Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Elrond/Gil-galad
Summary: It is the end of the Second Age and although Gil-galad is wounded he has survived the War of the Last Alliance. What affect will his survival have upon Elrond's future?
Prequel: Histories Asunder.
Dawn was breaking over Mordor. This was the first glimpse of light that the Black Land had witnessed in many a long day. The insistent golden beams were rapidly chasing away what remained of the bloodstained darkness that had hitherto masked the grey-blue haze of the sky. A mighty battle had been fought in these lands, and the timely appearance of the sun marked the occasion of the brand new Age that would soon be upon the brave folk who had survived the conflict for long enough to witness its historical, momentous and altogether astonishing conclusion.
It was the year 3441, the final year in the Second Age of Middle-earth, and the Last Alliance of Elves and Men were experiencing what many of them had already begun to describe as the bitter-sweet taste of victory. Sauron had been vanquished, along with the majority of the fell creatures who served him, but the high cost of success was much in evidence all across the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Men and elves alike were going about the grim task of collecting their dead and attending upon those who still lived but had suffered grievous injury.
The surviving orcs, who had been thrown into blind panic by the defeat of their Dark Lord and the subsequent emergence of the sun, were then driven to a state of near-madness as they were forced to witness the spectacular eruption of Orodruin. The foul creatures, now rendered virtually helpless and altogether defenceless, were swiftly and mercilessly disposed of by Alliance blade and arrow and their bodies piled into indiscriminate black heaps. The mounds were then set alight, and the resultant overpowering stench of burning orc-flesh filled the nostrils of every man and elf present.
It was not a pretty sight and one which was not made easier on the eye by the sudden breakthrough of the sun. This was a job that had to be done, however, for the commanders of the Allied forces were determined that no servant of the Dark Lord was to be left alive when the time came for them to march out of the land they had conquered. The task of overseeing the disposal of the orc carcases had been appointed to Círdan, a high-ranking Teleri elf who wrought ships when he was not fighting, and Glorfindel, a noble, golden-haired elven lord who had made his home in the valley of Imladris.
When the Dark Lord selected the land of Mordor to be his home centuries earlier, the existence of Orodruin had been one of the principal reasons behind his choice. He made use of the fire that welled there in his evil sorceries and it was in one of the mountain's dark caverns that Sauron forged the unique and terrible item of power that was commonly known as the One Ring. So powerful was the sorcery used in the forging of this Ring that only there, in the heart of Mount Doom, could it be unmade.
It had taken a most remarkable series of events to bring about the destruction of the Ring. Late in the Third Age of Middle-earth (in what was presently considered to be the distant future) the Ring had been acquired by a young hobbit who went by the name of Frodo Baggins. He and his faithful companion, Samwise Gamgee, had managed to bring the Ring from their home in the Shire all the way to the Sammath Naur but, upon their arrival there, Frodo's resistance to the Ring crumbled and he claimed the Ring for himself. This state of affairs was not to last for long, however, for he was then attacked by a creature called Gollum who had for many years been consumed with an unnatural desire to possess the Ring. The finger upon which Frodo had placed the Ring was bitten off in the struggle and ended up at the bottom of the Crack of Doom along with the hobbit's ill-fated assailant.
That should have been the end of the matter as far as Frodo and Sam were concerned but it was not. It had often been said by the wise that the One Ring had a will of its own and this much was indeed true for, instead of remaining in the heart of Mount Doom in the year 3019 of the Third Age, there to cope with the aftermath of the Ring's destruction, the two hobbits found themselves whirling back in time and were eventually deposited somewhere in the vicinity of the River Bruinen in the year 3430 of the Second Age.
As a result of the resourcefulness and determination of Samwise Gamgee, and with the help of an ent named Echoleaf, he and a seriously ill Frodo had found their way to Imladris and were fortunate enough to be taken under the protection of Lord Elrond. Frodo's wound was healed, his health improved and he and Sam settled down to a life of peace and happiness in their new home.
