extremely wary of
that expression.



The party that set out on the return journey was less than half the
size of the one that had arrived in Forlond. They left behind those
who were taking the opportunity to visit with family, give attention
to trade interests or who had simply decided on a whim to spend a few
days – or weeks – sampling the entertainments the town had to offer.
Glorfindel rode alone, comparing the current situation to the trip
down to Forlond which had been filled with good humour and friendly
interaction. He missed not only Dalbros, who had remained behind to
gather more information for his History, but also the young Men who
had joked with the escort and generally given the journey such a
feeling of high-spirited anticipation. Those same young Men were, of
course, no longer with them. They were somewhere out on the sea,
heading towards their new life.



About an hour after leaving Master Edhelûr’s house it began raining
in a continuous, heavy drizzle that was not sufficiently unpleasant
to justify taking shelter and waiting for it to lift, but which
slowly soaked the riders and further dampened their spirits.



“Bloody rain,” a voice said close beside him.



Gil-galad had fallen back to wait for him. The King was wearing a
thick cloak as concession to the weather, but the hood was thrown
back and his hair, hanging wet and somewhat disheveled, was plastered
to his head. He looked rather more cheerful than his words suggested,
an improvement on his brooding silence at breakfast. Glorfindel had
assumed he was concerned about Elros. They had been given no
opportunity for discussion after the fleet sailed; a late night and
an early rising meant they had slept apart.



Glorfindel had missed him, even though sharing the narrow bed had
proved an awkward experience.



“Bloody rain, yes” he agreed with a smile, his own mood lifting.
“It’s keeping everyone very quiet in comparison to the journey out.”



Gil-galad grunted agreement. “Courtiers. Scared of a little water,”
he said with a scathing glance at a huddled group riding ahead of
them. “Elves should accept what comes their way; sunshine, rain,
snow… it should all be the same.”



Glorfindel had a sudden memory of the blinding snowstorms that used
to plague Gondolin in the midst of winter, the driving winds and
shoulder-high snowdrifts penning the inhabitants inside their homes
for days on end. He shivered slightly. “Not snow,” he said firmly.
“And given a choice, not rain either. We Noldor have become far too
accustomed to the comforts of city life, I think.”



“You’re probably right. It’s not bothering them, after all.” Gil-
galad gestured towards a group of Sindar who were busy picking apples
in an orchard attached to the small settlement they were passing.



“They might have an order to fill,” Glorfindel hazarded. “That and
fish are probably their main source of income.”



The King shrugged. “Possibly. Still, they seem not to mind.”



He rode in silence for a while, frowning thoughtfully. When they had
passed the settlement’s brief stretch of cultivated land, he said, “I
think we can spare an extra day or two – Lindon will hardly fall
apart. I’d like to stop at a few of these places, see if they need
any help. There’s a new town further up the coast that I’d like to
see, too. Half the requests and complaints never reach me, you know.
Thenin sees to them and just gives me verbal reports. I do my best
but – I’d like to see for myself.”



Glorfindel considered him out of the side of his eye and decided Gil-
galad was probably serious but not to the point of stubbornness. “Not
this time,” he said, softening the words with a smile. He was still
uncomfortable about contradicting the King or offering him
unsolicited advice, but Gil-galad had declared himself sick to death
of only hearing opinions that agreed with his own and had asked
Glorfindel to speak his mind whenever he felt it was necessary. The
blonde was less than happy with the request, but it was what Gil
wanted and, understanding the reasons, he did his best to oblige.



Gil-galad, not yet accustomed to having his wishes denied, frowned at
him. “A day or two – what possible difference would that make? Aren’t
you also curious? You were full of questions about the new coastal
settlements. Elrond even found you a book about them, didn’t he?”



Glorfindel nodded. “Yes, he did. And it was very interesting. And
you’re right, of course I’d enjoy it. But you would need to send
everyone else on ahead and keep just a few warriors with you as an
escort – you can hardly expect the communities you visit to feed all
these mouths. And that would mean compromising your safety.”



“Nothing’s likely to happen to me, don’t be fanciful.”



Glorfindel glanced at him, expressionless. “We used to say that in
Gondolin – nothing’s going to happen. We were wrong.”



They rode on for a few minutes, each digesting this unexpected
comment. Glorfindel darted a few quick, uncertain glances at Gil-
galad, riding head bowed against the weather, and was finally the one
who broke the silence. “You offered me a post reorganizing your
army,” he said steadily. “If I were to accept, one of the first
changes would be to make sure you had your own personal guard, with
no responsibilities other than your safety. The war might be over but
the roads are still unsafe, attacks happen…”



“Ah. So you’ve decided to do it then?”



Had he? Glorfindel supposed he had. He had been entertaining a
suspicion for some time that the safety of the High King, the
ultimate Elven authority on the Hither Shore, might have been the
reason for Lord Námo’s decision to send him back in such an unlikely
manner – not as a babe newborn in Aman, a receptacle for memories of
a past life, but as a warrior at the height of his strength, with
battle skills and training intact, faster, stronger, more focused
than he recalled being before his death.



“I’ve given it some thought,” he answered slowly. “I can see more or
less what needs to be done. It would mainly be a matter of shifting
priorities and changing focus and if I’m given enough authority I can
do it. There would be a few conditions, though…”



Gil-galad grunted. In his experience, there were always conditions.



