Chapter Text
Gil-Galad watched the young elf making his way across the camp, carrying far more wood than someone his size ought to be. He tilted his head, wondering what on Arda had inspired the boy to attempt – and seemingly achieve – such a mad and impossible task. Not too possible though, as Gi-Galad was watching he stumbled and fell, smashing to his knees on the ground and landing with a soft, pained cry. Without thinking the Elven King was on his feet and rushing to help him, bending over him to ensure that he didn't try to lift the heavy load. "Let me take that for you."
The young elf looked up at him, and their eyes met. With a jolt Gil-Galad realized that he did, in fact, know him. "Elrond!" he said happily, smiling warmly.
Since much of their land had fallen into the sea the Noldor had been forced to move from their home by the sea. It was at that time that Elrond had stumbled into their camp with his tragic story. His foster parents had left him; Maedhros falling to his death, and Maglor returning to him and his brother with enough time to tell them of Maedhros' fate and that he was no longer fit to care for them. Elrond had spent time with his brother – who had chosen a mortal's life (and, ultimately, death) – but when he had sailed and left Arda for his new island, Elrond had gone in search of his only remaining kin.
Gil-Galad had always considered himself lucky that Elrond had opted not to follow the remaining Feanorian. Shortly after Elrond arrived at their camp was when Eönwë had warned them of the eminent sinking of the land. If Elrond had gone after Maglor he could have been caught in the flooding and drowned, which was what many suspected to be Maglor's fate. The king had been too busy to watch after him, and had given him to Fegman to look after. He was rather ashamed to admit that, in the chaos that come with mass evacuation, he had completely forgotten about Elrond, and hadn’t managed to check up on him.
"Peredhel!" he cried out, smiling at Elrond and helping him to his feet. "Are you well?"
Elrond flinched at the contact, pulling away slightly and dusting off his pants, frowning at the dirt stains. "My apologies, your highness," he said, "I did not mean to cause you trouble."
"Trouble?" Gil-Galad asked, his eyebrow raised. "There's no trouble Elrond," he promised, grabbing half of the firewood that the young half-elf had been carrying. "Let me help you with that." Any excuse not to return to their dull meetings and Cirdan’s concerned gaze was good enough for him, and he truly did feel guilty about having forgotten to check on Elrond’s wellbeing.
"No!" Elrond cried, grabbing for the wood. "Y- you don't need to. Truly."
Gil-Galad ignored him, holding tighter to his bundle and shaking his head. "Elrond, I insist," he said. He paused for a moment, and then said, "Don't make me make it an order."
He meant it in jest, but perhaps he was out of touch enough that people didn't find such things funny. Elrond immediately bowed his head and looked at his feet, falling silent. "Thank you," he whispered.
Gil Galad nodded and followed Elrond across the camp, carrying the wood to where ever it was he had been going. "Anytime. How are you? Well, I should hope?"
"Very." He didn't sound, or look, very well. Elrond had thinned, but that could easily be attributed to stress and the hardship of their journey. He had lost everything, after all.
Gil-Galad felt guilty for having left him, and placed his hand on his shoulder, saying, "Perhaps you would care to take supper with me?" Someone of Elrond’s lineage could not be left to his own devices, even if Fegman had some noble blood himself.
Elrond shook his head. "I don't wish to be a bother," he said quietly.
"You could never be a bother."
"You've done enough for me already," Elrond replied, still eyeing the wood in Gil-Galad’s hands as though debating how to reclaim it. "I really couldn't take any more of your time."
A warning bell sounded in Gil-Galad's head. He remembered Elrond being optimistic, even as he had first introduced himself and told his tale; even as Eönwë had questioned him about Maglor's whereabouts; even as he had told them he had nowhere to go. Elrond had even managed to smile several times during that terse conversation, and yet, now he was staring at the ground, shoulders slumped as though a great weight was bearing down on him.
"Please. It would be a great honor."
Elrond stopped beside a tent, setting the wood down and digging his toe into the ground. He was wearing the same shoes he had arrived in, and one of the few tunics he had brought, both of which were threadbare and worn looking. It was nearing wintertime, Gil-Galad had ordered that the warm clothes they had be passed out and shared among everyone, but it seemed Elrond had not gotten any himself. Something was very much not right, and Gil-Galad frowned as he asked, "Where's Fegman?"
Elrond swallowed, but pointed wordlessly to a tent down the row. Gil-Galad placed his hand on Elrond's shoulder. "Come with me."