Elrond concluded that some spell or devilry must have been worked into the Ring at the time of its forging for it to have resulted in the hobbits being thrown back to a time where they did not belong, and he resolved to keep them under his protection until an opportunity to destroy the Ring arose. He was convinced that this act alone would achieve the result of sending Frodo and Sam back to their own time and, having learned of the sequence of events that was to take place in the final years of the Second Age, Elrond knew that the One Ring would eventually be cut from the hand of Sauron by none other than Isildur, High King of Gondor and Arnor.
Frodo had snatched the Ring out of Isildur's reach before the Dúnedan could claim it and he then took it on what would be its last ever journey. The eruption that had resulted from its destruction was truly spectacular. Both men and elves were enthralled by the magnificent spectacle; gigantic red-gold flames leapt high in the sky and molten lava cascaded in a seemingly endless flow along pathways forged through the dust, ash and other debris that littered the slopes of the mountain that Sauron had once claimed as his own. If the assembled forces of the Alliance needed any further proof that evil had been put to rest, it had been served up to them in the most awe-inspiring and celebratory manner imaginable.
There was, however, one elf present who was concerned with matters other than the vivid entertainment provided by the erupting volcano. Whilst Círdan the Shipwright had been suitably impressed by the flames that shot out of the top of Orodruin, his niggling worry was over the whereabouts of the two members of his kin who had taken the path into the cavern some time earlier. They had accompanied Frodo and Samwise to the heart of Mount Doom and it had been their intention to return to the Plateau once the Ring had been cast into the flames and the hobbits safely despatched to the Age from which they had originated.
The elves in question were of importance not only to Círdan on a personal level - he was a close friend to them both - but also to the elven kindred as a whole for they were none other than Ereinion Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor, and his Herald, who was otherwise known as Lord Elrond of Imladris.
Círdan's concern was heightened as a consequence of the grave injury Gil-galad had sustained whilst attempting to do battle with Sauron. His left arm had been badly scorched by the fire of the Dark Lord and he had been fortunate to escape with his life. Although Elrond had performed immediate emergency treatment and used his powers to enable the King to block the searing pain caused by the burning, the Shipwright still feared for the safety and well-being of both of them.
Too long a time had elapsed since Elrond and Gil-galad had disappeared into the cavern and Círdan's anxiety deepened. He knew full well that the King was not one to give in to pain easily but he would need careful treatment from the hands of a skilled healer if he was to mend fully and the longer the administering of that healing was delayed the more injurious it could prove to Gil-galad's ability to recover. Círdan scrutinised the mountain slopes carefully, hoping to catch sight of the High King and his Herald as they exited the tunnel.
His patience was finally rewarded but only after several more hours of agonised waiting. The newly-discovered sun had begun to disappear beyond the western horizon and Círdan, fearing Elrond and Gil-galad trapped by a landslide, had been on the verge of sending a search party into the mountain when the two figures he had been hoping to see eventually emerged from the cavern. Círdan was incredibly fond of these elves; he had, indeed, known both of them since they were infants and he was relieved to see that they were relatively unscathed.
"Blessings", shouted Círdan, raising his hand. "By the grace of the Valar, you have returned. I take it that the hobbits have disappeared?"
Gil-galad was a vision of tall, dark and very regal splendour as he stood before the Shipwright. Seven years of fighting, the filth of the battlefield and a grievous wound had collectively failed to dim the brightness and nobility of his star. He had been an inspiration to man and elf alike throughout the entirety of the war and displayed no inclination to relax even though hostilities were now at an end.
"Frodo and Sam have left us", responded the King briskly. "It is to be hoped that they found their way back to the Shire of the Third Age, although neither of us actually witnessed the moment of their departure".
"They were standing before us, above the Crack of Doom, yet when they cast the Ring into the fire the cavern was plunged into darkness. When the darkness cleared, they were no longer there", added Elrond, taking up the story.
