TWISTED PATHS OF FATE
by Soledad
Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
Rating: PG-13, for this one chapter.
Author’s notes:
Yes, this is the end of this particular story. It has become unexpectedly serious for the final chapter – usually I intended to write something more light-hearted than I usually do. But Gildor is not easy to contain when he wants something.
The events described here would be continued – in a way – later in “Sins of the Father,” which is about Celebrimbor, and the as-yet unwritten Gildor story, “Born To Rule, Born Too Late.” Forgive me, Finch, I know you hate it when I promise things in stories I haven’t written yet, but I had to stop somewhere, ere this tale became one of those usual multi-chaptered monsters I am so fond of writing.<g>
Dedication: This one is for Vorondis, who wanted to know what spoiled the seemingly easy relationship between Elrond and Gildor forever. Also for Finch, who wanted to know what it would take for Gildor to grow up.
CHAPER 5: CONFESSIONS
The Sea Festival continued without a break on the next day. Since Elves could go without true sleep for a considerable length of time – and the minstrels provided them with enough stuff for their waking dreams – there was no need for that. Almost invisibly, empty plates were carried away and replaced by heaped ones in the Feasting Hall, new barrels of wine were opened, and the talking and jesting and singing and dancing went on and on, both in the water and on the shore.
Elrond felt drained. After having spent the major part of the day in the Lord Celeborn’s company, he finally slipped away when the Tree Lord had found someone else to talk to, and returned to his chambers, in order to put on something more comfortable and have a moment of peace. He loved the life in the Havens, but this time, the festival crowd was simply too much to bear. He needed to be alone.
Changing into the simple grey grab of Círdan’s people, he escaped through a back door into the garden and carefully descended the same narrow, hidden path Glorfindel and Galdor had been following in the morrow while looking for Voronwë. That little bay was nearly unknown by any one else but those who dwelt in the Sea Palace, so he could hope to be left alone for a while.
He sat down on the edge of the open terrace, almost on the same spot Voronwë had been sitting when his friends had found him, and looked out, far above the white crest of the waves. He thought of his father who had loved the Sea as much as the Sea-Elves did, if not even more. So much that he was never at home. Not even when his home had been attacked and burnt down by the sons of Fëanor, his wife sought escape in leaping from a steep rock and his sons were taken by his sworn enemies.
Of course, Eärendil had saved Middle-earth, at the end, finally bringing much-needed help against the Dark Lord. But that changed not the fact that his wife had no husband, most of the time, and his sons had no father. Not that they had that much of a mother, either. Elrond knew that Elwing had been right not to give the Silmaril the sons of Fëanor – the events of the War of the Wrath had proven it – but it changed not the butter truth that she had cared more for that cursed jewel than she had ever cared for her own sons.
Mayhap that
was why Elros had turned to Maglor so completely, Elrond
mused, watching the ship of his father sailing up the sky, with
the only remaining Silmaril shining brightly upon it(1).
Whatever Maglor might have don in order to fulfill that horrible
Oath of his, he, at least, genuinely cared for them. Elrond had
been shocked how fully his brother identified himself with Maglor
and the House of Fëanor, but he could understand it to a certain
extent. Who else had ever truly cared for them before? Or later,
for that matter?
Sure, there
always was Glorfindel. Had been since the end of the War. But
even though during the years that had gone by since then a
genuine fondness grew between them, Glorfindel had never been
part of his childhood. And though the ancient Elf treated him
like a son, Elrond knew that Glorfindel only remained on
Middle-earth to fulfill that old oath, given to Idril Celebrindal
in another life. Only his given word was keeping him here, for
his heart was in the Blessed Realm still, keeping the hope that
one day he, too, might return.
“Are you still
angry with me?” a teasing voice jerked him out of his thoughts.
He needed not to look back; even if he had not recognized that
voice by its slight, steely hardness, there was only one person
in the whole Sea Palace who had a reason to ask that question.
