3441, Second Age. Plains of Dagorlad
Elrond stood silently beside the body of his lover and King with the last of his tears dried upon his cheeks, and his hands roamed lovingly one last time over the contours of Gil-Galad's still features. His fingers registered the cold, stiff skin, even as his mind rebelled. The contrast of memories and reality was a shock, but he'd become accustomed to the idea that Gil-Galad would not suddenly sit up with a wink and grin, announcing that it was but a cruel joke. A noise behind Elrond made him turn.
"Forgive me, Elrond, but it is time," Cirdan stood just behind the Standard Bearer. "You must remove Vilya from his hand."
Elrond turned his eyes to the elven ring and frowned. He did not want the ring, did not want the responsibility of owning such a powerful talisman. Taking the ring would obligate him in ways that he was not willing to accept at the moment. "Perhaps Amroth," he began.
"No, Elrond. You must be the one to take it. You are his heir. Cirdan moved forward. "Even if you reject the role of High King, you are the heir of the ring and it is your right, your duty."
"I do not want it," Elrond repeated.
"The ring? Or the kingship?" Cirdan lifted Gil-Galad's hand. "You may reject one, but not the other."
"I will accept Vilya, but you will not make me king. I will retreat to Imladris and those who wish it, may join me there. I will never again go to Lindon. I would never be comfortable sitting on his throne, ruling his people."
"They are your people, Elrond. Who will lead them, if you do not?"
"They will lead themselves, Cirdan. Even now they fracture and divide, squabbling among themselves. Look at Thranduil."
"Thranduil aches with the weight of his loss. Lindon will fall."
"Let it fall. I will go to my valley and there establish a place where men and elves and, aye, even dwarves can live side by side and learn and work."
Cirdan nodded gravely. "As you will it, Lord Elrond."
Elrond's eyes rose from Gil-Galad's face and he opened his mouth to deny the epithet. He could not. Even before the War, he had been a noble and lord and no matter how he felt at the moment, he would always be the title and he would always be expected to play that role. Reaching blindly, he grasped the hand that had been an instrument of pleasure and pain and strength for so many centuries. He placed his fingers on Vilya and tugged gently. The ring slid easily from the finger, as if knowing that her owner no longer had need of her. Elrond placed the ring on his finger and watched as fire flashed within the depths, as Vilya awoke. "Let this be done so that we may begin to heal."
Cirdan folded Gil-Galad's hands on his breast.
Gildor struggled in and out of the fog of unconsciousness. His dreams were hazy and frightening and he was glad when his eyes focused on the tent at last. Turning his head, he saw Erestor sitting beside Lindir and he frowned. Had the seneschal not moved at all?
"Lord Erestor?" Gildor's voice croaked horribly and he cleared his throat.
Erestor looked up at the sound. "Would you like some water?" His smile was tentative, distracted. Rising to his feet, he went the short way across the tent where he poured water into a cup without waiting for Gildor's confirmation. He returned and settled beside the young elf and helped him sit up enough to drink.
"Has Lindir not awakened?"
"No and the healers," Erestor hesitated. "We will be transporting the wounded tomorrow morning."
Gildor turned his head so that he could see Lindir. The sight of his friend's waxy complexion and the shallow rise and fall of his chest tore at his heart. "Where will they be taken?"
"Elrond has given permission to move the wounded to Imladris. Many of the survivors will go as well." Erestor moved back to Lindir's side.
"I did not realize you cared so much for him," Gildor struggled in to a sitting position. The pain of his wounds had abated and he felt better.
Erestor's cheeks flushed. "I am not prone to sharing my thoughts with just anyone, young one." He rebuked Gildor harshly.
Gildor was angered by Erestor's harshness but kept his peace. He had not meant the observation to be a criticism any more than he'd meant to pry in to matters of no concern to him. He turned away from Erestor and Lindir and watched the healers moving from patient to patient. They looked tired and frazzled and Gildor felt sorry for them. The tent was not as crowded as when he'd first woken and he wondered how many more had succumbed to their injuries. He rolled carefully to his knees and tested the strength of his legs.