“I would want a free hand, which you more or less promised me,”
Glorfindel told him. “Also, I would need to be able to appoint or
dismiss as I see fit while the transition is in progress. The same
goes for deployment – currently you have warriors stationed in places
that were probably important before the end of the war, but no longer
warrant as much attention. And I’d expect to have the same authority
over the Fleet…”



Gil-galad stirred at this, raising a hand to wipe away the water
trickling down his face from his hair, but kept silent.



Glorfindel nodded as though the King had spoken. “I know sailors
dislike taking orders from outsiders and I’m sure they’re accustomed
to Círdan’s ways, but it can’t be helped. Both forces have to work
together. It has to be a whole, not the Army on one side and the
Fleet on the other as it is now. And finally, I want personal
responsibility for your security – which means that when I say today
is not a good day for an informal ramble down the coast, you will
listen to me and not try and intimidate me into letting you have your
way.”



“I would never try and intimidate you, Glaur,” Gil-galad stated,
feigning outrage at the suggestion. He was, in fact, a little
startled by this brisk, professional side to the blonde warrior. He
knew that Glorfindel was an experienced commander, of course. He had
led Turgon’s rear-guard against the forces of darkness, a position of
huge importance. Still, Gil-galad had not expected suddenly to be
faced with someone quite this proficient and - decisive.



Glorfindel gave him an amused look. “You wouldn’t? That’s as well.
The longer I know you, the less intimidating you seem.” His tone
softened. “I understand why you want to see these places firsthand
instead of relying on reports, Gil, but why not plan it out properly
first? We can come back in the spring.”



Gil-galad noted the assumption that they would do this together with
satisfaction, although he did no more than grunt a non-committal
response.





----------





Unencumbered by baggage, they made good time, barely slowing as they
passed through the villages and settlements. When they reached the
place where they had made camp on their journey to Forlond,
Glorfindel slowed down to a walk. Under the pretense of watching a
fishing boat coming in to the small harbour, he briefly acknowledged
the sacred enclosure within its hedge, bowing his head respectfully,
hand to heart as though he greeted one of the Mighty.



They arrived home near sunset, and those who were resident in the
palace descended on the stables with a flurry of demands and needs
that sent grooms rushing in all directions. Glorfindel, however, saw
to his horse personally as was his habit. On the day he was deemed
old enough to learn to ride, when he had been so young that even the
selected pony had seemed impossibly high off the ground, his father
had sat down with him and explained that the animal’s care and
welfare would be his sole responsibility and should be performed as
an expression of gratitude to the creature. It was not a chore to be
shunted off onto a servant. The words and the implicit respect to the
horse had stayed with him ever since.



When he was finally finished, the rest of the travellers had long
since dispersed. He passed the kitchens en route to his rooms and
paused to arrange that a plate of food be sent up to him at
dinnertime. Long before he had gained sufficient confidence to mingle
with his peers, he had been comfortable here. As a child, the kitchen
had provided a warm, safe refuge from his father’s overwhelming
expectations, and it was a setting in which he was instinctively at
ease. His good natured courtesy had made him a popular visitor, and
he was at once offered a cup of the head cook’s infamous chamomile
tea and had to answer a multitude of questions about Forlond before
he was finally permitted to go on his way.



Entering the palace via the kitchen, he decided to clean up and
change and then fill the time remaining before dinner by going in
search of Elrond. Gil-galad, he knew, would be working until late in
the evening, catching up on those matters that would have accumulated
during his brief absence. They would meet later. Meanwhile, Elrond
would need to hear about his brother’s last few days in Middle-earth.
Glorfindel was in two minds as to whether he should mention Elros’
conversation with Gil-galad, but decided that was a tale for the King
to either share or withhold. He would confine himself to the ride to
Forlond and a description of the ships.



His pack had been left outside his room as he had requested. Opening
the door, he bent down to retrieve the bag and his attention was
immediately drawn to a letter which had apparently been pushed to lie
just inside the room. His name was written on the outside in a neat,
vaguely familiar script. There was no further information. Closing
the door, he stood, turning the letter over in his hand for a moment
before finally taking heed of his surroundings. It was at this point
that he discovered the impeccably neat room he had left on his
departure from the palace had undergone a transformation. Items had
been knocked over, his favourite boots were in the middle of the rug
and his bed was rumpled, the cushions askew or on the floor.



With a sigh, Glorfindel put down the pack, returned the boots and
cushions to their allotted places, and sat down on the edge of the
bed. He then opened the note, which he proceeded to read with
narrowed eyes and less surprise than the author might have
anticipated. When he reached the end, he was almost embarrassed to
discover he was grinning.







* * * * *





Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 24/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: The end of the beginning.

Beta: Enismirdal





Chapter 24





Lindon S.A. 32



‘In response to the current dispute, it is my decree that the arable
land between the boundaries of these two towns will be held in common
to both, the revenues to be divided equally…’



Gil-galad leaned back in his chair for a minute, took a slow, deep
breath and closed his eyes. He had been working steadily since
arriving home from Forlond, and was starting to wonder if the pile of
documents, requests and reports industriously supplied by Thenin was
in fact bottomless. The Sinda had arrived home hours ahead of his
King, and Gil-galad already regretted sending him back by ferry with
Galadriel instead of allowing him to make the journey on horseback as
he had requested.