As the three of them stood and cast their eyes over the battlefield, the face of the Plateau was changing. There were no longer orcs to trouble them and the warriors of the Alliance were busying themselves with matters that had now become more pressing. The area that surrounded the slopes of Mount Doom had turned into a hub of activity. Supplies of food, water and other materials were being transported to the area by riders on horseback, some of whom pulled carriages. Shelters were quickly erected so that those in need of treatment could receive it in seclusion and healers were hard at work attending the sick and the wounded. Those who were not engaged in such activities found themselves marshalling the area in military fashion and would remain thus until such time as they were ordered to begin their preparations for the march home.
Gil-galad surveyed the scene, his keen eyes missing nothing. He was quick to notice the helm, armour and mace that had until recently been made use of by Sauron. They lay exactly where they had fallen for none of the elves present had seen fit to disturb them.
"I want these things destroyed", commanded Gil-galad, staring grimly at the items. "Arrange for them to be taken to the Crack of Doom and cast into the fire without delay".
Círdan bowed his head. His close friendship with the King had never stood in the way of his capacity to obey orders. It also had to be said, however, that he was not averse to voicing his opinion when he considered it meritorious to do so.
"And you, my Lord, need to seek treatment for the appalling burns that the Dark Lord saw fit to inflict upon you".
"He is right, Ereinion. You must come with me".
Elrond's voice was laden with anxiety.
"The pain-blocking enchantment is wearing off", continued Elrond, who had discarded the mantle of warrior and replaced it with the care and concern of the skilled healer. "Please let me treat you without delay".
Círdan made ready to follow the King's orders to dispose of Sauron's armour whilst Gil-galad, who had suddenly become acutely aware of the searing pain that affected his burned arm, surprisingly made no protest as Elrond guided him towards the nearest healing shelter. The guards who had been ordered to keep watch bowed as the King passed through the makeshift entrance whilst outside the light had dimmed perceptibly with the imminent setting of the distant sun. A small fire had been lit inside the shelter and its mellow light flickered around the interior, masking the shelter's starkness with a warm, cosy glow.
Once inside the King crumpled to the ground. Elrond was by his side in an instant; his face shadowed with worry. A tremor of fear flickered through him; he wanted these difficult moments to be over and for Gil-galad to be free from pain but he knew that he would be required to utilise every fragment of his skill if that state of affairs was to be achieved. What was more, he would have to force himself to retain a certain degree of detachment; a difficult feat to achieve when you were called upon to heal someone for whom you cared very deeply.
Elrond forced himself to remain focussed upon the healing that the King would need. He made Gil-galad as comfortable as possible by placing a rolled-up cloak beneath his head. He then held a small flask of miruvor to his lips, trying not to dwell on the thought that the King deserved far better than this austere shelter as his healing room.
Such matters were plainly of no concern to the King, however, for he appeared to have drifted into a state of mild delirium, a development that filled Elrond with disquiet. He stroked Gil-galad's flushed face with gentle fingers and spoke soothingly to him.
"Ereinion, listen to me", he whispered softly. "I am going to treat your burns. It will take me a while to do this and I want to put you to sleep first because I do not wish you to bear any more pain".
Gil-galad, suddenly alert, opened his eyes and looked up at his healer.
"No, Elrond", he began, clutching at Elrond's sleeve. "Do what you have to do but do not send me to sleep. I am not afraid; I can bear the pain".
"But I cannot", said Elrond. He spoke simply and quietly, and very much from his heart. "I cannot bear to watch you suffer".
Gil-galad relaxed his grip on Elrond's sleeve. Elrond would have given anything at that moment to be bearing the agony of the burns himself instead of being forced to witness the sight of Gil-galad's handsome face contorted with pain.
"I will look after you, Ereinion", he murmured. Elrond took Gil-galad's hand between both of his and squeezed it gently.
But Gil-galad seemed agitated; there was something on his mind but he was rapidly losing his battle to remain lucid. He clasped Elrond's hand tightly as he struggled to remain focussed upon him.
"Elrond, this is all wrong", he whispered hoarsely. "Can you not see it?"
"See what?" asked Elrond, fighting to restrain the unease that rose within him. "Of what do you speak, Ereinion? Tell me what concerns you, I beg of you".
