Request: apricot(s), horses without saddles and bridles.

Summary: Elrond and Gil-Galad from beginning to end.

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They meet in the orchards, where trees are grown in well ordained rows before the walls of Mithlond, beneath the late summer sky. Gil-Galad's long robes trail in the long, slightly wet grass where wild flowers are still allowed to grow. His aide hovers, uncertain, in the background. The sky is blue-grey, low, swollen, faintly threatening, yet a diffuse light bathes the place, and strikes the walls of the city with unusual whiteness.

Elrond appears rather suddenly, as though emerging from the long grass itself. He is dressed in practical clothes, dull green and grey, his black hair is tossed about by the wind. Gil-Galad's aide retreats, watches as these two silhouettes draw close together, bend into each other's embrace. They wander for a while in the wind-filled orchard. The air whistles sharply in their ears. Gil-Galad wraps one strong arm around Elrond's shoulders, holds him close. When they come the apricot trees he raises his arm to pluck one small, rare piece of fruit (the exotic, precariously transplanted into Lindon's climate.)

The fruit is half-sweet, half-sour, teasing with the sting of remembrance. They eat, deliberately turning their backs to the city, and linger in this land in-between, between city, walls and the lands that stretch to the mountains and beyond into uncharted wildness. Soon they must part again. Gil-Galad, shielding his lover's from sight, presses one brief, tender kiss to his lips; Elrond lays his brows upon his lover's chest for one short moment. Then they part. Gil-Galad hitches his trailing robes up. Elrond is gone.


The F�anorians' army emerges from the mist on one rainy day. Their dark forms shift in and out of the deep white fog. Then their banner is raised high and proud - although on closer inspection it shows itself worn out and dull, in tatters. The men's faces, too, as they come closer, are lean and hard, desperate faces in whose eyes a cold, fierce fire burns. The rain falls hard on them all.

Does the boy strike him at once ? He rides close to Maedhros � whose esquire he is. Gil-Galad cannot see him very well beyond the curtain of the rain. Whether human or elven he cannot tell, in the F�anorians' mixed company. He seems very young, even by human standards. Water falls into Gil-Galad's eyes and clings to his lashes, so that he ceases to look for individual faces, and does not see his twin brother, who stands on the other side of the sons of F�anor. But still � the boy's eerie beauty and thoughtful, intense gaze lingers in his mind. When he is told that the sons of E�rendil yet live as the fosterlings of Maedhros and Maglor, he knows instantly that he must be one of them.

Then the War of Wrath comes fast upon them � a divine, cosmic war of which they are but the foot-soldiers and yet whose harshness and horror they must experience to the full. It is a dark time, when war rages even into the heavens. And yet for Gil-Galad it is also the beginning of his acquaintance with the sons of E�rendil � and that, perhaps, is light enough. They still live with the sons of F�anor, whom they love fiercely, incomprehensibly. From their strange upbringing they have inherited a F�anorian mixture of wildness and refinement, ancient courtesy and lore mingling with disturbing rashness � in unequal parts: for under Elros' youthful surface a king already appears. Elrond is a wilder creature, unfathomable.

But it does not stop Gil-Galad from trying to � fathom him, measure and embrace. For a while the Peredhil serve as ambassadors between the F�anorians and the armies of Balar. Gil-Galad takes time to speak with them. He walks Elrond back to the limits of his camp, lingers with him, for a little while, in the no-man's land between armies that are not quite enemies and not quite allies. They talk � a little � Elrond is reserved, Gil-Galad, cautious. (Attraction, of course, is already there. Yet Gil-Galad keeps his heart firmly closed over his nascent desire. The half-elf is young � and yet may not live much longer by Elven reckoning. Gil-Galad watches anxiously for signs of age on his handsome, unreadable face.)

And he gives him apricots too, dried and sweet. They apricots come from Valinor, Gil-Galad says, a small gift from the armies of the West (although they grow far to the East of Middle-Earth as well.) The armies of the West have not seen fit to distribute their bounty to the F�anorians, Elrond answer, tasting the fruit, which he finds to be good, bestowing on Gil-Galad one of the rare, bright smiles he usually reserves for his brother and foster-fathers.

