Fortunes of War

Summary: The death of Gil-galad leaves Elrond with a lot more than he thinks he can handle.

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Gil-galad was an Elven king.

Of him the harpers sadly sing:

the last whose realm was fair and free

between the Mountains and the Sea.�

His sword was long, his lance was keen,

his shining helm afar was seen;

the countless stars of heaven's field

were mirrored in his silver shield.�

But long ago he rode away,

and where he dwelleth none can say;

for into darkness fell his star

in Mordor where the shadows are.

-- The Fall of Gil-galad, as translated by Bilbo Baggins�

I. DEATH

The fortunes of war turn swiftly; from favouring one side to devastating them they shift, following courses unknown to combatants and onlookers alike. They guide the decisions of generals and throw down the obstacles facing heroes. Even the lowliest soldier is not immune from fortune's hand, for even their efforts make a difference.

Fortune's hand today guides Ereinion Gil-galad, deflecting the spears of a thousand Orcs as he pursues Sauron across the Mordor plain. The sky is darkened by grey clouds but light still illuminates the field, enough for Gil-galad to easily follow Sauron's trail. It is lined with debris - broken armour and discarded weapons. Ash covers the ground and hides the stones until the moving earth causes them to shake, thus spreading the ash over Gil-galad's boots. Even the air feels tainted with the smells of death and blood, but that is war, and fortune has decided today will be the day it shall end.�

Gil-galad reaches Sauron alongside Elendil; the N�men�rean stands tall alongside him with sword raised in a challenge to the Dark Lord. The siege of Barad-d�r is in its seventh year, and Sauron has emerged. The chance to end the siege by capturing the enemy's chief is too valuable to miss, and when the challenge is issued Gil-galad raises his spear. He, too, challenges Sauron's claim for dominion of Arda, and stands against him as High King of the Noldor. It is as if both races stand united against Sauron, and for a moment the clouds part; sunlight cursorily warms them. Somewhere someone cheers, but when the sound reaches Gil-galad it is muted as if a cry of mourning.�

Sauron's armour is the colour of coal and blends with the shadows caused by the sun's passing. He seems to Gil-galad to be part of the slope itself, for he is solid and his first attack is blocked. Heat surrounds him; the air feels heavy and weighs his arm down as he raises his spear to counter Sauron's sword. The impact of iron on mithril makes a dull sound unlike any Gil-galad has heard; the sweet song of mithril is tempered by the harshness of the vibrating sword and the next parry breaks it. The tip of Aeglos falls to the ground and melts there, as ice is consumed by heat and then absorbed by the dryness beneath it. Elendil falls beside him; the sword Narsil crunches beneath his weight and Gil-galad roars. His war-cry echoes and he hears it repeated as he raises the shaft of his spear. Sauron pushes it aside and moves in closer, but Gil-galad moves away from the reach of his arm. It is not enough; heat seems to penetrate him as if the hand of Sauron is itself a lance made from fire. Pain sears his body but the heat cauterises it soon after it flares. He sighs and raises his eyes to the West, breathing his f�a out and sending it in the direction of Mandos.�

Fortune had turned swiftly against Gil-galad, though Sauron was defeated for a time and his One Ring lost in shadow and myth. The fortunes of war, perhaps, favoured others; there was great loss in the ranks of the victorious Last Alliance, not least among them that of Ereinion Gil-galad, High King and valiant warrior.�

II. CHAOS

Responsibility falls heavily on Elrond; it lands on his shoulders with the grace of a m�mak and rests there. It is a burden he has no wish to bear and one that cannot be displaced or altered. Comfort seems to be denied him now; there is no room for it in his heart and those around him carry the weight of their own losses - too much weight to take on some of his own. Yet, sharing his burden seems a method beneath him; he is the one who must bear both burden and responsibility. He grieves for Gil-galad; he listens to the songs from the window of his room and cries when no one is there to see.

Elrond is the next in line; he should take the title of High King and rule the Noldor dwelling west of the Misty Mountains with dignity and pride. The title belonged to Gil-galad for over four thousand years; he cannot live up to the name or the honour in which the name is held. There is no one left to pass it to for the only other heirs in Arda are mortal, and grieve for their own rulers. He feels expectation holding his burden in place; as vice regent he must welcome those who wish to move from their homes in Lindon, leaving memories behind as their hurt dulls with the passage of time. Elrond cannot leave; he must wield Vilya and suppress his own pain for the grace of the Elves to endure.