Turning to the next item, which came from a watch station high in the
Ered Luin, he read it with the same thoroughness that he brought to
even the most mundane administrative detail, and frowned. Unaccounted
for - probably misappropriated – items were becoming too much a fact
of life in the garrisons. Dipping quill in ink, he scrawled across
the report in bold lettering: ‘Henceforth, to avoid a repeat of the
current dispute over figures, a monthly inventory of arrows in stock
is to be sent to the head quartermaster …’



He had two rather arbitrary piles of documents to his left. One would
be returned to Thenin as requiring further attention or the drafting
of a response, while the other contained those items, already bearing
His Majesty’s signature or margin comment, that were, in his opinion,
ready to be dispatched. After a moment’s thought, he placed the
report on this second pile, wondering as he did so if this watch
station would remain operational for very much longer. He had a
suspicion it would be on Glorfindel’s list of places that no longer
justified a military presence. He suspected that Glorfindel would
produce such a list – possibly several such lists – within a matter
of days.



He picked up another report, this time from a Fleet officer, which
outlined a troublingly similar situation. A pattern was emerging, he
realised, that he would need to mention to Glorfindel. It suggested
the beginnings of a problem with discipline. This led him to wonder a
little uneasily how Círdan, who controlled the Fleet, was going to
respond to taking instructions from the blonde. The Telerin had
originally been very much in favour of giving Glorfindel control of
the army, although that had been before discovering the reborn Elf
was sleeping with his foster son. Still, the King thought, a polite
reminder along those lines would not be out of place.



After selecting a round of bread from the plate that had been sent up
from the kitchen – this one topped with his favourite combination of
cheese and bacon - Gil-galad rose and strolled over to the window
that looked out towards the stables. Mingled in with the moaning of
the wind and the associated rattling of shutters, he could hear
indistinct voices from the floor below. He smiled to himself. No one
understood why he had designated the space above the palace baths for
his workroom but, on the too-frequent nights when he worked late, he
enjoyed the sounds of activity below. It gave him a sense of being
not wholly alone.



He had his own private bathroom, of course, but he rather liked
visiting the baths. He made regular use of the area set aside for
senior courtiers and members of his inner circle, taking the popular
view that it was the ideal place to socialise and unwind. A view not
shared by Glorfindel, he recalled with a fond grin. The blonde
loathed the baths. Clearly feeling exposed and vulnerable, he was in
and out as quickly as he could manage, barely pausing in the cold
water plunge pool before hurrying to dress. Relaxing in the warm
water and chatting with fellow bathers held no appeal for him.



Of course, Gil-galad mused, the idea of public baths as a social
gathering place was a fairly recent innovation, although he seemed to
remember them existing in Nargothrond when he was small. The concept
of socializing whilst wearing nothing more than a small towel – at
most - was certainly new and unwelcome to Glorfindel. Unbidden, an
idea fell into place. Those apartments in the palace possessing their
own bathrooms were few and jealously guarded, but, with careful
management, Glorfindel’s new position with the military might well
serve as an excuse to insist he be given new, more appropriate
quarters. With, coincidentally, his own bathing facilities.



The King remained looking out across the twilit grounds, gloomy under
the cloud-filled sky, and feeling rather pleased with himself for
having thought of a way to procure the perfect gift for his lover. He
was enjoying a small fantasy about Glorfindel’s possible response to
the news when movement on the edge of vision caught his attention. He
looked down, to be confronted with a sight that had become a nightly
occurrence in recent weeks; Elrond, taking an early evening walk
around the perimeter of the palace.



With Laslech.



Gil-galad stood quite still, bread raised halfway to his mouth, and
stared, while his mind struggled to catch up. The last time he had
seen the dog – and yes, it was quite definitely the same dog – she
had been waiting to be placed on board one of the ships currently
making their way to the New Land. And yet here she was, being taken
for her customary walk as though nothing had happened. Elrond also
gave no indication of this event being in any way unusual. His main
concerns seemed to involve keeping his swirling, wind-disordered hair
out of his face with one hand while controlling the lead with the
other. He was looking down at the dog, and appeared to be talking to
her.



The High King of the Noldor remained by the window while he finished
eating his sandwich, then walked slowly back to the document-laden
table. Absently licking his fingers, he contemplated the work still
awaiting his attention and sighed. A brief search amongst the
apparent chaos finally produced the plain silver circlet he wore as a
kind of badge of office while conducting the day-to-day business of
rulership. Setting it firmly on his head, he went out into the winter
dusk to find his young cousin and ask him a few pertinent questions.





----------





Sipping her tea, Galadriel recalled Celeborn’s predictably irate
response upon her return with an amusement that she had been far from
feeling at the time. Relief at receiving word from Ereinion regarding
her whereabouts had dissipated overnight, given way to annoyed
exasperation at her for leaving with no explanation for her absence
beyond a brief note which had read ‘gone to Forlond, be home later’.



After the briefest of greetings, they had spent the best part of an
hour shouting at one another - he regarding her lack of either
consideration or common sense, she concerning his apparent obsession
to be a party to her every thought. Eventually he had reluctantly
assured her that he was not sufficiently insecure to need to be
informed of her every movement and she had grudgingly acknowledged
that perhaps, in this case, a discussion would have been more
appropriate than a one-line note. The resulting reconciliation had
been immensely satisfying, but had left no time for her to assess her
visit until late afternoon when Celeborn left to call on one of his
numerous relatives.



With the house to herself, she took a cup of chamomile tea and went
back to curl up amongst the covers and cushions of the still-unmade
bed. She reclined, propped up on an elbow so that she could
contemplate recent events while observing the curious phenomenon of
the rain clouds ending abruptly out over the open sea, the calm
waters of which remained sunlit long after dusk covered the wet,
windswept shore.