"This... everything... None of this is supposed to be happening. Elrond, can you not see that this whole situation is unreal? I am meant to be dead and you are supposed to be getting married".
Elrond was disturbed by Gil-galad's comments. The King had fallen into a state of delirium; this much was apparent, but the fever was not yet of sufficient severity to have completely robbed him of his ability to form coherent thoughts.
"Ereinion", whispered Elrond. "You are safe. You are alive. That is all that matters. I could wish for nothing else at this moment, other than to see you safely healed. With your permission, I will now send you into a deep sleep. Will you allow me to do this?"
There was an unwritten code that applied to all elven healers. Elrond, for all his skill and close friendship with the King, was not exempt from that rule and it would never have occurred to him to violate it. The code provided that a healer was not permitted to perform any action or treatment that went against the wishes of his patient and, if the patient was unconscious or otherwise unable to express himself, the healer was required to use his best endeavours to bring about a recovery in the safest and most expeditious way possible. In addition, the healer was expected to carry out the treatment in a manner which he genuinely believed would be in accordance with the patient's wishes were he in a position to enunciate them.
Gil-galad looked up at Elrond quizzically; scrutinising him for answers to questions that he had not even asked. Elrond was troubled by the King's lack of calm but his more immediate concern lay with the serious burns to his arm. He was anxious to begin the treatment as soon as possible but he could not send Gil-galad to sleep until his consent was forthcoming.
"Ereinion, I beg of you", he pleaded once again. "Let me commence your healing now. Let me relieve you of the pain that blights you. Allow me the joy of looking upon your smiling face once again, for there is nothing in all the world that can compare to that".
Elrond's eyes met imploringly with those of the King. Even as he lay there, feverish and in excruciating pain, Gil-galad's eyes shone with a luminosity that was quite astonishing. And even more remarkable than that was the colour of his eyes, for they were the exact hue of Vilya's stone. Elrond shuddered as he imagined a world where the light in those miraculous eyes was extinguished for good by the ugly wrath of Sauron's fire.
Gil-galad seemed to have lost some of his earlier agitation. He then did something that startled Elrond and left him almost bereft of words. Taking his healer's hand in his own, the King pressed his lips warmly against the palm.
"I have spent the last seven years watching you wield sword and bow with devastating strength and accuracy", began Gil-galad, holding Elrond's hand against his face as he uttered his laboured words. "You have slain more of our enemy's creatures than can be counted and have shown no mercy to our foes. And yet... and yet... when kindness is called for no-one has hands that are more gentle than yours, Elrondinya, no-one".
"And those hands will now care for you", breathed Elrond. His voice was ragged and he was struggling to retain his self-control. "I yearn to ease your suffering, Ereinion. When you wake up things will be different. May I do that now, may I put you to sleep?"
Gil-galad looked into Elrond's eyes and then expressed the consent that his healer had so longed to receive by squeezing his hand. This was accompanied by the briefest of nods. Relief coursed through Elrond, not only because he knew he could now commence the treatment the King badly needed but also because Gil-galad's permission to send him to sleep had been freely provided.
"Fúmë, Ereinion, Fúmë".
Elrond's words, accompanied by the placing of his fingertips on Gil-galad's forehead and a certain wielding of the subtle powers with which he had been gifted, were barely more than a gentle whisper but their effect was immediate. The shadow of pain that had etched itself upon the King's face faded rapidly as his eyes closed and Elrond's relief at the cessation of his torment was immense. The healer remained still for a few moments, cradling Gil-galad's head with his hand as the deep sleep into which he had just sent him transported him to a place where pain and suffering could not follow.
As comfortable and adaptable as elven armour was, Elrond knew that if he did not discard the battledress he was wearing he would soon find it too cumbersome to wear whilst working in the confines of the healing shelter. He pulled off the gauntlets that covered his forearms, unbuckled the suit's breastplate and then removed the entire piece that covered the upper half of his body. Pushing up the sleeves of the tunic that he wore under his suit of armour, Elrond then set about the grim task of assessing how easy - or otherwise - it would be to remove the King's armour without exacerbating the already grave state of his burned arm.
