Chapter Text
Sometimes I feel like I'm glad to be free,
Sometimes I still want your arms around me
Sometimes I'm glad to have left you behind,
The crazy English summer has put you back on my mind.
Sometimes I feel like I am fine on my own
Fifty thousand miles from home.
Sometimes I'm weak and the past is my guide,
Summer returns and puts you back on my mind
- Faithless, Crazy English Summer
~2nd Age, c. 1800, the beginning of Lairë~
Seated on the wooden bench in front of the large window looking out over Imladris, Elrond Peredhel was waiting. His back was straight, his carefully braided hair hung in perfect symmetrical falls over his shoulders and his blue-and-grey robe was neatly arranged about him.
The sun had risen almost to her highest point, drying the dampened soil and heating up the air to pleasant temperatures. Imladris was buzzing with activity as a peaceful beehive might, preparing for the summer solstice that was upon them.
Amidst all these affairs Lord Elrond had been sitting here unmoving since daybreak, his eyes fixed on a distant point - or perhaps, a distant time - apparently deep in thought. Surrounding him was an aura of stillness that caused passing inhabitants to lower their voices and cast down their eyes, in fear of disrupting the unusually quiet and solemn air that filled the room. No one asked him what he was waiting for. The elves of Imladris knew better than to question their Lord's behaviour; strange as it may seem to them sometimes, they were aware he saw and knew more than they did. So the morning had left him undisturbed by interruptions of any kind, and each and every elf that passed by took one glance, and went on his way.
In reality his mind was blank and quiet, for he knew very well what was coming, and who.
So when the clatter of horses on the courtyard was heard and the whole household went into turmoil, elven voices rang through the house and reached the window, he rose, smoothened his robes, folded his hands and turned to face the door.
A dark-haired elf appeared, looking flushed and a bit dishevelled. He was wearing formal robes, matching the ones Elrond was dressed in but in darker tones, and it was obvious he had only recently changed. "Lord Elrond." His demeanour was grave.
"Erestor." The elf-lord bestowed a reassuring smile upon his counsellor. "Is there something I should know?"
"The king has come."
The expression on Elrond's face did not even change slightly. "Yes. He crossed the Bruinen at dawn. Is his party provided for?"
"Of course," Erestor said, without a hint of surprise. "I offered to escort him to his rooms, but he insisted on seeing you first."
"I should have expected that, I suppose." Elrond calmly walked up to his fidgeting counsellor. "Well, Erestor." He clasped his shoulder. "Shall I go and greet him then?"
Erestor followed him with hesitation, until Elrond turned his head and commented, "You have done your duty, Erestor. I will go alone."
Breathing out audibly, the dark-haired elf hurried off in another direction. This was a royal welcome he could very well do without witnessing.
***
Elrond stood for a moment in the doorway, studying the tall figure by the window. He was dressed in travel gear: tunic and breeches in blues and greys adorned with silver to illustrate his station. He wore riding boots that reached over his knees and were covered in dirt, signalling that he had travelled at some speed, and his shining dark hair was braided in a pattern designed to keep it from hindering him in a fast ride.
Mentally, Elrond drew the picture that would greet him if he turned. There would be an embroidered emblem on his chest, twelve glowing stars set in a square, and a mithril band weaved through his tresses. His blue eyes would pierce, and his bright smile alight the room he filled with his presence alone. He would ooze self-aware power, casting a piece of his soul forward to encompass the other in a comfortable wrapping of sympathy and interest. With his apparent ease and carefully studied nonchalance he could captivate anyone and make them submit to his every wish without a protest, even gratefully. It was an indispensable quality for a king.
Elrond shifted his weight to both feet, legs a little apart, instinctively taking up the position of a warrior awaiting a fight.
As if he had suddenly become aware of his presence, the king turned around and they faced each other. Elrond's mouth twitched involuntarily when he observed that Gil-galad looked exactly as he had expected, except for the expression on his face, and the utter lack of his usual radiance.