“Of course I
am,” he answered, sharper than intended. “You embarrassed me
before the Lord and the Lady of Evendim at our first meeting –
not to mention before the High King – and for what? A silly
jest?”
“Who says I was
jesting?” Gildor replied in that infuriating, light-hearted
tone that made it impossible to decide whether he was serious or
not, and sat down on the paved floor of the terrace, just behind
him. Elrond rolled his eyes.
“You want to
make me believe that you have fallen in undying love with me? All
of a sudden?”
“Certainly
not,” Gildor laughed quietly and rubbed his face against the
dark braids, half-loose once again. “I am too young to fall in
undying love yet(2). But,” he added, beginning to
unbraid Elrond’s hair and combing it with his fingers, “I
admit that I am… intoxicated. You are truly beautiful.”
“So are you,”
said Elrond, slightly embarrassed, though he meant it. Even for
an Elf, Gildor was exceptionally radiant. Surely, not the one
from Elrond’s secret dreams, but still…
“I am fair,”
Gildor corrected without false modesty, “as all Elves are.
Mayhap a little more, due to all that Vanyarin blood in my veins.
But I am not the one who walks the Earth in the likeness of
Lúthien, even if in male form.”
“You would
prefer me as a female?” Elrond laughed. It sounded so –
unlikely, Gildor speaking such words. Flattery was never one of
the Prince’s personal flaws.
“I would rather
you were a woman, indeed,” Gildor replied half-seriously,
wrapping his arms around Elrond from behind. “Then I could
marry you and have you all for myself, forever.”
“I thought we
agreed that you are not in undying love with me,” Elrond
reminded him teasingly, though it was hard to keep the light tone
with Gildor nibbling most distractingly on his earlobe. And, of
course, he had to do that on the right ear!
“Mhm,” the
golden Prince agreed, “but I could.”
“You could
what?” Elrond turned his head away to avoid the assault on his
sensitive ear, with the questionable result that Gildor now
started nuzzling his neck.
“Fall in love
with you,” Inglor’s son replied, as if it had been the most
evident thing on Earth. “’Tis a shame you were born male.”
“That seemed
not to bother you last night,” Elrond shot back, getting a
little annoyed by the whole topic. He knew Gildor had been fed a
lot more of Noldorin prejudices, despite the fact that his whole
family lived in the Havens where Sindarin customs were followed,
but this was the first time he actually heard the Prince voice
those prejudices.
“True,”
Gildor admitted, “but a merry tryst during a festival is not
being soul-bound. Not even by Sindarin measures.”
“And, of
course, you could never bond with me,” Elrond added
dryly.
“Could you?”
Gildor asked, somewhat bewildered. Elrond shook his head.
“Nay, I feel
not like bonding myself at all. Not yet. I am just curious. After
all, male-to-male bonds are not unheard of among the Sindar…
even if thy are quite rare.”
“Yea, but we
are not Sindar,” Gildor pointed out with a shrug. “We
only dwell among them. Do you truly believe my parents –
especially my mother – would allow me to bond with an other
male?”
“They have been
lenient enough to let you follow Sindarin customs so far,”
Elrond reminded him.
“They have,”
Gildor agreed, “for they knew well that it was only for the
time being. But once it comes to the choice of my life-mate, they
will expect me to follow the laws and customs they have been
raised by in Valinor(3).”
“And you will
obey, of course,” Elrond said with a bitterness that surprised
him. Why would it mean aught to him that Gildor followed the
strict laws of his people – their people, even if he was of
mixed bred himself – in every way that truly counted? They were
but casual lovers – and not even close friends beyond that.
Still, it bothered him that someone this young could keep the
lifeless letter of law in such high esteem.
“Of course I
will,” Gildor answered. “Just as you will do your duty to your
family and your bloodline. We are not some stray
Wood-Elves that can do as they please. I am a royal Prince of
Finrod’s House, the next one in line for High Kingship after
Gil-galad. I have the obligation to marry and give heirs of my
own to our House.”
