Rating: PG
Pairing: Círdan/Galdor (Gil-galad/Elrond mentioned)
Summary: Círdan is confronted.
Notes: Basically I just decided that Cirdan needed love and Galdor needed to be in more fics. Thanks to Nethene for betaing this all through all the re-writes. :) The fic is primarily G, except for one line that I decided bumped it up to PG.
The rain fell heavily over Mithlond, amplifying the already potent scent of salt and seaweed that drifted through the cracks of the closed balcony doors. Cirdan breathed in the aroma blissfully as he leaned back in his chair and listened to the rhythmic sound of the raindrops, clasping his hands and closing his eyes in thought and becoming lost in the pitter-patter.
A full two cycles of Ithil had passed since his messenger had come to him with the strange, unfathomable tidings. Galdor had knelt before him in exaggeration of an outdated formality the Shipwright had never liked - he was no King and the title Lord had never pleased him. He was a Shipwright, a sailor at heart, and Master of Mithlond. Respect he demanded, but not the fealty he had always received from Galdor.
Still, a fond smile had crossed his face, as it did whenever the young Teler came to him. Though the smile did not last long once the silver-haired elf spoke. Those words, spoken in the quiver of Galdor's strong tenor, haunted the Shipwright: "Milord, I fear I am in love with you."
Cirdan opened his eyes and frowned, reaching out and taking the plain silver ring looped over the pen that stood in the inkwell. It had been cowardly of him to give the young messenger no answer, to instead send him to Lothlorien with word for the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood. But the confession had so shocked him that he had not known what else to do.
He looked at the ring thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands. It was not the work of a master in his craft or even that of an apprentice, but it was dear to the Shipwright. The metal was warped in waves that, if more fluid, would seem homage to the sea-faring Teleri; but the small fracture in the silver metal was clearly a flaw.
A slight smile twisted the edges of Cirdan's lips as he placed the ring on his finger, amused by how large and loose it was. Ereinion had been so proud of his work when he presented it to the Shipwright, grinning with his dark hair slicked by sweat and cheeks flushed from long hours working beside the metal-smiths in the forge. Cirdan had smiled at the young elf and thanked him graciously, telling the future King of the Noldor that it was the finest piece of jewelry ever gifted to him.
With a sigh Cirdan set down the ring in the center of the desk. It was some years after that when Ereinion had come to him with disturbing news, sitting across from Cirdan at the very desk the Shipwright now sat before. The young Noldo had taken the ring and fiddled with it, averting his eyes and hanging his head as he admitted he believed himself to be in love with the Master of Mithlond.
From the desperate look Ereinion had given him Cirdan had realized quickly the elfling did not understand what he was saying. Guilt washed over Cirdan as he realized he had been remiss in explaining the differences between the love shared by family and friends and the love shared by companions of the flesh. Quickly correcting the error he had convinced Ereinion that he was not in love, least not the kind of love that was coupled with lust, and that he simply viewed the elf that raised him with the eyes of a devoted child.
He wondered if the same speech would work with Galdor.
Cirdan shook his head as he hung the ring back on the pen. There had been something different in Galdor's eyes when he spoke of love. Ereinion had clearly been confused and troubled by the emotions warring within him. But his trusted messenger's lovely blue eyes had been steadfast and honest, and in many ways that had been what unnerved Cirdan the most.
After two cycles of Ithil that look still sent a shiver through his form and made his head spin. It confused him and left him bereft of his own wise counsel. Cirdan sighed and pushed the image of the earnest eyes from his mind. Galdor would return any day now and he still had no response for the faithful messenger. That simply would not do.
The sound of the rain upon the wooden railing of the balcony soothed the Shipwright as he leaned back into his chair once more, slowly lulled back into a blissful calm. In the morning, mist would shroud the docks and the sea would be still in the wake of the storm. Perfect weather to take the apprentices on their first maritime adventure. Four days with the clear skies and the gentle rocking of the waves would be just what he needed to come up with a response to Galdor's admission of love.
Or so he hoped.
A solid thump broke Cirdan from his thoughts as he rose from his chair and looked toward the balcony, waiting to see if the sound repeated. It did not. Instead there was a gentle rapping at his balcony door. A frown formed on the Shipwright's face as he crossed the room, wondering what foolishness was about as he opened the door, preparing to gently berate the elflings that had been climbing about the keep in such weather.
But instead of elflings he found an elf that had long ago reached his majority.
"I apologize for disturbing you so late, milord," Galdor said as he bowed down to one knee before the Shipwright. The messenger was thoroughly soaked by the rain, his clothes heavy with water as they clung to his body and his silver hair slick against his skull as he continued to speak, though his eyes never rose from the level of Cirdan's ankles. "I would not have done so, but the servants would not let me pass into your halls and I knew that you would be gone by morning to instruct the apprentices upon the sea."
Cirdan stared for a moment, watching as the raindrops splashed upon the sopping form of his trusted messenger. He had given his servants word that he did not wish to be disturbed, hoping to circumvent this very confrontation should Galdor arrive earlier than he supposed. It had been cowardly to do so, and he decided this was the Valar's way of telling him that.