Then they are parted again. Elrond is given command of the mannish army under Maedhros. Gil-Galad is busy enough on his own. And then the War is ended, although the line that parts winners and losers is windy and treacherous. When the sons of F�anor flee with the Silmarils Elrond goes after them. It is also he who brings news of his foster-fathers' suicide and exile, riding back one evening, shadows shifting on his grim, unreadable face. Then he stays with his brother, sees only him, fights with him, leaves with some raggle-taggle, haggard and ragged, band of Men, comes again. Gil-Galad watches from afar, one of many who have taken to heart the fate of those two strange, wonderful youths in whom the blood of so many noble lines mingles. The Peredhil, it is widely whispered, will choose the path of Men; Gil-Galad represses the keening pain that this news unexpectedly rouses.

But then Elrond chooses the path of Elves � with obvious reluctance, for some reason that he never once discloses � and Gil-Galad feels weak with relief and joy. Elros leaves for his Valar-given land, and Gil-Galad would barely notice it � save that Elrond is gone again with his wild company. They say the youth is half-fey with grief and loneliness. They say that surely none of this must come to a good end.

And yet � one morning before dawn Elrond rides into Mithlond, as the sky begins to lighten in the East, throwing the outline of the Havens' towers and arches into sharper relief. Gil-Galad is just walking out of the royal house, and watches him, whistling to the crisp, pure morning air, thinking that he may yet catch his elusive star.


And he does. It happens one bright afternoon in late summer. A large party rides out of Mithlond on tall horses with bells in their manes; they ride through fields under the morning sun, and at noon they stop on the eaves of a wood to rest in the shade. Blankets are spread on the grass, food and wine, and harps, and flutes are taken from saddle-bags. Gil-Galad watches Elrond, who sits a little apart, watchful and pensive. He has been staying in Lindon for longer than usual, held there by sickness (nothing serious � although it did painfully remind Gil-Galad of the Peredhel's human blood, of his vulnerability) and lingering during his convalescence. Gil-Galad watches him as he reclines, sipping sweet wine as he basks in this summer's warmth, his face, framed by black, gleaming hair, tilted towards the sun, his eyes shut. Every now and then the youth re-opens his eyes, looks slowly around. Once his gaze falls upon Gil-Galad, lingers for a while with strange intensity. Then he looks elsewhere again, closes his deep, grey eyes again. After a while he gets up, walks between groups of reclining elves towards the forest, disappears behind the trees. Gil-Galad waits for a while before he follows him. The sounds of the feast die behind him as he walks into the cool, shady wood. He wanders through the trees as in daze, and as in a dream comes upon the Peredhel, who stands beside the horses, stroking one who nuzzles back. Ereinion stares a little, takes one step closer; a twig breaks under his foot; as one, horse and Peredhel flinch. The horse shuffles suddenly back, and Elrond looks up at him, startled.

They gaze at each other for a while. Elrond is silent, his eyes keen and piercing, as grey as steel. Ereinion's heart flutters strangely in his chest, like a pinned bird, quite wild and dizzy with hope. One horse neighs softly, breaks the spell. Ereinion turns away, and yet �

'Would you ride with me, my lord ?' Elrond suddenly says.

Ereinion smiles to himself, his back still turned.

'I do not have my saddle with me,' he answers, and then turns. 'Nor have you, apparently.'

Elrond flashes him one of his rare, brilliant smiles, and the summer sun above, shining through the leaves, is no more radiant than he.

'We do not need them.'

So they climb atop their horses. Ereinion grips his horse's flanks with his knees and buries his fingers in its mane. Then, suddenly, Elrond darts past him, clinging to his horse's mane as he lies almost flat upon its back. Ereinion follows almost without volition.

They fly through the wood, going ever deeper, from darkest shade to sunlit spot, they ride hard, light flickering over them, wind whistling in their ear, leaves whispering, green and dark and gold, streaming past, limbs hard and clenched, danger, speed, jumping over a shimmering brook, a blade of silver that goes not faster than them, as they ride ever further, thoughts extinguished and streaming out of their heads like ribbons to be tangled in boughs and limbs, nothing but limbs, effort burning flesh and the living flesh of the animal beneath them with whom they are but one one burning trail of flesh through the dark green gold wood.