With Gil-galad gone he is alone; without guidance for even the words of Galadriel feel meaningless in his mind. He does not understand though he has lived through war and seen the fortunes work as they will; how can a life so long and vibrant end so swiftly, in an instant through a single movement? He is as leaderless as the Elves who enter the Hidden Vale and wonder at the beauty of the Imladrin halls and as adrift as the souls of Men once they leave this realm. �

The air is cool now that the season has turned and he shivers; he crosses his arms over his chest and turns away from the trees. His desk is littered with papers both clean and marked; his account of Gil-galad's death and the ending of the siege is yet to be written. He has done little in the time since he returned from Mordor, a place he does not wish to see again even in his mind. Those of the army who have already returned do not need his assistance but for the settling of issues of the Alliance and replacing the stores they took with them when they left for the long war.�

Elrond has never felt despair before but now he is lost within himself; seeking strength he does not have in order to sustain himself for just another day. Perhaps he used the last of it for yesterday, or the day before; perhaps that is why the leaves framing his balcony turn to brown and fall as he paces his room, hair unbound and robe held against his skin as if a ward to the chill. There is much to be done, but it is a responsibility that he has never been prepared to bear and one that a Peredhel should not be the one to hold.�

Yet there was nobody else, and the fortunes laid the burden onto Elrond, for his greatest deeds were yet to come. That too was a burden, the knowledge that he could not leave these lands and seek peace in the Undying Lands with those of his friends who were leaving or had already left.

The mithril circlet around his head weighs his head down and he rests it in his hands. Gil-galad had always guided him; had been friend and mentor and commander. Now Elrond needs to be those to both himself and his people, and has no time to learn how to say his farewells.�

III. CALM

The hand on his shoulder is not unexpected; the presence of another had not passed unmarked though Elrond had not consciously noticed the approach. The path of introspection leads his senses inwards but does not dull them to the sound of footsteps or the sound of hair moving under the pressure of a breath. His visitor does not hide from him; the touch startles him but he does not flinch.

No words are spoken when the Elf's hands begin to comb the tangles from Elrond's hair. He is gentle and methodic; Elrond leans his head back into the Elf's touch but does not turn. The Elf smells of oil and metal and horse, while his hands are warm and the fingertips feel rough on the back of Elrond's neck.

"We all grieve for Gil-galad. He would not want to see you so," says the Elf, and Elrond recognises him as Glorfindel. He had fought alongside Glorfindel only weeks before; he had seen Glorfindel slaughter efficiently and cleanly, yet Glorfindel still holds himself straight and projects an air of delicacy. Glorfindel is gentle and his presence calming. "If we do not allow ourselves to feel the grief it will not fade from our hearts." Glorfindel sets the circlet back on Elrond's head, and begins to set the braids around it that will hold it in place.

While Glorfindel is braiding a new pair of hands come to rest on Elrond's shoulders and slowly rub the muscles there. "You are our lord now," says Erestor, "but you need to let Gil-galad's death go before you can lead us. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it." Even the counsellor had followed Elrond to Mordor, and stayed at his side when his family had chosen to sail West.

"We will not let you bear this responsibility alone," Glorfindel says; his voice is low and he speaks from close to Elrond's ear. The first touch of Glorfindel's tongue causes Elrond to tense and remain still, but Glorfindel licks from Elrond's ear to the hollow of his neck, and he relaxes. Erestor is in front of Elrond now, hands on his waist as Glorfindel's body presses against his back. The air begins to weigh as heavily as his burden as they still, watching each other until the first move is made. Erestor reaches for Glorfindel and Glorfindel moves to stand between Erestor and Elrond, his robe removed. Elrond feels bereft; when Glorfindel was behind him he had been warm, and now Glorfindel leans in and kisses him.�

The first tear falls when Glorfindel pulls away; arching his body as Erestor enters him and sighing deeply once Erestor is comfortable. Elrond watches as Erestor's hands move over Glorfindel's stomach and then downwards. Glorfindel's penis stands out already, but Erestor tugs on it while Glorfindel pushes the robe from Elrond's shoulders. He does not think when Glorfindel guides him close and wraps his hand around them both; instead he feels his penis sliding against Glorfindel's and the pressure of Glorfindel's palm while Erestor grips his shoulder. He joins their slow rhythm and sways with them; the unthinking part of his mind occupied with images of fire and ash while all he knows is the touch of Elven skin and the cleanness of the Imladrin air.

He cries for the beauty left in Arda that Gil-galad will never see as he reaches for Erestor's hip and places the other hand on Glorfindel's shoulder. Glorfindel's free hand slides over Elrond's back; Elrond moans as he comes and then he cries on Glorfindel's shoulder with Erestor's hand in his hair. He has not thought of Gil-galad, but the tears flow for him; as if by no longer thinking Elrond is able to grieve without the distraction of responsibility.�
�

The fortunes of war work swiftly; they shift in the favour of the side they wish to win. Elrond yet has a role to play in the events to shape Arda; he knows not what the future holds but he knows the touch of friendship and the despair of responsibility. Fortunes may change, but the essence of life, the f�a, always survives, and when balmed by touch it becomes stronger.

The fortunes have forgiven Elrond and shown him the way past his grief. They will call on him again before long, in the days where Arda is threatened once more. For now, though, he feels calm, and he feels grief.

The End