“And what am
I?” Elrond asked quietly. “Am I no-where in that line?”
“Nay,” Gildor
answered with brutal honesty. “You might be the son of the
evening star, but you descended from a female line. You know our
law: you would come into consideration for kingship only if I
should die before you. Mayhap not even then.”
“Because of the
mortal blood in my veins?” Elrond asked. “’Twas not a
hindrance for Dior to become Thingol’s Heir. And Turgon
accepted Tuor as the chosen husband of his only daughter.”
“Yea, but
Doriath was a woodland realm,” Gildor waved dismissively,
“and as for Turgon: he never named the son of Idril – your
father – as his Heir. He chose his nephew, even though that
decision caused the fall of the Hidden City.”
“So, ’tis
about Noldorin pride and keeping the bloodline pure?” Elrond
shot back with biting irony. Gildor sighed.
“You know how
important kinship and tradition for our people are,” he said
with a shrug. “Mayhap even more than written law. They would
never accept you as the High King of the Noldor,
regardless of the fact that you descend from Melian the Maia.”
Elrond turned and
locked eyes with him. “Would you accept my claim?”
“Nay,” Gildor
replied without hesitation, “I would not. I like you and
I respect you, but ’tis not something I would decide on the
basis of my personal likings. ’Tis about hereditary laws, and
according to those your claim would not be justified.”
“But yours
would, would it not?,” asked Elrond bitterly. It hurt to hear
this words from someone he considered a friend, even if only a
casual one, more than he had expected. Gildor nodded.
“Yea, it would.
’Tis not something you or I can change. Be honest with me,
Elrond: do you truly wish to claim High Kingship?”
“I do not,”
Elrond admitted. Still, it hurt being rejected so utterly. “My
gifts and ambitions lay otherwise. But I do believe that you
would very much like to make that claim, am I right?”
“Of course you
are,” said Gildor with a strangely grim smile. “You know me
well enough. And if Gil-galad cannot take the responsibility to
get married and have some heirs, I might even follow him on the
throne.”
“So you believe
leadership is what you have been born for?” Elrond countered,
with an equally hard edge in his voice. Gildor nodded with the
easy confidence of the highborn.
“Born and bred
and taught for leadership,” he replied calmly. “Just as you
have been raised to be a lore-master and a healer. We are the two
sides of the same coin – but the opposite sides… never the
same one.”
Elrond shook his
head in disbelief. “And I thought I would know you! Indeed, I
can hardly recognize you any more. You are more like the Lady
Artanis than you are like your own parents.”
“We are kin,”
Gildor shrugged, “and though she is not the most beloved member
of my family, not for me, we do have similar ambitions. More so
than my father and I have.”
“And so you
hope she would support your claim?” Elrond asked dryly.
“I not only hope
it – I know she would,” Gildor replied with a wry
grin. “She might not respect my parents for their lack of
ambitions, and she certainly likes not me very much, but
she knows all too well that I am her only chance to come closer
to real power.”
“Would you
truly give her that chance, just to secure her support for
yourself?” Elrond asked in disgust. “Are you so hungry for
power that you are already plotting your own little scheme
against your rightful King?”
“I need not to
plot,” Gildor answered, a cold glint in his eyes. “As for
now, I am the heir apparent to Gil-galad’s Kingship.”
“Til he takes a
wife and has heirs of his own,” Elrond countered, feeling his
anger rise again. To his great surprise Gildor suddenly burst out
in a merry laugh and shook his head in some hidden delight.
“Valar, but you
are blind… oh, but it matters not. You will see it one day –
soon enough, I deem. But you have no reason to worry for the High
King. I know where my place is, and I know the law. I would never
assault Gil-galad’s position. There will be no need for
that.”
“You speak in
riddles,” Elrond complained, more in surprise than in anger.
This new Gildor, whom he saw for the first time – and he could
not decide if he liked his so-far hidden side or not, though he
tended to the latter – confused him to no end.