Her impromptu journey to Forlond had proven even more successful than
she had anticipated. Firstly, she had been able to say farewell to
Elros, whose steadiness and determination so resembled his fore-
mother Melian - a contrast to his brother whose demeanour was
startling reminiscent to that of wayward, unpredictable Lúthien.
Secondly, besides being able to confirm the truth of the rumours
regarding Glorfindel and her nephew, she had, as hoped, come to a
thoroughly satisfactory arrangement with Lord Círdan.



As she had anticipated, he foresaw little difficulty in having her
letters forwarded to Tirion. Kings generally received their mail,
after all, and one of the letters in the small package she had
brought with her was addressed to her father. She had been in some
doubt regarding her second request, which involved sending a gift to
her grandmother in Alqualondë, but the master mariner had been
unexpectedly amenable.



However, as with all favours, there was a price. Speaking quietly to
her as she was leaving Master Edhelûr’s house to catch the ferry
home, Lord Círdan told her that, after some thought and a brief
conversation with Elros’ senior advisor, Silbaron, he had arranged to
have the dog, Laslech, removed to the dock serving the Lhûn ferry.
All that he requested was that she oversee the animal’s return to
Elrond.



For once in her life, Galadriel had been – temporarily - speechless.
Not that she objected in principle; she had been appalled to discover
the animal was going with Elros. In fact, she had seen it as one more
example of life’s many sad injustices and had said as much to Círdan
as they walked together to the pavilion. She recalled that he had
fallen quiet, seemingly distracted by some activity on the water, and
at the time she had thought nothing more of it. It now appeared that
her casual observation had provided a solution to a potential
problem. In the very near future, Círdan would be attempting to guide
Elrond in the use of his unique abilities, but from all accounts
relations between the two of them were anything but amicable. She
could see how a peace offering of sorts might be very much in order.



The sea-filled silence was abruptly broken by the sound of horses
travelling at speed along the road behind the house, almost certainly
heralding Ereinion’s return home. Galadriel stretched and, finishing
her tea, smiled to herself as she pictured Glorfindel’s response upon
discovering the surprise awaiting him in his room. She had searched
for Elrond on her return, but no one seemed to have any idea where he
was. Finally she had written a brief note and instructed Thenin to
have both it and the dog placed in Lord Glorfindel’s rooms. Findel
would sort it out – and Ereinion would be more inclined to believe
him than Elrond, who might well be suspected of having stolen the
creature.





----------





Elrond was known for his unpredictability, but he had an instinctive
understanding for the needs of a young animal and had provided
Laslech with a routine that was all but immutable. Anticipating the
general direction he would follow, Gil-galad took a shortcut that
brought him out through the healing wing, from where Elrond and the
dog were easy to find. They had stopped in front of the new library
and Elrond was sitting on one of the benches watching the sea while
Laslech investigated a newly-dug flowerbed.



The roar of the ocean masked the sound of Gil-galad’s approach, and
he had almost reached them when the dog suddenly lifted her head to
sniff the air before rushing over to greet him, trailing her lead and
barking ecstatically. To Elrond’s hastily offered apology, Gil-galad
made no response beyond a raised eyebrow and an absent-minded pat for
Laslech. Instead, while the Half-elf was attempting to enforce
discipline, the King stood watching pale light shimmering on distant
water.



“They’ve been granted good sailing weather,” he commented when he
eventually had Elrond’s attention. “Clear skies and a following
breeze. The Mighty are making sure of a smooth passage for them.”



Elrond nodded. He was about to explain that he knew this as he had
been in Forlond the previous day, but thought better of it.
Glorfindel, who could be trusted with a confidence, had already
expressed pointed disapproval at the risks involved in travelling the
coast road. Instead he said, “Glori said you were catching up on
work, Sire. Have you finished or are you just taking a break?”



Save for the night when he had put his cousin to bed, he was still
not quite ready to try his luck at calling the King ‘Ereinion’ to his
face.



Gil-galad nodded briefly, still gazing out to sea, ignoring the
moisture-laden wind tugging roughly at his hair and clothes. “Taking
a break I suppose, yes.”



He turned his attention to Laslech, who had calmed down and was now
sitting between them wagging her tail, then fixed the young Half-elf
with a stern look. “Something you feel you want to tell me?” he asked
mildly. When Elrond merely looked confused, he gestured to the dog.
“Laslech. How did she get here? And please don’t tell me she threw
herself over the side of the boat and swam to shore.”



“Why would I say that?” Elrond asked, apparently genuinely puzzled.
“Glori gave her to me, of course.” He paused, his face lighting up
with amusement, “She chewed his boots, and I found a puddle in his
room when I went to fetch her. I cleaned it up, sort of, but – he’s
not happy, is he? It’s his own fault. He should have let her out
first before coming to find me.”



“Glorfindel…”



Yes, that made sense.



Elrond was studying him curiously. “No one told you, did they?”



“No, Elrond, but then again that happens to me quite frequently. So…
Glorfindel decided to return the dog to you, even though I made
Elros’ wishes on the matter clear to him?”



Elrond blinked – not quite as effectively as Erestor did it, he was
sure, but he had been practising The Look before his mirror for the
last few days. “No, of course not. Círdan arranged it and sent her
back on the ferry with Galadriel. I was still…she couldn’t find me,
so she left her in Glori’s room. I don’t think he had much else to do
with it.”