It was not a pleasant duty for Elrond. His heart was in his mouth as he unbuckled Gil-galad's suit and began to lift the sections that had not been seared away from his resting body. The gauntlet the King wore on his right arm - the arm with which he normally wielded his spear - came away cleanly, as did his breastplate, but it was when he attempted to remove the gauntlet that protected Gil-galad's left arm that Elrond's worst fears were realised.
The mithril out of which the armour was fashioned had melted and burned its way into the King's scorched flesh. The skin and upper layer of flesh on Gil-galad's arm had been completely burned away and had left in its wake an horrific display of scorched, charred and blackened tissue. Elrond closed his eyes and then opened them again slowly, knowing even as he did this that the sight would be no less sickening the second time around. An emotion that could best be described as anger rose within him but that was heavily tinged with other feelings that he was quick to dismiss, for now was not the time to be dwelling upon such matters. Steeling himself to relegate his personal thoughts to the back of his mind and to concentrate upon the horrendous task that faced him, Elrond set himself to work.
The fire that had been lit in the shelter had burned low but was still flickering when Círdan entered several hours later. The fragrance of the special plant oils and other medicines that Elrond had used to treat Gil-galad's wounds scented the air and was a good deal more pleasant than the stench of burning orc flesh that still prevailed outside. The Shipwright's expression was anxious but hopeful as his gaze fell firstly upon the sleeping figure of the King and then upon the healer who crouched anxiously at his side.
"So", began Círdan, "Are you planning to sit there and gaze at him all night?"
The soft, lingering glow of the firelight illuminated Elrond's face as he slowly tore his eyes away from Gil-galad's sleeping face.
"I was not gazing at him".
"How is he?"
"His arm was in a most grievous state. Mithril had melted into his burned flesh and I was at one point fearful that the damage done was too great to be repaired".
"And now?"
"His condition is stable. I have applied poultices to his arm and the potions I have used will help strengthen and rebuild the damaged tissue".
Elrond swallowed heavily and averted his eyes from the Shipwright's searching gaze.
Círdan leaned forward and squeezed his arm.
"Elrond, do not feel you have to hide your feelings from me. I have known you all your life and I know how fond you are of him. Being called upon to heal someone for whom you care so deeply is a trauma in itself, so do not be too harsh with yourself if you find these moments trying".
Elrond found some comfort in Círdan's words. The Shipwright was inclined to be a little brusque in manner and was often outspoken in his opinions but he was at heart an essentially kind and generous elf and the affection he carried for both Gil-galad and Elrond ran very deep. It pained him to witness their suffering and the scene that was laid before him in the shelter affected him far more than his rather gruff exterior revealed.
"I have never seen him like this before", said Elrond, glancing at the King before looking up at the Teleri.
"I know", soothed Círdan. "He lays there hurt and vulnerable when, under normal circumstances, he is possessed of more strength, vigour and vitality than anyone you know. It is no wonder that seeing him in this unhappy state has left you shocked, Elrond, but comfort yourself with the knowledge that it is his preference to be tended by you. He would not wish to be cared for by any other healer, especially at a time like this".
Elrond knew that the Shipwright spoke the truth. Gil-galad had made no secret in the past of how highly he esteemed Elrond's healing skills, even though he had hitherto not been unfortunate enough to find himself in need of them. Elrond sensed there was more to it than that, however, and privately acknowledged that he too would not have wanted the King to be tended by any healer other than himself, however skilled they might be.
He returned his attention to Gil-galad, taking in every detail of his sleeping face. Midnight-hued hair, long lashes that lay dark against the ivory of his skin, wide mouth and perfect, even features. Noldorin beauty in its purest form was how Elrond would describe the face of his King. Elrond found it hard to prevent his voice from shaking when he uttered his next words.
"I had always thought of him as invincible until the hobbits came to Imladris and spoke to me of his death".
"And it has taken a foe with the might of Sauron to bring him down", said Círdan grimly. "Never before has he been laid low by an enemy".
