Chapter Text
It took a rather long time for Gil-galad to realise that Elrond was still angry with him.
After all, a month had passed since his herald decided to jump off the waterfall—and by the Valar, did he still get headaches recalling the foolhardy act of one of his usually more sensible subordinates—and Elrond seemed content enough. Gil-galad had reinstated him to his herald post just a week after the incident with the rings. There’d been murmurs of discontent and wariness from the others in the council, some citing favouritism, but Gil-galad had paid it no heed. With Sauron on the rise, a mountain of ministerial tasks needed completing and meetings that needed organising, and there was no one better suited than Elrond to manage such matters.
Elrond had seemed pleased to return to his duties, murmuring his apologies for having gone against his king’s orders and exalting his gratitude to return to court. He had tirelessly arranged appointments with foreign dignitaries and written appropriate speeches to deliver to their increasingly anxious people. He had organised a party to warn Eregion of Sauron’s treachery and crafted missives to neighbouring lands. He had even ensured that Gil-galad was getting enough rest and commanded the kitchens to prepare only the high king’s favourite meal every night.
Certainly, there’d been times when a sad, faraway look glazed Elrond’s face. Or times when the ready smile on the herald’s face hadn’t quite reached his eyes. But Gil-galad blamed that on the dwarves. Lindon had received a rather lengthy memorandum citing that Elrond Perendhel was now banished from all dwarven lands. Gil-galad had tried questioning what actions had led to such a declaration from King Durin III, but Elrond had merely evaded the question with a half-shrug.
All in all, however, Gil-galad had concluded that the nasty business of trying to destroy the rings was behind them. Unity was paramount, especially with a rising evil, and it was time for a fresh start with his fierce (if somewhat wayward) commander on his right hand, and his trusty (if rather wilful) herald on his left.
There yet endured a unified team in Middle Earth for Sauron to fear.
Or so Gil-galad thought. Until Galadriel let it slip during their war meeting that Elrond was still not speaking to her.
“Still?” Gil-galad had asked with furrowed eyebrows.
“Our exchanges thus far,” Galadriel said slowly, “have consisted of him insulting me and my gullibility in a multitude of ways that would sound polite to a passing stranger.”
Gil-galad tilted his head. “Well, it is indeed true that you forged a bond of camaraderie and, furthermore, aided the very Dark Lord whom we all seek to unmake.”
Galadriel made a gesture that was as close as rolling her eyes without seeming rude. “Elrond’s ire with you burns no less hot than his ire with me, my lord. He has still not forgiven us for bearing the rings.”
Gil-galad frowned. “Elrond has been the picture of reasonability with myself.”
Galadriel shot him a disbelieving look. “High king, perhaps you should listen to his words more closely.”
That very afternoon in his meeting room, Gil-galad found himself studying his herald. He unearthed none of the ire Galadriel had described. Elrond was perfectly courteous when Gil-galad dictated the tasks he needed to complete, and his smile didn’t flicker even when Gil-galad complained about the visit by Dorwinion royalty the week after.
“Why should we be hosting the Dorwinion queen and prince,” Gil-galad muttered, “when we are preoccupied with not only battle plans against Sauron, but this Adar too.”
“Allying ourselves with the Dorwinions would greatly benefit our war planning, high king.” Elrond cocked his head. “For the Dorwinion men are not only renowned for their wine, but also for their fine steeds—horses that have been bred under endless sunlight and trained under plentiful masters. Their horses are twice as strong and smart as ours, my lord. Should their visit go as planned, we will have an advantage in our cavalry.”
Gil-galad pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to see how this visit was going to fit in with the packed schedule his herald had already planned for the next week. “I certainly hope that their horses will be worth a day and night of cloying niceties.”
Elrond bowed his head. “If you wish for me to postpone their visit, sire, I can do so. For you have always shown great discernment, my King, And I am certain that any decision made under your guidance will, as ever, be both wise and just.”
Gil-galad paused. He sat back in his chair and appraised his herald with a new suspicion. “Well, if you’ve planned for us to receive this royal visit, I’m sure it is important and will benefit our elven forces.”
Elrond straightened, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is my duty to serve, my lord, and I shall follow whatever course you deem best for Lindon.”
An uneasy feeling churned Gil-galad’s stomach. “I am not against the Dorwinions coming here, Elrond. It is a good strategy on your part.”
Elrond gave a slight nod and lowered his gaze. “As you say, my King. I trust that in all things, you act with the wisdom of ages.”
Panic seized Gil-galad. This was no different from how Elrond had been acting for the past many days, but Gil-galad was beginning to realise the truth in Galadriel’s words now. For this Elrond, with his rigid posture and fanciful words of submission and flattery, was a far cry from the headstrong elf Gil-galad usually relied on.