His face bore no smile. His lips were pressed tight. The long journey was etched in lines around his eyes and mouth, and his complexion had a pale sheen that suspected of illness. He was twisting the ring on his forefinger.
When his gaze fell upon Elrond it was as unsettling as it had ever been, and tiny shivers travelled along his sinews emerging at his skin and leaving it tingling. Curiously, Elrond's body decided to leave its reactions to that. His heart did not jump, his stomach made no somersaults, and there was not even a tiny flutter in his midriff. He felt oddly detached, a detachment that in the many scenarios his mind had played out for such an occasion, had never been a factor. It was difficult to decide whether it disappointed or relieved him.
He set a few steps in the room, and, more than happy to break their eye-lock, brought his hand to his brow and heart in a gesture of reverence while taking a short bow. "My lord king. Welcome to Imladris."
"Are we not past such formalities, Elrond?" Gil-galad's reply came, curt and cutting.
Elrond dropped his pose immediately. "May be, Ereinion." Not even the ease that guided his tongue to speak his name could affect the gentle coolness he felt inside. His dispassionate state even prevented the retort that was on his tongue for a moment.
"Either way, I thank you. It's good to be here again. It has been a long time." It was said neutrally, but there was a vast world of meaning behind it.
"Yes," Elrond simply said. "You have not come alone?"
Gil-galad lifted both eyebrows. "Of course not. Impulsiveness is to be lauded, but not if acted upon irresponsibly." He paused and regarded Elrond sharply. "But I am certain you were fully aware of my arrival, including the name of each and every one of my companions."
Elrond simply inclined his head in acknowledgement, deciding that ignoring the first part of the king's statement would best serve his peace of mind. Instead he proceeded to inform after the king's journey, the state of the road, the weather.
Gil-galad's replies to his inquiries were short and stiff, his impatience clearly evident. Elrond watched the king begin to ramble through the room, aimlessly picking up items from shelves and tables, fidgeting with them in his hands and putting them down again. While Gil-galad was fingering a sealed scroll and his eyes wandered about the room, settling on everything but him, Elrond was told he came accompanied by six riders, among them Erintilion, the Noldorin elf who had been a good friend to Elrond in Lindon and who was now Master of the Horse. When Elrond expressed a wish to see him, he learned he was tending to the horses and would be resting afterwards, but was sure to be available tomorrow.
With Elrond having run out of questions and Gil-galad not volunteering any more topics, there was a pause in their conversation. This was the point where there was nothing left to communicate, and the next subject was either trivial or terribly important.
Muffled sounds from the outside could be heard and a bird tried his best to enliven the atmosphere near the arched window, but none of it really registered with Elrond. In the long oppressing silence that followed he felt his pulse quicken involuntarily. Although he did what he could to suppress it, anxiety crept up as his focus narrowed and fixed on the other, who had paused in front of one of the arched windows, his hands clasped behind his back, staring outside. Elrond waited for the moment when he had gathered enough courage to ask what he wanted to know most of all - and yet dreaded to hear.
"My lords? There is a cold meal waiting for you in the Hall, if you wish for it." A soft voice coming from the doorway made them both turn sharply. Framed by sunlight streaming in from outside a light figure of a fair elf woman stood with her hands folded.
Startled at the interruption, Elrond was quick to smile at her. "Thank you, Iocanthe. I think some food could be beneficial." Turning back to Gil-galad, he added, "You must be hungry, my lord."
Within moments the king's expression had changed completely, from irritable weariness to benevolence tinged with admiration. His smile was directed at the woman in the doorway, who seemed quite unfazed but for the slight blush that crept up her cheeks. "I am," he acknowledged. "But first, my lady, would you accompany me if I take a little turn in the garden up front? Imladris has altered much since I have last been here, and I wish to acquaint myself with it. Would you care to show me?"
Iocanthe neighed her head. "Of course, my lord. It is quite beautiful at this time of the season."