They come to a sudden halt in a sunlit clearing, bright and green, chests heaving, panting, their horses' coats soaked in sweat. Ereinion bends over to catch his breath, and when he looks up he sees that Elrond is gazing at him with a smile, and grins back at him. He dismounts, his limbs still strangely burning and full of tremors, and himself brimming over with some inexpressible joy. Not a word passes between them, yet they stand before each other. Ereinion gazes with a renewed awe at the half-elven youth, at his lips, half-open in a smile, at his high cheek-bones glowing and stained with a flush by exercise, at this faintest sheen of sweat in the hollow where his heaving, vulnerable throat joins his chest, at his eyes, into whose bright, grey depths the leaves cast green, shifting shadows. Then he kisses him. It is a little like falling. He sways slightly, wraps one arm around the Peredhel as though to support himself, clasping him hard against his chest, and then holding him with both arms against him as though make him a part of himself. The youth does not resist but hangs loosely in his embrace, one arm tight around his neck, fingers entwining in his hair.

They break apart for air, but not for long, and this time although Ereinion still holds Elrond tight with one arm his other hand undoes the youth's shirt and pushes it from his shoulders so that he can touch this warm, living, beloved flesh, and undoes his own tunic so that nothing can come between them. They sink to the ground, and the sun-warmed grass. Elrond flinches once as Ereinion is about to enter him, but then lifts up his face to be kissed. Ereinion buries his face in his lover's neck, kissing his warm skin and the beating pulse at his throat. Afterwards they lie still in the sun. Elrond rests his head on Ereinion's chest; Ereinion splays his hand over his ribcage to feel his breathing slow steadily down, cradles him very close, running his other hand through black, sweat-soaked hair, over and over. He stares up at the sun, whose light soaks him through, so that his very flesh is light and his mind bliss, golden, sunlit bliss in the midst of a shady wood. Through many dark nights afterwards this light shines through, the hard, bright kernel of his life.


And so Gil-Galad tames his bright, lonesome half-elf. He still feels oddly protective � having perhaps caught glimpses, in that one first time of surrender, of terrors usually hidden, and which he feigns not to see � fears of loss and abandonment, of not being quite good enough, less than a blazing stone ? So he loves him, and holds him, and unwittingly distils some fatherly protectiveness, some brotherly affection into a lover's deep desire. (And yes, at times his tenderness is shot through by darker greed for the Elrond's love, and then yes, he relishes the Peredhel's solitude with savage joy, that Elrond should be his, and his alone � then compassion resumes its rule, and closes over, as a wound closes, over this deep chasm.)

And he caresses the youth's restless energies into purpose, though it costs him. Elrond still goes out on lonely rides into the wildernesses of Eriador, but now he is not a wild outlaw, but on an errand for his king, and his king's council � gathering information on the mortal inhabitants of this land (kin, he says, although they bear little resemblance to the Eldar-taught Edain) and earning their trust. Gil-Galad bites back his ever bitterer frustration for months, and feels even keener delight when his love returns to him. Elrond proves to be a brilliant loremaster. Gil-Galad likes to creep on him as he writes, thoroughly engrossed in his work � whether it be a treatise on the tongues of Men or on the plants that grow in Eriador � to watch the keen purpose in those eyes, the firm advance of a skilled (how skilled !) hand upon paper. He wraps one arm around the half-elf's waist and pulls him close, kissing the side of his neck repeatedly, hungrily, muttering nonsense. (But not for long � theirs is a love of secret meetings, outside the city, in the blue shadow of the mountains, love in wild places � but to Gil-Galad the most wretched cottage, the narrowest bed, even the roughest wooden floor, is luxury enough when Elrond lies down upon it.)

Every time Elrond leaves, he puts dried apricots in his pack, wrapped in a rag, each time in a different place. It must be a surprise, he reflects, and in the long nights he pictures his half-elf, finding the fruit quite at random, tasting its sweetness, and remembering him, in some makeshift camp under the wanderers' moon.


Then come distressing news from Eregion, and his council gathers in haste � for surely something must be done, some army must be sent � led by whom ? Gil-Galad hears in growing horror their arguments unfold, knowing with dreadful certainty what their final decision must be, knowing himself to be powerless against them � for he himself knows the wisdom of that choice (is not it commonly known that Elrond, to whom Maedhros himself taught the art of war, and whom he took as his lieutenant, is among the finest swordsman in the land, and despite his young age, a clever strategist, one who knows Eriador best of all, and must receive help from its mortal clans ? And Gil-Galad wonders � has he himself helped contrive this hideous plot ?)