"You are soaked," Cirdan said finally, stepping to the side and gesturing for Galdor to enter. "I am certain you have been in the rain all evening on your return to Mithlond. Come in and dry yourself."
Galdor nodded and stood, though his eyes never met the Shipwright's as he walked into Cirdan's chambers. The Master of Mithlond let out a small sigh, looking out into the storm before he shut the balcony doors. "You arrived from Lorien sooner than I thought you would," he said, turning and motioning for the messenger to take the extra chair beside his desk. Galdor gave it a hesitant glance and Cirdan smiled. "Do not worry. It will dry."
Galdor nodded as he sat down, clasping his hands in his lap and waiting for Cirdan to sit behind his desk before he spoke. "Yes. I parted from the Golden Wood with all swiftness once I had Lord Celeborn's reply," he said in his strong voice. "I would have arrived sooner, but the storm is worse inland and I had to take cover within some caves. Fortunately not the kind orcs call home."
Cirdan felt his stomach twist as he gazed at the messenger before him. Galdor had long ago convinced the Shipwright that he needed no escort in his duties as a courier, that he was faster and safer by his lonesome. In the years after the Last Alliance such reasoning had made sense, one quick-footed elf was far less of a target than several, and a pace could be set without a thought to the needs of others. But in the darkening times that descended upon them once again Cirdan wondered why he had not thought more about his messenger's safety.
"While I always will appreciate the speed in which you do your duty, you need not have rushed back," Cirdan said, folding his hands and resting them on the desk. "It was a matter I wished resolved between Celeborn and I, but I would hardly trade your health and safety for it."
"I appreciate your concern," Galdor said with a bow of his head, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. "But it was more the matter which I spoke of before my departure that caused the recklessness of my return." For the first time the blue eyes darted up, meeting Cirdan's for the briefest moment before looking away. "You said you would have a reply for me upon returning."
"I did," Cirdan agreed with a sigh as he watched the messenger. This was not the nervous confusion that had afflicted Ereinion, it was something far different. "Yet I still find myself with no answer to give you."
Blue eyes turned and looked deep into Cirdan's eyes, hope and misery warring with each other for control. "I am not asking for you to think this over. I am not asking for thought, milord," he breathed, swallowing hard as he continued, "I am asking for your honest answer. I told you how I felt and I want to know if it is even possible for you to return those feelings."
Cirdan turned away, unable to stand the intense stare of the blue eyes. A flash of red caught his attention and his gaze fastened upon a darkened stain surrounding a tear in the thigh of the messenger's breeches. "Galdor! Are you injured?"
"Sometimes even elven grace and agility is not enough when traveling rain slick paths," the silver-haired elf shrugged, running a hand over his thigh. "I am certain it is nothing."
Cirdan frowned. A lot of blood had soaked into the green fabric. "I will see about that," he said, rising and searching over the bookshelf for the healing supplies he kept with him at all times. "Disrobe and sit on my bed."
"You do not know how long I have waited to hear your say that, milord. Though I had hoped your intent would be different," Galdor said, causing Cirdan to turn at the strangled sound of the messenger's voice. The silver-haired elf smiled humorlessly at him with a look of pained sadness as he rose and moved fluidly toward the bed, only a mild limp in his step.
Cirdan's heart ached at the pain he was causing the messenger as he turned away and gathered the healing implements. When he turned again his breath caught in his throat. Galdor was sitting on his bed naked, silver hair hanging stringy and wet over his shoulder, sticking to pale skin as rivulets of water ran down the slim chest. The Shipwright averted his eyes to the gash in the messenger's thigh as he approached, setting the supplies next to Galdor as he began tending to the wound, willing himself not to think of the picturesque image the messenger made as he knelt on the floor.
"This will need to be mended," Cirdan mused, carefully wiping the blood and water from the finger length cut. "Will you allow me to take you to a healer?"
"No. It is fine," Galdor's voice whispered.
"Very well," Cirdan sighed as he pulled a needle and thread out of his equipment. "I will patch this as best I can, but you must promise to go to a healer if there is pain or if it becomes infected."
"As you wish, milord."
The pain in Galdor's voice was tangible and Cirdan focused on the wound, forcing himself to ignore all else as he smeared a numbing salve over the injury before he began to sew the flesh. Touching the thigh carefully and gently as he worked Cirdan settled into a steady pace of piercing the flesh until the wound was mended with a jagged line of gray thread. "There," he said softly, spreading a healing salve to repair the flesh faster and drive away pain.
Raising his head Cirdan's eyes widened and he let out a choked sound as he was faced with a strange column of flesh rising from between Galdor's thighs. His gaze darted upward to the messenger in questioning surprise.
Galdor turned away, looking at the headboard as he spoke in a hushed whisper. "I do not deny what you do to me."