"Have I done something wrong?"
"No."
"Then may I leave? I need to fetch more wood."
"No." Gil-Galad stopped outside the tent Elrond had pointed to. "Wait here," he told him, and slipped inside.
Fegman was a short, dark haired elf of Noldorin descent. Although Gil-Galad had never been overly fond of him, he was a hard and efficient worker so he had tolerated his secrecy and quirks. He had remarked once – thinking his king was not present – that it was a shame Gil-Galad wasn't purely Noldorin. Gil-Galad had pretended not to hear, and let the matter drop. Cirdan had never liked him, saying he was rude and callous to the Tellerin dock workers. Given those habits perhaps placing a man of mixed elven and mortal blood under his care had been a mistake, but Gil-Galad had had other things to worry about at the time, and Fegman had sounded sincere when he had offered to watch over him.
"Fegman?" he asked.
The elf looked up from the charts he was squinting at. "Yes, your highness?"
"The peredhel I placed under your care, what have you done with him?"
"I put him to work sir," Fegman replied, setting down the chart. "He ought to be fetching firewood for the cooks, if he's not lazing about looking at a book again or asking too many damn questions."
Gil-Galad sighed and folded his arms over his chest. "Did I tell you to put him to work?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "I asked you to take care of him, Elrond is a prince Fegman."
"He's half a mortal," was the stubborn reply, "and close enough to the treacherous Sindar that I don't trust him."
Gil-Galad wasn't thinking, his muscles acting of their own will as he grabbed Fegman's collar and lifted him into the air, snarling, "My mother is a Sindar, Fegman. And that boy is worth several of you."
The captured Noldo blinked, staring at his king as though he couldn't quite fathom how he came to be hanging from Gil-Galad's clenched fist. "You never said to give him the gloved treatment."
Gil-Galad dropped him, watching him fall to the ground and cough. "I'll be taking Elrond, Fegman, and if I catch you discriminating against my people again it will not end well." He said nothing else, turning on his heel and leaving Fegman on the ground, rubbing at his sore throat.
Elrond was standing outside, staring at Gil-Galad with worried eyes, no doubt having heard some of the commotion in the tent. "Am I in trouble?" he asked hesitantly.
"Of course not." Gil-Galad was well aware of how flustered he must look, having just ended his argument. "Go and fetch your things, you’re coming with me."
Still confused Elrond hurried off, disappearing into one of the many tents lining the path and emerging with the bag he had been carrying when he arrived. Gil-Galad vaguely remembered him having a trunk which had been sent off with Cirdan, but Elrond didn't mention it and so he didn't ask.
"Do you need something?" Elrond asked as he returned, no doubt feeling the king’s inquisitive stare.
"No, I just want, I just came by to check on you," he lied, pinching the bridge of his nose. What on Arda was he supposed to do with Elrond now?
"Is something the matter?" His voice had fallen quiet, and he was staring at Gil-Galad with nervous eyes. The King found himself very close to turning on his heel and returning to give Fegman the beating of his life, but decided against it on the grounds that it might distress Elrond.
"It's not you," he promised, patting Elrond's shoulder. The fabric of Elrond's tunic was even more worn than he had thought, and he made a mental note to have something better found for him. It hung unevenly off his body, and looked several sizes too large.
When the Peredhel caught him staring he said, "It was Russandol's."
It took a moment for Gil-Galad to even remember who Russandol was, but he hid a wince, recalling that Elrond was wearing a shirt that had once been worn by one of the kinslayers.
The elven king didn't ask about the cloak tossed over his shoulder, fur-lined and heavily embroidered, no doubt the possession of royalty, deciding he didn't want to know. The deep blue, a color once favored by Maglor, seemed enough to answer his question for him. "We can find you something warmer," he said finally. "Come along."
Elrond followed behind him diligently, his curious eyes taking in the camp as they walked. "Have you eaten?" Gil-Galad asked, thinking of how they had almost certainly missed dinner, and hoping Cirdan had saved enough for the two of them.
"Not today."
That wasn't what Gil-Galad had been asking, but it was, he supposed, an answer. "We can find you something. Soup, perhaps?" If Elrond hadn’t been eating regularly, and judging by his size he hadn’t been, then Gil-Galad worried about giving him anything too strong.
"Thank you." Elrond was so genuine, his face breaking out in a wide smile at the offer, as though it was the kindest thing he had ever been offered.