Perhaps not, the little voice that concerned itself with such things
as insecurity and jealousy whispered to Gil-galad. But the warrior
would have been more than willing to involve himself in a venture
that would contribute to Elrond’s happiness. He frowned the voice
into silence. “Let me see if I have this right. Círdan reached an
arrangement with Elros and sent the dog back on the ferry with my
aunt, who left her in Glorfindel’s room because she couldn’t find
you.”



Elrond nodded, suddenly less certain of his facts than he had been
earlier. He had imagined that Círdan’s actions would be accepted as
respectable beyond dispute.



“I assume Glorfindel asked him to do this?” Gil-galad mused, making
it sound more a statement of fact than a question.



Elrond watched his cousin out of the corner of his eye, his innate
caution warning him to think before he spoke. He shook his head. “No
Sire, I shouldn’t think so,” he said carefully. “He told me Galadriel
left him a note – I had the impression that was all he knew about it.
He seemed to think it was quite funny, though… Maybe you should ask
him?”



Gil-galad, looking once more out to sea, nodded slowly. “Yes, yes
I’ll do that. Later.” After a thoughtful pause he turned back to
Elrond, his infinitely charming smile in place once more. “Meanwhile,
you seem to have inherited a dog and I’m glad for you. Come and join
me for breakfast tomorrow and I’ll tell you about your brother’s last
few days here – whatever you haven’t already heard from Glorfindel.
And you can tell me your version of what happened between the two of
you and Eönwë. Elros has a tendency to understate things.”





----------





Glorfindel proved easy to find. He was in the courtyard, passing the
time before dinner by listening to a young minstrel who was playing a
light, delicate tune reminiscent of leaping water, accompanied by
lyrics that spoke of spring time and new love. Gil-galad, who
disliked sugary love songs, pulled his expression straight lest the
musician take the sneer personally. He beckoned the warrior over and
Glorfindel complied immediately, greeting him with a smile that was
polite and correct, with just the tiniest hint of intimacy.



“Not your kind of song, I know,” he said, indicating the minstrel.
“But he has a really good voice. He’ll become more versatile with
time, too. He’s still very young. Not quite Maglor, I know,” he added
with a grin. “But promising. I think his name is Lindir…”



Gil-galad grunted something that might have been agreement, then
jerked his head towards one of the doors opening off the courtyard.
“In there,” he said briefly. “We can’t talk out here.”



The room appeared to be a repository for the lamps, chairs and
cushions that were brought out after dinner to transform the
courtyard into an entertainment and social venue. After lighting a
lamp from the wall sconce, the King pushed the door half-closed and
turned to face Glorfindel, who was watching him curiously.



“The dog,” Gil-galad said tersely.



It took a moment for Glorfindel to understand the reference, but then
he smiled, relieved. He had thought the matter more serious. “Oh, you
saw her, did you? I was going to tell you later. Seems that Círdan
and Galadriel decided she belonged with Elrond, not Elros. When we
got back I found her asleep in my room… probably from boredom after
killing my favourite boots.”



“I heard mention of my aunt and of Círdan, yes, but I cannot help but
wonder if the idea did not originate elsewhere…with you perhaps?”
Gil-galad asked bluntly. “After all, you wanted me to speak to Elros
about her. At the time I thought you accepted his reason for keeping
her a little too easily.”



Glorfindel’s eyebrow twitched. “I had nothing to do with this,” he
interrupted, his tone unusually sharp. “As I understand it, Círdan
formally asked Silbaron if it would be in order to give Laslech to
Elrond as a parting gift between brothers. Galadriel’s note implied
that he worded it so that refusal would seem petty. I doubt anyone
had time to fuss about it either,” he added, remembering the scene of
controlled chaos as the travellers began embarking on their allotted
vessels. “If you think I went against your decision, I can show you
the letter…”



His voice trailed away into insecurity and there was silence in the
room save for the clear voice singing in the courtyard. The wind
caught the door, pushing it open and causing the flame in the wall
bracket to flicker violently. Eventually Gil-galad cleared his throat
and, eyes straight ahead, muttered, “Sorry. I expressed myself badly.
I just thought… It would be very like you to want to look after
Elrond’s interests.”



Glorfindel’s eyebrows shot up, but he kept his voice steady. “Elrond
and I are friends. More than that, he is the great-grandson of my
lord and has my fealty. Of course I wanted to help. As it happens I
wasn’t much use, but fortunately Galadriel and Círdan were. Yes,
someone needs to look out for his interests, Gil, and he has gone out
of his way on my behalf more than once.”



He stopped, deciding this was not an opportune moment to mention his
concern about Elrond's growing relationship with Erestor, especially
as he doubted the Half-elf had confided details of their visit to
Forlond to his cousin. Personally, Glorfindel liked Erestor - in
fact, if he was honest he was far from immune to the black-haired
Elf’s charms - but his instinct was to protect Elrond from any threat
that might present itself . And that included fortune hunters and the
politically ambitious



After another long pause, during which Gil-galad examined his
fingernails and Glorfindel waited, the King said, "Glaur, you and
Elrond…is there something we need to discuss?"



Glorfindel stared at him, not quite sure he had understood the
question. When he was certain that Gil-galad was, in fact, serious,
he burst out laughing, and kept laughing until eventually he had
tears in his eyes and was holding his ribs.



"Glorfindel, stop it."



"That's…that’s probably enough, yes… it's …not that funny…" he
admitted in sobbing gasps.