Besides, their unanimous choice is sovereign. And Elrond is willing, eager to help and fight. So Gil-Galad agrees, wishing he could find some tower in which to lock his lover. Elrond and his troops leave early one morning, as the sky is beginning to brighten. Thick, dark, irregular scarves of clouds lie low above the horizon. Gil-Galad watches as the rising sun lights their crests with a thin line of golden fire, as dark expanses of clouds turn to nebulous, dizzy whiteness. Elrond's company grows smaller and smaller, and melts into the horizon.

Elrond, if anything, is a survivor, Gil-Galad tells himself, he survived the end of the First Age, when all of Beleriand lay under the shadow of Morgoth � and he was but a child then. (Good reasons keep him sane during the day. At night he lies writhing in his bed, haunted by a thousand hideous thoughts.) The Peredhel sends short, hastily-scribbled, grim letters, letters from a general to his king. In the end they contain little more than cryptic maps, and the rough accountancy of war � the numbers of the living and the dead.

Then nothing at all. Gil-Galad thinks he will go mad with anguish. He sends forth messengers, but they cannot go far into war-ravaged Eriador. Then war comes fast to Lindon, and he is busy enough with fighting. One year passes in desperate defence, thoughts of Elrond torment him in his sleep, spring unwanted through the day, he would know it if Elrond were dead, would feel it in his breast, he would die instantly, one year goes by and they have little hope, long gone are the ships that went to N�menor and Sauron is on the shore of Lh�n.

Then the N�men�reans come, and save the day. Gil-Galad fights as in a daze as Sauron backs before their might, and flees. Nothing but an army deserted by its master troubles Eriador now, and so they turn their wrath upon it. It is a fell day, and the harsh sun sheds its light upon burnt fields stained red by the blood of men, and elves, and orcs. He fights, victorious and desperate, as a scarlet sun sinks towards the ground. The enemy still holds strong.

Then the sound of great horns is heard in the east, that makes the Orcs shudder, strike their rough swords and shields together in fierce despair. Gil-Galad watches, amazed, as an army rides from the East, bearing a dozen of different, ragged banners. The enemy is crushed between them. The two armies meet � the proud N�men�reans, and the Elves of Lindon, and that strange company of Men, and Elves, and even Dwarves ? Gil-Galad hears in amazement as word of a secret refuge spreads.

Then Elrond is before him, carrying a bloodied sword in one hand, and a ragged blue and silver banner in the other. He looks thoroughly exhausted, dusty and bruised, and he is smiling at him, the dying sun in his eyes. Gil-Galad's heart lurches in his chest, and he himself springs forwards before he knows it, and embraces him as tightly as he can, supporting his loosened limbs, his collapsing frame. He hears a distant sound as both sword and banner clatter to the ground, and cares not at all.

They go to Imladris. Later Gil-Galad laughingly admits that its secret will not be betrayed by him, for he cannot remember the way to it, having been to entirely engrossed by his lover to care about so mean a matter. They spend many months there. Gil-Galad spends the first few days in a daze of relief. Elrond, for the greater part, sleeps, as though meaning to catch up on years of insomnia, and Gil-Galad contents himself with watching over him, cradling him against his own weary body as they lie on a settee beneath a late afternoon's sun, listening to the song of running water in the distance and the twitter of birds. In silent wonder he runs his war-rough hand over Elrond's bruised, beautiful, thoroughly peaceful face. (And when he wakes ? Then, of course, Gil-Galad must feed him apricots, which he has so missed throughout these last five years.)


Imladris is a fair place, at once more martial and less formal than Lindon. Its people would go to war willingly under Elrond's command, and die for him, he feels, but in the meantime he lets them do as they please � formalities are scarce, hierarchies of the loosest kind. It is a pleasant place.