“Elrond,” Gil-galad said, surprised at the note of desperation entering his voice, “you do realise that those rings were our sole choice. Or would you rather have us sail to Valinor while Sauron amasses his forces to destroy Middle-earth?”
“My personal thoughts on the matter are inconsequential, high king.” Elrond met Gil-galad’s gaze, his face eerily composed and his tone deferential and respectful. “After all, that is a decision far above my privilege.”
Gil-galad’s stomach sank, and the only thought that circled his head as Elrond bowed and left, was a mimic of what Prince Durin had yelped when he’d fallen off the tall dinner chair.
‘Oh, shit.’
The Dorwinions arrived on their boats to great splendour. Gil-galad had led his people to welcome the new arrivals by the harbours and was impressed by the tall, and well-muscled people who emerged from the boats. Galadriel stood to his right, and Elrond to his left.
“They appear pleasant,” Galadriel remarked as laughter rang through the air.
“They do rather,” Gil-galad acknowledged. He watched two figures climb down the stairs of the grandest boat. A tall man with a silver crown wore a friendly grin revealing white teeth against tanned skin. He was handsome, bearing an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and bright almond eyes. The Dorwinion prince—Prince Aleron. On his right was an older lady with a golden crown shaped like vine leaves. Queen Liora. She was as beautiful as her son, with her long lustrous locks of dark hair that tumbled to her waist and her plump red lips.
“I daresay this visit shall pass with much merriment, Elrond,” Gil-galad said. “For these people seem a rather cheerful lot, do you not think?”
Elrond responded stiffly. “Far be it for me, high king, to pass judgment on others.”
Gil-galad sighed as Galadriel stifled a long-suffering groan.
“I am merely seeking your opinion, Elrond,” Gil-galad said as the royal dignitaries came closer. “As to the nature of our new friends.”
“It is far above my privilege, your highness, to form opinions without your careful counsel first.”
Gil-galad wondered whether the new guests would think less of him were he to strangle his herald during their first meeting.
“Will you persist in these trifling grievances eternally?” Galadriel leaned across Gil-galad to hiss at Elrond. “Or will you set your grudge aside and finally embrace the wisdom of maturity?
“I suppose I do lack maturity,” Elrond intoned, refusing to look at Galadriel. “Perhaps it was my immaturity that led to my failure at Khazad-Dum, as you graciously reminded me before.”
“You petty-minded—”
“Silence,” Gil-galad ordered under his breath as Queen Liora and Prince Aleron approached them. He smiled and waved his arms out. “Welcome, friends, to Lindon. It is our honour to host you and your company for the night.”
Prince Aleron placed a hand over his heart.
“High King Gil-galad,” he began, his voice smooth and warm, “we are honoured to stand here where the skies shine with a radiance that rivals even the sun rays over the vineyards of Dorwinion.” A smile curved his lips as his eyes swept over the surrounding elves. “Your people are as graceful as the slender trees of my homeland, their beauty akin to blossoms that open at the break of dawn, each petal kissed by the dew.”
A murmur of approval and delight swept through the surrounding elves, with some of the younger ones—Gil-galad noticed with a suppressed sigh—fiddling with the ends of their hair or batting their eyes at the prince.
“Though I must profess,” Aleron stepped closer, his eyes wide, half with wonder and half with curiosity, “that the beauty at your side, High King, is one that even the fairest of lands cannot rival.”
The disappointed sigh that echoed from the milling younger elves brushed Gil-galad’s ears. He could not blame the young ones, for, indeed, it was rare that male humans did not get allured by Galadriel’s beauty. Gil-galad opened his mouth to emphasise that Galadriel was the commander of his armies when he realised the prince was looking at the elf standing to his left, rather than his right.
Elrond smiled cordially. “You are too kind, Prince Aleron. I am Elrond, the herald of the high king. I look forward to discussing matters of the state with you and your council in the coming days.”
“It shall be difficult to focus on discussions while in the company of such captivating beauty.” Aleron’s voracious gaze at Elrond rankled Gil-galad. “However, I shall persevere.”
Galadriel’s snort of disdain was quiet, and the reddened tips of Elrond’s ears were subtle. Gil-galad refrained from a scowl.
The Dorwinion queen placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “I must confess a difference of opinion to my son’s. For it is said that a realm takes its grace from the spirit of its ruler, and truly, I see that to be true.”
She stepped closer, her eyes wandering over Gil-galad’s face with a daring boldness. “Your features, my lord, are as if crafted by the very Valar themselves. The way the light catches your glistening hair. Your sharp nose. The elegant curve of your lips. Why, if ever a king’s visage could launch a thousand ships, surely it is yours, Gil-galad.”
Heat flushed Gil-galad’s cheeks as a stunned silence descended on the elves. He stammered, unable to fully comprehend the barrage of compliments. His looks were hardly anything to write poems about. Passable, Gil-galad had always thought. Regal enough for a high king. But features crafted by the Valar themselves? Enough to launch a thousand ships? Surely that was going too far.