"Would you stop?" Gil-galad grasped Glorfindel's shoulder and shook
him.



The blonde, face flushed, blue eyes tearing, struggled for control.
"Gil, that is ludicrous…!" he began, before he was once again
overcome.



The King took a deep breath and exhaled audibly, then stood back
shaking his head, a smile tugging at his mouth despite his best
efforts to suppress it. Glorfindel finally pulled himself together,
straightened up and said, still chuckling, "Gil, in all seriousness,
I have enough problems without adding a secret affair with Elrond to
the list."



Gil-galad gave an involuntary snort of mirth. The point was probably
valid. Being Elrond’s love interest would be a full time job. In
honesty, he was glad to have finally broached a subject that had been
bothering him for some while. Glorfindel’s denial was sufficient.
There was no circumstance under which he could imagine the reborn Elf
looking him in the face and lying.



"I did rather hope I was overreacting," he admitted, not quite
hearing the question in his own voice. Glorfindel, however, did, and
was instantly serious.



"You didn’t really believe there was something going on between us,
did you?" he asked, his eyes meeting Gil-galad's light, clear ones.
"We talk, we share our thoughts, we solve problems together, nothing
else. I'm sorry if you thought… Why would you think that, anyway?"



Glorfindel was tall, but he still had to look up at Gil-galad, and
something in the tilt of his head, the honest concern, made him look
very young. No, not young, Gil-galad corrected himself, unsullied
perhaps. Like clear spring water, untouched by any stain. He reached
out, meaning to place his hand on Glorfindel's shoulder but his
fingers moved of their own accord to wind gently instead in the
bright gold hair. He drew a breath.



"I think I spoke from fear of the possibility," he said slowly. "No
matter how much we enjoy being together, no matter how well our
bodies fit, in a lot of ways you are a complete stranger to me. Yet
you hold no mystery for Elrond. Every time you say or do something
that surprises or confuses me, I find myself thinking that he would
have expected it, he would have understood. I suppose…"



He looked at what he was about to say, Ereinion Gil-galad who seldom
said a word without first considering it. And said it anyway, the
words leaving his tongue even quicker than doubt or caution.



"I suppose I’m afraid that you could never trust your heart to me,
that you would want someone like Elrond, someone who understands how
you think and what you want from life… Someone who would be open with
you in his turn. That despite how much I love you, love alone may not
be enough for you."



He had said it - badly, perhaps, but he had said it anyway. Gil-galad
abruptly felt an intense, vulnerable awareness of himself, right down
to the weight of his braided hair and the discomfort of the silver
circlet cutting into the skin above one ear. Other than being taller
and more solidly built than most Elves, and possessing what he
believed to be a passable sense of humour, he had always suspected
there was very little else to recommend him to anyone who was neither
ambitious for power nor blinded by the glamour of a crown. Up until
this moment, however, he had never been called upon to put this
theory to the test.



He waited somewhere between hope and terror for Glorfindel’s puzzled
frown to resolve itself one way or the other, waited in a room, too
small and still, within which each sound was clearly defined: the
rushing wind mingled with the swell of the ocean, the sputtering
torch flame, the music and conversation drifting in from outside.
Then Glorfindel’s face cleared and softened into a smile that Gil-
galad knew well; he had seen it on the night they first made love,
and the time the blonde had finally beaten him at chess and on the
day he had eventually managed to disarm Glorfindel while sparring – a
smile of delight, proud and yet tender.



He reached out to touch Gil-galad’s cheek lightly, almost
wonderingly, with the tips of his fingers and said, “You don't have
to understand me, Gil. I don't even have to understand you – though
sometimes it would help. I think love is usually in spite of, not
because of. What we have here and now is all I need. You are all that
matters, all I will ever want.”



Gil-galad found himself smiling back. He twined the lock of golden
hair more securely around his fingers and tugged gently, not even
sparing a glance for the open door, before leaning forward to place a
quick kiss on warm, responsive lips. Understanding would come in
time, for them both. Right now there was love, and that was the best
possible beginning.





----------





Very much later that same evening, Glorfindel finished putting his
clothing away in the drawer reserved for him, the candlelight bathing
his naked form in pale gold. He removed the final clasp from his hair
and, as he walked towards the bed, shook it out around him in a
shining cloak, combing it through with his fingers. Smiling, he got
into bed and settled against Gil-galad with a contented sigh, his
head on the King’s shoulder. Gil-galad pulled him closer and they
spent a few minutes settling so that their bodies fitted together
comfortably.



Lying on his side, Gil-galad ran his hand lightly down over
Glorfindel's chest, his fingers casually following the line of his
ribs as they moved lower to the well-defined muscles of his abdomen.
He lay stroking smooth flesh, relishing the feeling of the warrior’s
skin which was always warm as well as being surprisingly soft to the
touch. There was nothing sexual in his intent; that would follow
shortly – probably very shortly, he acknowledged to himself with a
grin. For this time though, he was content to lie and simply enjoy
being alone at the end of the day with the person he loved.



The window shook as an exceptionally hard gust of wind rattled rain
and sea spray against it and, instinctively, the couple in the bed
drew closer. Gil-galad slid his arm around Glorfindel's waist,
drawing him closer, and his hand came to rest in the small of his
lover's back. He moved it in lazy circles that took in the contrast
between bone and muscle and the softly inviting curve of buttock.
Glorfindel turned his head to press a kiss against Gil-galad’s
shoulder before resting his hand on the King’s chest and extending a
single finger to toy casually with his nipple.