Gildor smiled
that easy, well-know smile again – then he unexpectedly leaned
over and kissed Elrond. “And you are incredibly clueless for
someone who is supposed to be wise. Calm down. I am not your
enemy.”
“You might be
one day,” Elrond warned him, “should you forget your
obligation to the King in favour to your own ambitions.”
“If you believe
I could do so, then you truly know me not,” Gildor answered a
little sadly, “but let us not fight about what might
come, pray you. Whatever tomorrow might bring, we still have
today. Let us not waste it. Would you come with me?”
“What for?”
Elrond asked pointedly. “Do you hope to tame me through the
pleasures of your bed, so that I might support you?”
“Tame
you?” Gildor laughed so hard that tears rolled down his face.
“Nay, Elrond, no one would ever be able to tame you. You
have both the powers of Lúthien and the wildness of mortal Men
under all the Elven smoothness of yours. That is why I still
desire you,” he added, his voice low and silky now. “Let us
make good use of the rest of the festival; we might not have an
other chance to do so.”
“For you might
turn against me?” Elrond replied with a mirthless smile.
“Nay,” Gildor
said, suddenly very serious. “For you might turn against
me, soon.”
“Should you
break your oath to the King, I might,” Elrond said. Gildor
sighed.
“Oh, but I fear
I would not need to do so, even. You have sided with the King
from the first hour on, and even though I expect not Gil-galad
and myself to become rivals for the throne, since he already has
it, he will separate us, sooner or later. I honestly wish we
could remain friends, even allies, but…”
“There is
little hope for that if you ally yourself with the Lady
Artanis,” Elrond finished for him. Gildor shook his head sadly
and embraced him tightly, kissing his neck.
“Let us forget
tomorrow, Elrond, I beg you! I know I cannot keep you, for many
reasons, first of all being the fact that no-one can without
bonding with you for ever, but give me the at least rest of this
festival. I need you more than I need air to breathe.”
“But we both
know you love me not,” Elrond replied in slight bewilderment,
for Gildor’s unexpected plea seemed to come out of no-where for
him. “You said so yourself, not so long ago.”
“Nay, I do
not,” Gildor said honestly, but his eyes were burning.
“’Tis not about love, ’tis about passion, can you not feel
it? We might never want each other the way we do now – at least
the way I want you – but that is the future and this is now.
Lie with me tonight, my very own evening star!”
“I am not
yours!” Elrond protested, though the passion began to cloud his
mind as well.
“Not
tomorrow,” Gildor agreed, entwining his fingers with that
wonderfully silky, raven-black hair, “and mayhap never again.
But you can be mine tonight. Would you?”
Elrond hesitated
for a moment. Their playful tryst had turned into something
deadly serious all of a sudden – as if they had reached an
invisible crossroad of utmost importance, from which one they
would walk separate ways. He felt with a sorrowful certainty that
they never would find back to their easy friendship once this
night will be over.
But, at least,
they still could have this one more night.
“I would,” he
answered, cupping Gildor’s face and kissing him on the lips.
Hard. “I shall be yours tonight – and never again.”
“Tonight is all
I ask,” Gildor answered quietly. “Come, let us go in that
hidden bower of the backyard garden. I would have you under the
stars.”
And here endeth
this tale.
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Yes, yes, I know that he could not actually see the ship, only the light of the Silmaril, okay? I just could not resist being nauseatingly poetic this one time.
(2) And before anyone gets agitated: no, I’d never buy from the Great Master the highly unrealistic idea that Elves mature at the age of 50 and get married on the spot, just to cease having physical contact some two centuries later.
(3) Which are not entirely identical with the similarly-named document in “Morgoth’s Ring. But I believe that the Noldor in Valinor followed a great lot of them. Maybe the Vanyar, too. Even more so. Inglor being somewhat lenient towards his children might come from the fact that he had to grow up without a father. In my interpretation Finrod and Amarië had secretly exchanged marriage vows before the latter left for Middle-earth, and Inglor was born a year after that.