Worse, the identical smirks that now decorated Elrond and Galadriel’s faces hinted at an eternity of torment and teasing.
Gil-galad cleared his throat. He had to take control of the situation. “Queen Liora, I am… grateful for your kind words, though I’m sure your husband’s beauty far outweighs mine—”
Elrond whispered, so faintly that the Dorwinions would mistake it for the nearby waves, “He’s dead.”
“Far outweighed mine,” Gil-galad continued.
Queen Liora giggled, placing a hand to her lips. “He was old and stout, and I am fortunate to have borne a son that took after me.” She peered up at Gil-galad from half-lidded eyes. “Truly, my deceased husband had none of your shoulders—so very broad and firm—and he had none of your clearly strong arms—so very capable in wielding a spear in battle, I hear.” She winked at him. “And of holding a lover under the covers of the night?”
Elrond stifled an abrupt laugh, while Galadriel turned away, her shoulders shaking. Gil-galad shot them both a quick, bewildered glance before focusing again on Liora.
“Your Majesty,” Gil-galad began gamely, “I appreciate your admiration, truly. However, I believe we should not allow ourselves to be—”
“Distracted?” Liara swished her elaborate skirts, allowing it to reveal a flash of her ankles. “Ah, but perhaps distraction is exactly what is needed. I have found that in Dorwinion, moments of appreciating beauty often lead to the most productive outcomes.” She let her words hang in the air, her gaze still fixed on him, the playful intent behind her words unmistakable.
Gil-galad stared at her, rendered utterly speechless. Despite the cool ocean breeze, his whole face flamed with a fierce heat. His eyes flickered—almost by instinct—to Elrond, who was biting his lip to stop his laughter. Something of Gil-galad’s desperation must have shown for Elrond took pity on him and stepped close to the queen.
“My lady,” Elrond flourished his arm at the stone path leading up to Lindon’s halls, “I have handpicked the best maiden elves to care for you during our stay. Please, follow them to your room. We shall convene at the meeting room once you are rested.”
Gil-galad’s exhaled a slow breath as Liara finally looked away from him to beckon her courtiers.
“The comfort of a bed does appeal greatly to me,” Liara said. “Lead the way, and we shall follow.”
The maiden elves escorted her up the stone steps. The other Dorwinions tailed her—except Gil-galad noted with gritted teeth—for Aleron, who had hung back to swing an arm around Elrond’s shoulders.
“And pray tell me, Master Elrond,” Aleron leaned close to Elrond, his voice dropping into a low purr, “would you do me the honour of showing me to my quarters?”
“No!” The word ripped out from Gil-galad louder than he’d intended, causing some elves to turn their heads curiously. He swallowed and continued more courteously, “I mean, regrettably, I have need for Elrond. The other elves will direct you to your room, Prince Aleron.”
Elrond’s brow rose. He glanced between Gil-galad and Aleron, before a slow, devious smile spread across his face.
“I can certainly show you your room, Prince Aleron.” Elrond patted the prince’s hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps you could regale me of your journey on the way.”
Gil-galad’s left eye twitched as Aleron chuckled and murmured an assent far too closely into Elrond’s ear.
“Elrond,” Gil-galad interrupted, taking care in keeping his tone level, “we do still have the matter about the…the reply to the dwarves’ memorandum.”
“High king, even your wisdom of the ages is not immune to the small lapses that come with advancing years,” Elrond replied. “We crafted a reply to the dwarves but a few days ago.”
Gil-galad’s mind stuttered. Had Elrond just called him old? And senile? Before he could retort, Elrond and Aleron walked off, climbing the stone steps and already in deep conversation. Gil-galad could only watch them from behind; his fist clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palm.
“It seems you’re right, high king,” Galadriel spoke amusedly from beside him. “This visit shall pass with much merriment.”
Gil-galad spared her a glare before retraining his gaze on his herald. Aleron had manoeuvred his hand, with a well-practiced smoothness, to trail down to the small of Elrond’s lower back. It threatened to slip even lower, and Gil-galad found his own hand yearning for the hilt of his sword.
“Elrond can take care of himself,” Galadriel said. “And if he enjoys this prince’s company, then perhaps it shall stop him from glowering at me quite so often.”
“He is simply entertaining the prince’s advances to irritate me,” Gil-galad grounded out.
“You have larger problems at hand, sire.” Galadriel seemed on the verge of laughing. “The queen is waving to you.”
Gil-galad’s head lurched up to see that, indeed, Queen Liara was waving from the higher steps, her skirts raised almost to her knees. He willed the sands beneath him to swallow him whole, but when nothing happened, he stiffly raised an arm to wave back.
Those bloody horses better be worth it.