Gil-galad lay listening to the rain, feeling at peace with the world
and very aware that he was in the one place where he could be himself
without artifice or fear of judgement. No matter what the future
held, whether an eternity of days that would finally see him cross
the sea to the home of his father's people, or the more foreshortened
ending Galadriel had hinted at, he was content. He could ask no more
than what he had now, this strong, warm place that sheltered his soul
as surely as the walls of his palace sheltered his body from the
ravages of the storm without.



Glorfindel flicked the nipple casually in a bid for attention. “What
are you thinking?” he asked, tilting his head to look up enquiringly.
Gil-galad responded by aiming a kiss in the general direction of his
cheek, which found his mouth instead and was transformed into
something considerably more thorough than originally intended.



“Not thinking,” the King told him when the kiss finally ended.
Glorfindel, who had turned to lie on his back, reached up to cup his
cheek, smiling playfully. Eyes the warm blue of a summer sky offered
tenderness and the beginnings of desire. Gil-galad paused before
seeking another kiss, tracing the outline of Glorfindel’s lips with
his thumb. “Not thinking at all,” he repeated with certainty. “Just
savouring the moment. Just loving you.”







* * * * *







Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 25/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: the beginning of the end.

Beta: Enismirdal





Epilogue





Armenelos, Númenor. S.A. 442



Four hundred years had passed since Eärendil’s son had set foot upon
the soil of his new home, and the years had been kind to him, more so
than to any Man of fully mortal birth. His carriage was still erect
and, although his face was deeply lined, his sea-grey eyes were
steady and alert. His shoulder-length hair, although now white with
age, still hung thick and straight – Elven hair, as his queen had
been wont to tease him. Tar-Minyatur they called him now, king of
Elenna the land of the Star, the Gift of the Valar to Men. In his
heart, though, he would always be Elros of Sirion, cousin to the High
King.



He wandered slowly about his sleeping chamber, dousing lamps as he
went, picking up and examining items that were close to his heart
before returning them carefully to their allotted places. There was a
little filigree box containing locks of hair belonging to his queen
and a beloved daughter, both dead long since; a small, exquisitely-
carved quartz dragon, delicately coloured, every scale correct; a
woven lap-rug, a gift from a grand daughter for his two hundredth
birthday; the painting Gil-galad had given him the night before he
sailed, the door to home still open to the morning…



Sighing, he replaced the painting and then slowly removed the ring
that Elrond had given him from his finger - the first time it had
left him since that day Círdan had pressed it into his hand. Almost
on a whim, he placed it in front of the picture. Vardamir, his son,
might not find it, but young Aranel, his several-times great-
granddaughter with her love for the small treasures with which he had
surrounded himself in these last years, certainly would. She loved
the ring’s story almost as much as he had as a child.



He smiled now, remembering how she and her brothers, like the
generations of children before them, had sat at his feet listening in
open-mouthed wonder to the tale of how the Ring of Barahir had come
into their family, and of Beren and Lúthien and their quest for the
Silmaril. There had been other favourite stories, especially the rise
and fall of hidden Gondolin, and of the great hero Glorfindel, who
had bought their forefather’s life with his own - and who Elros had
actually met after his rebirth many years later. And they had all
loved to hear about Gil-galad and his court, and the creatures of the
forests of Middle-earth…



So many memories in one room. So much of the past that still spoke to
him, cried out to him, especially in the long lonely years since
Faengil’s passing. He felt tired beyond weariness and had felt this
way for months now. His work was long since done, and he knew, as he
knew his birth name, that it was time to move on, to allow the
responsibility to pass to the next in his line.



He had originally intended to seek out the small, windowless
mausoleum set into the foot of the Meneltarna with the idea of
joining Faengil there, but the thought of going alone into that cool
darkness was too much for him; his heart quailed. Instead he had
chosen his bedchamber, surrounded by memories, as the place where he
felt best able to accept the Gift of the One, the end to labour, the
time of rest.



Still wearing his simple grey house-robe, and leaving only the small
alabaster lamp beside the bed lit, he went to lie beneath the formal
coverlet, gold silk embroidered with scarlet leaves, that he normally
removed in the evening and replaced with something warmer and more
homely. Not tonight, though. When morning came, he wanted them to
find everything neat and right and proper, an example for those who
would follow.



He folded his hands on his chest and closed his eyes and concentrated
on his breathing. He had no idea how to do what came next - but then
again, this had been the tale of his life. Somehow he had always
managed, through instinct and common sense and, surprisingly often,
by drawing upon the lessons in kingship learned from Gil-galad
hundreds of years ago.



He had done his best for the new kingdom, for his people, for the
future they had begun to build. He had often felt inadequate to the
task, but over time he had developed confidence in his abilities and
his people in their turn had developed confidence in him. It had not
all been work and duty, either. Not long after their arrival he had
wed Faengil, his support and refuge from the beginning, and she had
determinedly carved out a home for her family, a place where he could
put aside the crown and be himself. When the children arrived, things
had finally begun to feel ‘right’. He had missed his previous life,
but as time passed it had begun to seem more and more dreamlike,
another world.