Yet it offers only a short respite, a lull in the great, pitiless workings of the world, that draw them apart. Rulers assemble in what they call the first White Council, and here Gil-Galad is but one lord among many others, who although they do not bear a crown, are rich in renown, power ans wisdom. His own grand-aunt and her husband are here, the Noldo princess and the prince of Doriath, serene gold and silver, Cirdan who fostered him, Amdir of Lorien and his son Amroth, moody Oropher and Thranduil, once nobles of Doriath, now rulers of Silvan Elves, and lords of men, noblemen of Numenor and little kings of Eriador, and Elrond himself, whom he watches take his place with an odd sense of pride.

Once again Gil-Galad listens as their logic wreaks his happiness, as these wise men and women, unknowing, tear his heart from his chest. Of course a stronghold must be kept in Eriador, and wrecked Eregion will never do. Imladris it must be, then, fair and secret Imladris which resisted the assaults of Sauron and his armies; and who should rule it but its founder, Elrond Peredhel ? Throughout the council Elrond keeps glancing at him, in almost invisible outbursts of fretfulness, as though expecting him to speak against this plan at any moment, standing up without a care for the censuring gaze of so many great princes. But Gil-Galad does not speak against this. Imladris, he says, and Elrond, will have the full support of Lindon, and whomsoever shall wish to live there will be allowed to do so; and certainly craftsmen and soldiers will be encouraged to dwell there, if only during a few years.

At night they lie in Elrond's bed. Gil-Galad caresses his lover roughly, pins him to the bed under his heavier frame, kisses him through the tears that clog his throat. Elrond clings to him, muffling a sob of pain as Gil-Galad enters him, and still gripping him hard, before keening in pleasure. Even in sleep Gil-Galad holds him tight, his fingers tangled in Elrond's black, damp tresses, Elrond's mouth fast against his throat.

One last thing he does � almost as vengeance. It is the morning before he leaves; he has risen before the sun, leaving Elrond to slumber in their common bed, has clad himself in a riding garb of royal blue and light leather. He sits on a settee, lost in thought, and through the uneven glass of the windows he watches as dawn creeps through Imladris, scarlet and gold, revealing the blue, clear expanse of the sky above the valley. In time Elrond wakes as well, shuffles sleepily out of bed and beside him, his shirt open, his hair tangled and dishevelled, nestling close in an unusual show of tenderness, to fall asleep again in his lover's arms. He barely reacts when Gil-Galas pushes him upright and in one deft movement pulls the thin, silver chain about his neck. There is a flare of blue, and then Elrond is wide awake, recoiling sharply � but Gil-Galad holds his shoulder firmly with one hand, and the other he sets upon his chest, trapping the ring between his palm and the living flesh beneath, sapphire digging into skin, a heart beating madly beneath a ring of gold. This too � to give him Vilya � is a reasonable thought, a political decision, the thing to do � but now he merely watches him impassively, as if to say: this is the price you pay for abandoning me. Then suddenly even this stale satisfaction is gone. Later they will talk but for now he merely clasps Elrond to his chest to feel his heartbeat slow down again; kisses his lips, his brow, kisses his frightened eyes shut.


And then ? Sourness taking over. The hard core, the poisonous almond. What else is there but to live with it, to live without him ? Gil-Galad goes back to Lindon, alone in the midst of his great, victorious army. He rules as before. Missing Elrond is a dull, never relenting pain. He wonder if that is what amputees feel. He remembers Maedhros, absently touching the air where his hand used to be, even after all these years reaching to grasp something with fingers that were not here; not unlike his arrested impetus, the dreary hollowness that he feels when he goes into his empty room, turns over in his bed, caressing a ghost and then nothing at all.

Sometimes jealousy seizes him like a fit that has him growling and flailing, darkness preying on his mind and he knows, knows with lethal certainty that Elrond must be unfaithful to him, and that if he were before him he would surely slay him � then the darkness recedes, a veil is cast from before his eyes, his limbs loosen until he must sits down, a large, empty husk. And everything goes on. There are a few meetings � very rare, and very secret, in the wild places of Eriador. Love-making and silent embraces, in a land untouched by Man or Elf. In the evening the sky is pale blue and gold. They sit in the long grass, listening to its faint, peaceful rustle. They linger where there is nothing but land and sky. From Lindon he sends a cart-load of apricot preserves every year.