Gil-galad, eyes still trained on her, moved forward. "I will be there later, Elrond." Without so much as a glance he followed Iocanthe outside and was gone.
It took Elrond several deep breaths to calm himself enough to finally break his immovability. He sat down in a large armchair and rested his head in his hands, the question he had not dared to ask burning in his mind.
Why have you come?
For a long while he stayed as he was, deep in thought.
***
Elrond did not know when he had turned from sensitivity to become a pragmatic ruler. Consciously, regrets played no part in his life, because he would not take the risk of allowing them to guide him. Regrets were futile to an elvish life. The aeons produced so many occasions for it, it was his conviction that succumbing to them would paralyse him to an extend he could not afford.
It did not even shock him anymore to acknowledge that he had sacrificed his lust for life to duty, and he was very well aware that somewhere along his path he had lost a crucial part of his being. His interests, his dreams, his desires; all of the attributes that had defined him for an age were now set into stone, immovable, cold and hardly alive.
Elrond Half-Elven, twin brother of Elros Tar Minyatur, loremaster, herald to the High King, Lord of Imladris, healer. Were any of these epiteths still warranted?
Elros was long gone, leaving behind only traces of readily accessible memories and a slight hollow feeling in his stomach where his love and anger had been. He had forgiven him, believing he owed him his grace, but he could not forget his words and actions had set a train of events in motion that had led him where he was now. Nevertheless Elros, his brother, had faded to grey, to paper and history in the books that filled his library.
Lord of Imladris, haven and refuge for the hurt and weary, safekeep of elven kin – the place where he hid and bode his time. Lore and healing had become part of his duty there and had long lost their attraction.
Herald of the king… An empty title, ever since the last time his services had been called upon in Eregion, long ago. He delivered his reports and received directions in turn, written words of polite distance in the King's voluptuous handwriting. At times it would contain a personal inquiry; a short added sentence at the end of a long list of goings-on in Lindon, underlined, meant for him alone. His answer was simple, formal and not devoid of truth: All is well. The first time he had replied to such a query, he went through several drafts before sealing the definitive letter. The careful wording of the short line served its purpose, as the inquiries were never followed up on. Until now.
At rare moments of perfect lucidity it had struck him that there was nothing to keep him here. He had toyed with the idea of leaving. Simply hand over the tokens of lordship to one skilful elf or another, cross the Bruinen, and leave the remnants of his shattered life in Arda behind without looking back. An attractive prospect, and yet one of which fear outweighed the relief it could bring. Where was he to go? The sole purpose of such a journey could be to take ship. But in the Uttermost West the judgement of the Valar would await him for breaking the solemn oath he had wilfully sworn. He had nothing to say for himself, no apologies to offer that could possibly appease them. For his honour or his character he cared not, and of pride he had hardly any left. But the decisive argument was infinitely more base: he did not want to be forced to explain himself. He was not sure he could.
But neither was he prepared to completely forsake the life he had chosen long ago. He would admit to weakness and perhaps being wrong, but not to the extent of seeking out Mandos' Halls – even if they would prove to be open to one of his kind.
No, to all his options he preferred to do his duty, try and fulfil his oath, be alone, and hide behind the sturdy walls he had erected and called home. Apathy, mayhap, was to be chosen over anything that could ripple the curtains meticulously drawn to hide his past actions, and lay them bare to scrutiny.
***
The garden was lovely. Later, if asked, Gil-galad knew he would not remember a single statue, flower or shrubbery that had been pointed out to him. The only remaining memory was of shards of conversation with Iocanthe, who had spoken to him little but in a soothing voice. Its musical tones were contrasting sharply with his rapidly darkening mood, but he was careful that she would know nothing of his grimness. So he concentrated on asking the right questions at opportune moments. He was not certain she did not take up on his absentmindedness, but it could be attributed to a tiring journey and she was too polite to say anything about it.