"What are you doing?" Erestor inquired with alarm.
"Standing," Gildor answered as he rose shakily on legs made of water rather than flesh and bone. A hand came around his waist and he was grateful.
"You should not be standing yet," an unfamiliar voice spoke in his ear.
Gildor turned his head. "I feel better."
"Maybe, but you should rest while you can." The healer who'd first attended him answered.
"I will not allow myself to be overly taxed."
"No, you will not," Elrond came in to the tent and saw Gildor struggling to remain upright. "You will return to your pallet." He smiled to ease the sting of his words. "You are healing, young one, and need to rest. In time you will be well enough to move about on your own. In the meantime, allow others to take care of you."
Gildor had not seen Elrond since the battle and he was startled by the changes in his lord. The gray eyes were more somber and the wide expressive mouth grim. Gildor did not like the changes and desperately wanted to see a return of the seductively contagious smile and the sparkle that had so attracted him to Elrond. "I do not wish to be a burden, Lord Elrond. There are others here who need healers and I do not think I am one of them."
Elrond motioned the healer away. "Thank you, Faelon, I will take our unruly charge in hand." As the one called Faelon stepped away, Elrond placed his arm around Gildor's waist. "Come, sit back down."
Gildor only wanted to sink into the embrace but he did not allow his desire to show. Instead, he meekly obeyed the command. He wanted to tell Elrond how sorry he was about Gil-Galad, but couldn't find the words. "Lord Erestor has informed me that you are allowing the wounded respite in Imladris."
"Unless they have someone who speaks for
them, yes. Those who would rather return to Lindon, may. I know you have family,
Gildor. Perhaps you would rather be with them?"
Elrond knelt beside his charge and studied the pale skin and troubled eyes.
"I would be more comfortable among those who fought here than with those who stayed behind. Would it be possible to send word to my family that I survived?"
"I am taking care of such arrangements," spoke Erestor.
Gildor relaxed on his pallet while Lord Elrond knelt beside him. He dropped his voice to a low whisper so that only Elrond could hear. "My lord, is it permissible to express my condolences?"
A brief cold fire flared in the gray depths and then a mask dropped neatly in to place. "Thank you."
"Excuse me, Lord Elrond, but since you are here, there is one who defies all our efforts to heal him. Would you be so kind as to look in on him?" Faelon had returned and bent low. His long dark hair brushed Elrond's shoulders as he spoke.
"Of course." Elrond started to rise but stopped when Gildor clutched his hand. "Yes, Gildor?"
"Can you not see to Lindir?"
"I have," Elrond answered as gently as possible. He did not wish to hurt Gildor, but he could not shield him from the truth. "He needs time, but I fear time is something he may not have. The healers have worked hard to help him. We can but wait and see."
Gildor withdrew his hand and turned to stare at Lindir. "Thank you, Lord Elrond."
Acrid smoke hung thickly in the air and mingled with the remnants of Mordor's poisonous fumes as ash rained down like snow and dusted shoulders and hair. Flames licked greedily at bits of wood and other combustibles. Near the black gates, elves and men frantically piled the bodies of the slain enemy upon pyres while at the opposite end, their counterparts worked the even harder task of sorting men from elves and consigning each accordingly. Had those sorting through the armies of the Last Alliance been asked, they would say they preferred, would have gladly switched places with those whose task was to burn the enemies' dead. Meanwhile, those who handled the twisted remains of orc or the once elegant limbs of the Haraad, would have said their opposites had the easier task. And in the marsh, where cold water met soil, lay the bodies of noble elves and men, unrecoverable by best efforts, and so left behind.
By dawn the dead were accounted for. The men were divided in to two camps: those who would travel with the injured and those who would stay behind to guard Mordor. Isildur gathered about him such men as he wished. He chose trusted men whose council was accepted by his father and brother and warriors whose shields were strong and swords sharp.