Then war comes again. They gather in Imladris and for all the trouble and care of the previous years Gil-Galad's sight seems to clear. In spite of himself he lets the tremors of war drums crawl into him, that make his heart beat faster to their martial rhythms. A great army assembles in Imladris, Elves and Men, and they burn the nights in feverish plans. This is war, Gil-Galad reminds himself, a great machine of death that they are engineering, if in defence, and yet a small, hateful part of him only rejoices, because he is with Elrond again.

They march to Mordor, joined on the way by Lorien, the Greenwood, and Gondor. Elrond spends much time with his human kin, these stern, majestic kings and princes who remember their now sunken star-shaped home � a far cry from Elros' majesty, Gil-Galad thinks, but he can well understand Elrond's attraction. And the N�men�reans are fascinated by him too � that this youthful man should be the twin brother of their legendary king is an endless source of wonder. From the marshes and into the dusty plains of Mordor they march and fight. Then the siege begins, the endless, exhausting siege. Reckless assaults. Lethal tedium. The uneasy task of keeping the Alliance together. Dust into their eyes and under their skin, clogging their throats. Stale water, rotten air.

Gil-Galad and his heriwald often discuss strategies late into the night; and the half-elf, who does not have the resilience of the Elves, is commonly known to be too exhausted to go back to his own tent, so that the king often lets him sleep in his. Which is not the whole truth, of course, but not wholly false. Often enough Gil-Galad pries maps from Elrond's trembling hands and drags him to his cot in spite of his own tiredness. They sleep deeply entangled in each other's arms. Gil-Galad seems to learn to love Elrond again � not only the bright, valiant soul but also this precious flesh upon which the tale of their battles and suffering imprints itself. With the back of his hand he caresses Elrond's sleeping face, bones and bruises, the thread of air between his slightly parted lips (he has cut short his hair one evening, annoyed by its tangled, dirty mass. It gives him a mannish, boyish even, oddly vulnerable air � as though he were Elendil's third, too young, most beautiful son.) In the dim, grey, silent dawn Gil-Galad lies still and dreams of a hesitant future in which Sauron is defeated and there is no need for Imladris, no rings of power hanging from their necks, not even a king and a lord. He dares not think of death, although death is all about him.


In the end everything is simple. Sauron comes to the field and Gil-Galad knows that the end is nigh. When Elendil is slain Isildur and Elrond rush forth as one. The first blow sends Isildur crumbling at Sauron's feet. The next stroke is for Elrond, who flies sideways and crashes to the ground like a broken thing. He lies there, unconscious. There is sweat again at the hollow of his exposed throat. Blood runs in a slight rivulet down his temple and blooms upon his cheek. Sauron raises his arm to kill.

This, too, is a little like falling. Gil-Galad steps before him. Aiglos barely scratches the enemy's armour, and falls from his hand. Then pain crashes through him and he collapses.

He is facing Elrond. Even for this, through the pain that fills his broken body to the brim, he is grateful. He simply gazes upon his love's face, bright grey eyes shut. He wonders if he is already dead. He is barely aware of Isildur, who in defiance of death rears up like a wounded lion, and strikes Sauron's hand. Something tremendous happens. But he is too distant now. There is so little of him already, and all of it lingers about Elrond's erratic heart.


(He does not even weep. He does not feel. He cannot even sleep. They take him away from Mordor, guiding him carefully, like a mad, ravaged thing. They take him back to Imladris. It is like slipping from a dream. Some mad, ravaged, feverish dream.

He thinks he can still see him sometimes, in the distance, turning away � his tall, broad silhouette like a pillar of strength, something to cling to. I will not be so flawed this time, he wants to say.

Years, decades, centuries afterwards, the thought of him still has the power to fell him, to send him staggering into some distant place, away from wife, children, friends, to send him to his knees, blind, gasping, half dead with pain until he lies against the cold ground.

In some hidden cupboard, hundreds of jars of apricot preserves sit in the dust.)


They ride on horses without bridles and saddles, to some distant place that bears no name. They fall into the grass where there is nothing but the featureless land to embrace them and the deep sky to shelter them.

Elrond lies in the cradling grass, and looks up at Ereinion � the firm lines of his broad, faintly golden back, the resolute curve of his jaw, the glow upon his cheek, the crown of his brown-haired head, that the dying sun touches with gold. They will wait until the sun goes down.