There was no exchange of letters between him and Elrond; his brother
was lost to him forever, a pain long accepted but never quite
forgotten. There was news, however. Three, sometimes four times a
year, letters came to him from Tirion, forwarded from somewhere
within the household of the High King, delivered there, he guessed,
by Elves returning home from the Land of Exile. These unsigned
missives contained stories about his brother and cousins, court
gossip, political developments in Lindon, events in the lives of
people he had once known. They opened a window onto a world forever
closed to him and, certain of their origin, he regularly blessed
Galadriel for her thoughtfulness.



His body was beginning to relax, his breath flowing in and out,
slowing perceptibly. He could hear the rushing of blood, the beating
of his heart. There seemed to be nothing else in the world, only him,
only these sounds. He had planned to lie and think back over his
long, full life, but even thought seemed tiring and he realised the
time for such things was past. He felt a warm darkness drawing
closer, not frightening as he had imagined it would be, but
welcoming. A time to rest.



“At the last you will lie down and sleep and, sleeping, your faer
will pass to the place where the inner selves of the Second born go.
No pain, just a sense of rightness.”



Who had said that? Ah yes, of course, Galadriel on his last day at
the palace. Galadriel who had made him a promise at that time.



“When that time comes at the last, remember today and think of
Galadriel,” he whispered, remembering as though it had been that
morning. “I will be waiting in the shadowplace between worlds...”



And she was there; power, strength and compassion, a light within the
approaching dark, surrounding him with love and approval. They
exchanged no words: none were required. As time slowed around him, as
he felt the ties that bound him to the physical loosening, she
remained; calm, steady, her presence a promise that there was nothing
to fear, nothing to question.



And then finally he was aware of a change, a sensation of freedom and
movement as he was drawn at last towards the place he had chosen when
he picked eternity for his brother and the unknown for himself. The
last thing he knew as his heart faltered and his breathing stilled,
was a sensation akin to a kiss between minds.



And then the next stage of his soul’s journey began.





----------





Lake Nenuial, Eriador, S.A. 442



Galadriel straightened up, wincing at the twinges of pain in the
small of her back. Her vigil, begun the previous evening, had seemed
to last no more than a few short hours, yet she had returned to dawn
light and the sounds of birdsong and morning voices. She looked down
at the hollow in the rock which, when filled with clear lake water,
was proving a useful tool for expanding and directing her gift of
Sight. The Emyn Uial were reflected back at her, snow-capped the year
round; the silent bedchamber half a world away was no more.



It was not until she raised a cold hand to tidy back her hair that
she discovered her cheeks were wet and realised she was crying. She
sat for a few minutes, her face in her hands, and allowed herself the
rare luxury of tears. She had kept the promise made four hundred
years ago. She had watched with Elros at the end, and the soul whose
passing she had witnessed had more than earned this farewell
offering. Finally, the time for crying past, she wiped her face with
the hem of her gown and prepared to return to the everyday world. As
she was about to rise, the water rippled of its own accord and she
waited, disciplining herself to stillness, as a new vision slowly
appeared.



In place of the bedchamber in Númenor, she now saw a man, his hair
and beard frosted with age, lying upon a stone bier. His hands were
clasped across his chest, his eyes were closed. Beside him stood a
woman, Elven fair, a golden circlet on her dark hair. For a moment
Galadriel thought she was looking back through time at Lúthien, but
the resemblance, though strong, was not absolute. And Lúthien, child
of the starlight that she had been, would never have worn gold. The
woman was weeping, pleading with the man who appeared to be in the
act of giving back the Gift of Life, even as Elros had…



A crash and a shriek followed by laughter drew her back with a start
to the world around her, and when she had gathered herself again the
image had vanished. She waited for a few minutes to be certain there
was no more, then rose carefully, her legs unsteady after so many
hours of kneeling on the cold ground. Slowly and with quite un-Elven
stiffness she made her way down from her glade, the one place where
she was never disturbed.



The path she followed brought her out near the cluster of houses on
the shore of Lake Nenuial where she and Celeborn with their unlikely
community now dwelt. They were an eclectic crowd - followers of her
late brothers, refugees from Doriath, a few Nandor and a number of
Silvan Elves. There was even a small settlement of Men further along
the shore, who looked to the strange though unarguably royal couple
for leadership. What they all had in common was a spirit of adventure
and a yearning for some place where they could feel they belonged.



The noise that had startled her seemed to have been caused by a
runaway calf, one of a small herd of cattle kept primarily for milk.
Its capture was being overseen by Celebrían, the sweet, dutiful,
though lamentably ungifted girl child who should have been a son and
upon whom Celeborn doted. The dog at her heels barked a greeting –
there was always a dog, ever since the day several hundred years ago
when Elrond had given a puppy from his pet’s first litter to his
toddler cousin as a begetting day gift.



Alerted by the barking, Celebrían turned, offering the habitually
uncertain, ever-hopeful smile she kept solely for her intimidating
mother. She spoke, but the veil between time and space was still
fragile after the all-night vigil and, without warning, the Sight
returned and Galadriel, caught up in a wave of inner visions, felt as
thought the world had fallen away beneath her feet.



Unbidden, the future crept up beside her to whisper softly in her
ear, sending a shiver of ice down her spine. For a moment she saw her
daughter sailing out from Mithlond under leaden skies, small, sad and
broken, alone at the railing, followed by a whirling kaleidoscope of
blood and horror and fire and war. She saw once again the woman of
Lúthien’s line and the king of Men and heard the sound of her own
voice whispering an apparently meaningless sentence over and over
again.



And then it was gone, leaving her breathless and shaking.



Taking a deep breath, Galadriel forced herself to stop staring at
Ce