Amroth collected his forces and his own wounded and with Cirdan close at hand, began the arduous trek to Lothlorien. The lord of the Gray Havens had not lost as many elves as some, though in his mind he'd lost more than enough. Before their departure, they stood before Elrond.
"If you should change your mind," Cirdan began, even as he saw Elrond's features set. "I will give backing to your suit."
"As would I, old friend." Amroth added.
Elrond shook his head. "I will not. I only wish to return to my valley and be at peace while I may. You know that as long as men hold the ring we are not safe. Some day, this will come to roost on our doorsteps."
"I pray you it will be long after the elves have departed these shores," declared Amroth.
Cirdan's face clouded for a moment. "Not all of our kind will have fled I fear, and there will come a time when once more, those who remain will face the darkness."
Amroth felt a chill slither ominously down his spine. "I pray that I will be safe upon the shores of the Undying Lands when such an event unfolds."
Cirdan said nothing in reply to Amroth and instead turned his attention to Elrond. "I pray you find the peace which you seek, my friend. And, when at last, you are ready to sail, so shall I be waiting to carry the last of the ring bearers over the sea."
Gildor was helped into a wagon and he scooted closer to Lindir. The elf was swaddled in a light blanket to ward off the early morning chill. His face was even more pale and drawn and his breathing so shallow that Gildor had to lay his head atop his breast to hear it. "Please do not fade yet." He whispered against the delicate ear.
Erestor swung into his saddle and stared resolutely over the line of wagons. There were so many being transported to Imladris that he wondered where they would all be housed. The compound was small, built for a unit of soldiers, not half the elven populous. He turned his dark eyes to Elrond. The Half-Elven would turn it around, he knew. None would suffer for lack of comfort in the Last Homely House and Erestor's lips threatened to turn up in a grin. His lord was determined that Imladris would be the last bastion of the elves.
Glorfindel rode up beside Erestor on his steed. His was the charge of guarding the caravan that would see the wounded to Imladris. "Are you so glad to depart this accursed place that you will laugh and giggle all the way to the hidden valley?"
"Aye, I am. But more than that, Glorfindel, more than that." Erestor tore his gaze from Elrond. "Look around, warrior. He has taken the remnants of Lindon and on this foundation will build something unequaled in Middle Earth."
"Have you the gift of foresight? I see only a shambles of a once great army fighting like a pack of hungry dogs over a rotten carcass."
Erestor was surprised at the level of bitterness displayed by Glorfindel. "Rejoice, my friend, for at last we have peace."
"We shall know nothing of peace as long as that one lives and as long as he holds that which is not his by right but which he claims." Glorfindel angled his chin at Isildur's retreating company.
Erestor pursed his lips. "He is blind to the dangers, but he is not evil, Glorfindel. Let him carry his trinket. The matter is no longer for the elves, I think. Lindon is fallen now that Gil-Galad has perished and we must concern ourselves with that which is elven, not mortal."
Glorfindel's features softened and his voice lowered. "Such as your young Lindir?"
"I am fond of him," hedged the other.
"Bah! Save it for those who know you not at all, Erestor. I see how you look at him and how you fawn over him." Glorfindel's fingers rested for a moment atop Erestor's hand. "So long as you do not hurt yourself with this deception."
"Deception? Nay, Glorfindel, tis no deception. Tis hope."
Elrond pushed his horse to the head of the long column and with a wave of his arm set the whole of it moving forward, away from the Dagorlad Plain and into their future. His face was sad and the wisdom of his lessons sat heavily upon his shoulders. Yet they did not stoop beneath the weight, nor was his back bent by his sorrow. His held he held high and his gray eyes sparkled with promise and determination.
Great clouds of dust rose around the legs of
horses and men and elves. The fine dust settled on the injured and they took
with them infinitesimal pieces of the War and Mordor. And the memories of
men would fade, though the elves would forever remember. At last there was
peace on the plain.
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