Cirdan was speechless as the messenger rose and quickly dressed, his head hanging low and his hair a wet curtain of silver obscuring his face. "Thank you for your aid, milord," he said, some of the strength returning to his voice as he donned his breeches. "And I believe I have an answer for my question. I will leave you be." He fastened the ties of his tunic. "I left the communiqué from Lord Celeborn with your head scribe." Galdor looked down at Cirdan, still kneeling on the floor beside the bed, and bowed his head. "Good eve, milord."
The messenger strode forward, as much dignity as he could manage in his step. Cirdan leapt to his feet, holding out an arm to bar Galdor's movement. "Wait," he said softly. "I will grant you something that I have allowed no other in all my years. You are the first that I have ever known whose affections I believe to be honest." He paused a moment, speaking again before Galdor could. "But I am nothing, save an ancient mariner. What cause could I give you to care for me so? And what could I give you in return? You are desirable and well-liked Galdor, there are many elves that could offer you more than I. So, why?"
Galdor turned his head and looked Cirdan in the eyes, for the first time in all the years Galdor had been his messenger, the silver-haired elf was looking at him as if on equal terms. "You truly do not know, milord?"
Cirdan shook his head, even as he maneuvered Galdor back toward the bed. He did not want the messenger to further injure his leg by standing on it. "No, I do not," he said, sitting Galdor down and seating himself beside the silver-haired elf.
"Milord," Galdor chuckled sadly as he shook his head. "I do not know how to answer you. You have not done any one thing to earn these feelings that beat within my chest. They exist because of who you are, a noble and kind elf, humble and gentle toward all things, a wise leader and excellent sailor. You are a harbor for all those that have found themselves lost, including the last High King of the Noldor. I remember how you doted lovingly upon him and it grieved me to think you had no children of your own blood.
"And if you do not think you are desirable, then you have been deluding yourself." Galdor turned away from the Shipwright. "I have seen you walking in my dreams since I was a young elf and I know I am not alone in such lazy daydreams. They keep me warm when I am away from you, in the Wild where there is no safety and to stop is to risk life and limb." He glanced back at Cirdan. "You say I am desirable, but I pale in comparison to your beauty. The perfect color of your eyes, your hair, your skin."
"Galdor..." the Shipwright started.
"And I," Galdor cut him off as he began shaking his head, furrowing his brow as he looked around. "I do not ask you to give me anything in return for the feelings I have. I simply could not keep them hidden any longer. I had to know if there was hope or if I should remain silent, kneeling before you as your trusted messenger." He gave Cirdan a hesitant look. "I am sorry. I should not have put this upon you."
The sheer conviction with which Galdor spoke took the Shipwright by surprise and overwhelmed him. He had not been lying when he said that never before had he believed any elf when they spoke words of love and affection to him, not when they meant it in ways of the flesh as well as mind. But Galdor truly seemed to love him, the way Elrond had loved Gil-galad.
"You give me more dues than I warrant," Cirdan said softly. "And I have always cared deeply for you. I have trusted you with things that others could never know about. You have been my unofficial herald and my friend. But I would not have you coming and going from my rooms in the dead of night," Cirdan said, sense coming over him along with a sudden feeling of disappointment. Suddenly he did not wish to dissuade the messenger of his feelings. "Fell rumors would begin about us both. It is no secret that I have neither taken wife nor lover in all my time as the Master of Mithlond. I fear the elves in my care would feel betrayed if I were to turn my affections upon you."
"Then it would be a secret between the two of us and I would come to you by cover of night," Galdor said hopefully, rising and crossing to room to throw open the balcony doors. The sound of rain and the scent of the sea returned and Cirdan found it calmed him immensely as he gazed upon the messenger, the one elf he had never doubted and that he had always trusted with the most delicate of matters. "I do not ask for gifts or status. Tonight I only wish to know if you could ever smile upon me as more than your loyal servant."
The messenger stood in the frame of the balcony doors, buffeted by wind and rain, trembling as he waited for Cirdan's answer. The Shipwright pursed his lips. He did not know what to say, whether or not he could return the feelings Galdor had for him. Cirdan freely admitted he had spent his entire life avoiding such things, his love was the sea and the knowledge that he led his people well. But he could not help but fall into the sea of his messenger's eyes as he rose to join Galdor in the tempest and wondered what it was he had denied himself.
"Come to me in four nights, when I return from the sea," Cirdan said, daring to reach out and touch the messenger's face, to stroke the soft, rain chilled cheek. "Come and we will talk. My emotions are like the sea. I cannot predict what they will be until I have ridden them out. Come to me and we will talk. That is all I can promise you now."
Galdor bowed his head with a ragged sigh of relief, genuflecting before the Shipwright as he took Cirdan's hand and pressed his forehead against it. Lightening crashed, illuminating the room and allowing Cirdan to burn the image into his mind. The silver-haired elf kneeling before him in love and affection as he raised his head and offered the evening's first smile, a joyous twist of his lips and a twinkle of starlight in his eyes that sped the beat of Cirdan's heart.
"That, milord, is more than I could ever have asked for."
The End
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