He had immediately recognised the shy Sindarin elf from Ost-in-Edhil who had expressed a wish to stay in Imladris instead of returning to Lindon with him. She had said she had always wished for a more pastoral place to live, which she preferred to the confinement of the walls of a city. She had grown into being a skilled herbologist and, no doubt, a great aid for Elrond here.
Elrond, Elrond, Elrond. After moments of sharing the same space in the flesh, the urge to flee his presence had become irrepressible. There was the shock it had been to see him, so utterly composed, so untouchable. A beautiful stranger and yet so familiar.
During the perfunctory greeting, their lack of connection was… grating. Instantly he had doubted his motives for coming here, immediately he had been convinced of his imminent failure. When he had seen Elrond stand there, so completely dispassionate, he had nearly choked and he lost every incitement to cross the bridge that divided them and tell him why he had come. The next moment incontrollable anger was pulsing hot through his veins, and that had made him run out before he'd do or say something he would regret for the rest of his life.
Had Elrond's change been this profound?
Gil-galad grit his teeth and willed himself to pay attention to the woman who stepped lightly beside him, indicating a vast sod that was covered with shrubs and low plants.
"This part of the herb garden is no more than ten years old. After the flooding of the south banks of the Bruinen some twelve years ago we noticed that some of the more important herbs had ceased to grow there, so we decided we needed to manufacture an environment for them to thrive in. This is what we did here." Iocanthe's voice flowed, and he nodded along with her words. Suddenly she paused, halted and looked at him. "My lord, you must be tired and hungry."
"Yes," he said - too quick. He recovered himself. "Thank you, this was lovely. It is good to see you have settled in so well. You seem happy and fulfilled here."
With a smile, she replied, "I am. Imladris is a good place for those who have seen too much of the world for comfort."
"Yes," he said again, then paused. "I will go and refresh myself. Would it be possible for me and Lord Elrond to have a supper on one of the terraces? For two?"
"I can see to that," she said. "Your rooms are ready, as always. My lord," there was a slight hesitation and she dropped her eyes before looking up again, "it is good you have come. Peace be with you." After some moments of silence she turned, and was gone.
With a sigh he began to make his way to the upper level, over winding stairs and through broad corridors. Having arrived at the apartment reserved for him, he found himself mulling her words. It is good you have come. Was it? This evening he would surely learn the answer. If only he could evoke some kind of response in Elrond instead of this maddening indifference. Anything would do. Anything at all.
As he slowly put on his clothes for the evening - breeches, tunic, boots and, with some hesitation, the mithril band - he readied himself for a confrontation.
***
This wait was no different from the others, he reminded himself. For years he had waited, at last almost believing nothing would ever happen, and he had been prepared for it for just as long. This evening would not be very different from any other. Supper, topics to discuss... Pacing his library, Elrond tried to recover his patience and steel himself.
Suddenly his eye was caught by movement at the door. He turned to see Gil-galad, languidly stretched out against a doorpost, with a relaxed air.
"Come in," he said, immediately feeling foolish as Gil-galad raised an eyebrow, their mutual change in stature keenly felt. He pressed his lips together.
"There is supper waiting for us at one of the terraces. I came to ask for your aid, I seem to have lost my way up there." A slow smile curled his lips as he looked invitingly at Elrond, who did not smile in return, but instead kept silent. "I admired your skills in the garden. In fact, everything here seems to bear your mark, as I always knew it would. You are a master crafter. You possess the hands for it, long digits and sensitive skin…" Releasing the doorpost, Gil-galad began to walk up to him.
"Why are you here, Ereinion?"
The sound of Elrond's voice stopped him in his tracks. His smile faded as he looked him straight in the eye, and the other returned his gaze without a blink.
Not averting his eyes, Gil-galad now crossed the room until he stood before Elrond and stated, "I want you to come back to Lindon with me."
Ever since he had known about the upcoming arrival of the High King, Elrond had been drawing up a list of possible reasons for this surprise visit. Although he had tried to rationalise it into unlikeliness, this was the first one he had come up with. The whole venture was so perfectly in character. Inward, he sighed.