Elrond blinked. It was almost as if he needed to remind himself that Gil-galad was still alive. Had it not been for the hobbits and the knowledge they had brought with them of the future, he may well not be. Elrond found himself shuddering again as the brutal recognition of what could - and perhaps should - have happened loomed large in his imagination and hovered in his mind's eye. The appalling mental image of Gil-galad scorched to death by Sauron's flame taunted him and refused to be banished. He took Ereinion's hand in his own and then held it tightly, desperate to reassure himself that the flesh he held was warm and living.
"Do not fret, Elrond", murmured Círdan. "We have much to be thankful for. His life has been spared and, with the aid of your skill, he will recover from the wounds that have been inflicted upon him".
"But it could have been so much worse. Had he approached Sauron he would have..."
"He did not approach Sauron", insisted Círdan. "He knew that any attempt on his part to engage Sauron in single combat would have resulted in but one tragic outcome. He was not foolish enough to ignore the warnings. Had he failed to heed them we would not be having this conversation now".
Círdan was quick to notice the effect the conversation was having upon Elrond and decided to change the subject.
"You two spent a long time with the hobbits before the Ring was destroyed, Elrond. Did you ask them questions about your future?"
Elrond's face clouded.
"I did not ask them to reveal such things but Ereinion was curious and asked them to tell us everything they knew".
"And?"
"They told me that I had three children. Twin sons and a daughter".
Círdan's eyes widened.
"But no wife? Surely they must have told you something of the woman who was the mother of these three children?"
"They could tell me nothing", responded Elrond. "There was no wife at my side when Frodo and Sam came to Imladris in the Third Age".
"Curious", said Círdan, frowning. "Did the hobbits meet any of your children?"
"My sons were not present but they made mention of my daughter, whom they described as being of incomparable beauty".
"I see. And what else?"
"That she plighted her troth to a mortal. To an heir of Isildur".
"Astonishing!" exclaimed Círdan, shaking his head in disbelief.
"The future the hobbits saw for me is not the path I will follow", snapped Elrond, immediately regretting the unnecessarily harsh tone he had used. He proffered a suitable apology to the other elf.
"Perhaps not", said Círdan calmly. "Many changes have been wrought as a result of the unexpected presence of Frodo and Sam and things that might have been no longer are. But had Ereinion died, your future may have been exactly as described by the hobbits".
"Had he died, I would have lost my will to live".
"You say that now, but I know you better than that. You are not one to give up, Elrond, although I do believe your grief would have been immense. There is much strength in you, probably more than you realise, and you would have continued with your life at Imladris. You care deeply for the suffering of others, and that particular characteristic would have remained unchanged even if you had lost your King".
Elrond looked decidedly unconvinced by Círdan's arguments but his feelings were far too raw to allow him to respond with any degree of reason.
"And what else did the hobbits have to say about you and how you appeared to them in the Third Age?" continued Círdan. "Are there more revelations of which you would like to speak?"
"Don't mind me saying this, sir, but you looked kind of weary, like, older. Different to the way you look now, if you get my meaning".
Círdan found much mirth in Elrond's affectionate imitation of Samwise Gamgee's voice.
"Well, there is no mistaking the meaning of that!" he exclaimed.
"I do not believe there will be any elves left in Middle-earth in three thousand years", said Elrond, managing a faint smile. "By then, our people will have long since departed".
The Shipwright nodded his agreement.
"I believe you are right, Elrond. The Ring has been destroyed and Sauron is no more. Middle-earth has been freed from the tyranny with which it was threatened and it would serve no purpose for the elves to remain here indefinitely".
Círdan then returned his attention to the King.
"I hope he will be mobile when he wakes up. I know of no-one who would take to inactivity with quite as much antipathy as him".
"He will certainly be able to walk", responded Elrond. "But he will need to rest for a while before he can go about his normal duties".
"I dare say he will find it easier to bear his moments of idleness if you are sitting there holding his hand", added Círdan, his pale eyes twinkling mischievously.
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