"Why?"
"Because I have need of you there." Unflinching, they watched each other. The king had a hand span over Elrond in statue, but the latter had a way of appearing taller than he was, compensating length with posture. Something he tried now to exploit to its full advantage.
"In what function?"
"As my herald. Which you are."
"You have no need of me unless war is brewing, which I know is not in the near future."
"And my counsellor."
"Do you not have enough dallying around you? I would expect you to wish for less, not more."
A light smile crept over Elrond's face, but Gil-galad's look was dark. "Stop the deterring, Elrond," he shot.
"If you object to evasions, you should contemplate being frank with me," the half-elf replied immediately, his voice chilly.
The king raised his chin, eyes narrowing slightly. "If you insist I will draw it out for you. Threefold and in writing, if you wish. I have need of you as my mate."
For one flicker of a moment, Elrond imagined him complying. A series of images flashed through his mind. Then the rush slowed down on one still, an imagined scene – but always the same one. He knew how it would be. He had lived it.
"Elrond, I am sorry. I did not mean..."
"Yet you said it." I feel cold...
"You know I need you more than air to breath."
"No. You do not. Isn't it as obvious to you as it is to me?" Can I lie to you?
"There is nothing more I can do. You know what I am. You cannot ask more of me."
"You just do not choose to give more. It is your choice to make, Ereinion. Yet you refuse to make it." Please hold me.
"All right. If you insist on forcing my hand, have it as you wish. I will leave you now."
Please...
"No." Elrond's refusal was voiced low and firm.
"I have not yet properly asked." One corner of Gil-galad's mouth curled upwards.
"Do not jest, Ereinion. Please. It will not help."
Gil-galad's eyes narrowed slightly and the smile was gone. "I would beg you if that would help."
"I would not let you."
"Stop me."
A familiar exasperation rose in Elrond's breast. He did not want to do this, ever again; this energy-sucking play of words, starting out as teasing jest, but throughout the years so often turning into a grim challenge and far more serious than any of them would admit. In the end it had always left him edgy, doubting, and worn out – and, he suspected, not just him.
Gil-galad made a move as if he was going to sink on his knees.
Elrond's hand lashed out, gripped his arm and jerked him upwards. "Don't!"
They stood close, staring at each other with widened eyes. Then Elrond saw the defiance on Gil-galad's features slowly fading away, leaving nothing but traces of tired sadness. He relinquished his hold on the king's arm and watched as the tension in his shoulders slowly faded.
"Don't," he repeated softly.
Gil-galad, his head bowed, raised a hand and rubbed his eyes. From behind his hand Elrond heard him mutter words his ears did not quite catch.
Elrond said nothing. After a minute he spoke again. "Shall we eat? "
"Yes." Gil-galad heaved a long sigh. "Yes."
***
"You promised never to leave me, you know. Vowed."
They were sitting on one of the vast verandas, looking out over the pale beauty that coloured Imladris in pastels, the water of one of the streams singing in the background. The serenity of the scene contrasted sharply with the contents of their minds, yet it was soothing. They had scarcely spoken during supper, but the peacefulness affected them and had taken the biting edges off their conversation, and rendered it a certain degree of lightness.
Elrond, quite relaxed, mused for a while, bringing the glass to his lips and languidly tasting the wine on his tongue. "I vowed I would not leave until we had defeated Annatar together. And I didn't. I am here still and I am still at your service. "
"That is not what I meant. You know that."
"Still, I did not leave you. You took your leave and closed the door."
"Semantics, Elrond," Gil-galad reproached. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, one hand behind his head.
Elrond chuckled. "I thought that was your talent."
"Let us say I taught you well. You've become quite apt."
A short silence fell. Anyone who would watch them now would say they were old friends, Elrond thought, sharing the comfort of a long acquaintance that did not need many words to affirm itself. It was curious that what lingered underneath that tranquil surface was something so strong and potentially so violent it could tear apart lives.
"I can order you to come back." Elrond was pulled out of his thoughts by Gil-galad's calm statement. "Remember, I am your king."
"How could I forget. But even you, oh mighty king, can't change the world or our place in it." The playfulness of his tone did nothing to hide the bitterness in his words.
Gil-galad carefully put his glass back on the table and quickly put his hand on Elrond's. "I would. For you."
"You can't. " Elrond tried desperately to restrain himself, but felt himself heat up and the tension he had so far kept at bay, return. "And why try now? You never did before." Inward, he groaned.
"And I regret that more than anything."
"No regrets, Ereinion. There's no use."
"Regrets are dangerous," Gil-galad quoted, mimicking. "I remember your philosophy. All too well."
"And although it does not aid us this time, I still believe in it."
"How did it come to this, love?" Gil-galad asked, softly. He looked at him from aside, dark eyes overflowing with tenderness.
The swiftness of his mood-changes, the sudden flares of temper and emotion. As long as he knew him, Elrond would never get used to them. He felt trapped in the gaze and he closed his eyes in a quiet defence. The fingers were softly rubbing his, and he did not pull away.
The explanation, Elrond need not consider. He had repeated it over and over again to himself, to the river, to the trees, into the darkness of his empty room. Now that the tension had faded, this was a real question and no longer a challenge, to which he could word the answer with sincerity for he had rehearsed it till perfection.
"I love you so much. You are the air that I breathe, the fire in my soul, the water to my thirst. You are everything I ever wanted, even when I did not know it existed yet. What have you done to me? I am not myself. I never knew myself before you came." Elrond shuddered under his lover's soft ministrations.
"You speak strong words for one so young, my love." Gil-galad sighed, turning over on the bed to meet his eye. They were ensconced in silence, noises from the outside not reaching their ears. It was as if the world held its breath to leave them in peace, and no one, for these long hours here, existed outside of them. "You are more yourself than you now know. But you will get to know your heart, as I do mine. You will learn the way of duty and desire, the dictations of your soul. Let me teach you."
"I want nothing more than you for you to teach me." Elrond had meant the words to sound flirtatious, but they sounded serious, and honest.
"I will. I will teach you, and you will be with me, and you will stay at my side, and together we will build a world to our liking..."
"It was through our own hands." He drew a deep breath. "We fought so hard, so terribly hard. We battled the world that was against us. We battled anyone who would cross us. We battled each and every one that would deny us what we wanted. And nothing and no one would yield, in the end." Elrond swallowed hard, crude and unwanted memories invading him like a flood. "It was only a matter of time, Ereinion, until we would fight each other. We let bitterness enter into us, into our lives and our souls. And it left nothing but ruins." Gil-galad's nails bit into the palm of his hand, wryly punctuating Elrond's words. "It's too late, Ereinion," Elrond said, pleading now. "It cannot be repaired. And please, stop trying."
"You do not want us to repair it?" Gil-galad withdrew his hand, and picked up a grape which he absentmindedly rolled about between two fingers, then brought to his mouth. He seemed withdrawn, his face expressionless.
"It does not matter what I want," Elrond said.
Gil-galad put down his glass quite abruptly. "I am tired and will retire for the night. I will leave you to yourself." With a soft sound of silky cloth, he got up, turned, and was gone from the terrace.
Ithil had risen and traversed the best part of her path when Elrond at last followed him inside.
Despite his exhaustion, Gil-galad hardly rested that night. From the window of his spacious apartments, appointed to him specifically for their comfort and their view, he could oversee most of the terraces including the one they had previously occupied. Unmoving, he stood, partly hidden by the window drapes, watching the dark but shining figure of his herald and one-time lover beneath him, until he saw him rise and enter the house. Then he withdrew, laid himself on the canopied bed, and succumbed to a dreamlike state that, this night, held no comfort and no rest.