Gil-Galad smiled at him, leading him to the simple building that had been constructed to house himself and any important document. Since their arrival the place where they had decided to build their new city Gil-Galad had been meeting with architects and designers there during the day, and in resting in the evening. He and Cirdan, as well as Celebrimbor and a few other members of court, had simple quarters there, but he saw no reason not to find somewhere for Elrond to stay.
Cirdan was seated at the table in the main room, looking over building plans when they entered. "You're late for supper," he said glancing up.
Being in the presence of his foster father never failed to make Gil-Galad feel childish and unable to care for himself. "I have a good reason," he protested.
"If it involves stargazing-"
"No!"
Cirdan finally saw Elrond, and smiled to himself. "Elrond means star-domed, if I am not mistaken. Therefore it does involve stars."
Gil-Galad grumbled under his breath about technicalities, gently pushing Elrond to the table. "Have a seat," he urged. "Be mindful of the papers." Most of the papers from the day's meetings had been stacked and put to the side, but misplacing or shuffling the papers could prove disastrous to their work. Avoiding annoying Celebrimbor was always high on the king’s priorities.
"How are you?" Cirdan asked Elrond.
The Peredhel stared at him, biting his lip uncertainly. "W-well," he said, watching out of the corner of his eye as Gil-Galad rummaged in the shelves to produce a simple meal of meat and cheese with bread.
"I can get that," he offered.
"No need." Gil-Galad set the plate in front of Elrond, noticing that Cirdan was watching them. He shook his head a tiny bit, hinting that the shipwright needed to hold off any questions, and instead sat beside Elrond and helped himself to the meat. "I'm afraid it's not soup," he said. "Have as much as you please."
"It's fine," Elrond promised, smiling broadly at Gil-Galad before helping himself to the meal.
They ate in silence, Cirdan returning his attention to his papers, but occasionally looking up at Elrond and then glancing thoughtfully at Gil-Galad. When Elrond stopped eating – far sooner than Gil-Galad thought he should have – Cirdan sat the paper aside and offered, "Let me fetch you some clean clothes and show you where you may wash up."
When they had made their camp they had roped off parts of the freshwater stream that passed them. Their camp sat between two rivers, which Gil-Galad had chosen for the strategic safety that water could give them, and many small streams and tributaries flowed from the rivers and into the sea. One of the streams had been found to be shallow enough to allow a large area to bathe in, and they had ropled it off accordingly.
Elrond bit his lip, looking as though he might refuse. He didn't though, and followed behind Cirdan saying, "Thank you sir."
Gil-Galad focused on his meal, yawning and rolling his shoulders which were stiff. He would have liked to have retired to bed, but knew that Cirdan was curious enough he would just wake him up to interrogate him, which was why he was still sitting at the table when Cirdan returned.
"I was right about Fegman, then?" he asked curiously, sitting down at the table.
Gil-Galad glared at him. "Possibly," he snapped. He sighed, finally admitting, "Yes, you were right. He doesn't like Elrond because he's a half-elf."
Cirdan laced his fingers together. "Elrond seems rather shaken."
"Food and sleep will help him."
"Are you certain? He doesn't seem well at all.” Cirdan glanced around, as though checking that no one would overhear, then murmured, “I'd say he's been the target of harassment."
Gil-Galad looked up sharply. Of course he had suspected that himself, but that didn’t make it easier to hear it from anyone else. "And what do you want me to do about it?"
Cirdan observed the table for a long moment, seemingly captivated by the grain of the wood. Gil-Galad knew him well enough to know that he was frustrated and stressed, thinking deeply on the problem. "Before we jump to conclusions, we just need to try to let Elrond enter our lives as seamlessly as possible."
"What does that mean?"
"He needs something to do to keep him busy." Finally looking up Cirdan met Gil-Galad's eyes, commenting, "You just said the other day you could use a page."
"Elrond is a prince, Cirdan, he is the son of Elwing, and a direct descendant of both Finwë and Thingol; the blood of a Maia runs through his veins.” Gil-Galad had been well aware of Elrond’s family, and for a time, before he had met him personally, had wondered if Elrond might have a better claim to the throne than he. Now that he had met Elrond, he doubted seriously Elrond had any desire, but he was still careful to keep his ancestors in mind. “He is not a page."
"It's not abnormal work for a prince or high ranking elf to assist the king," said Cirdan with a shrug. "And don't forget he asked you not to call him by any title."
"True," Gil-Galad agreed, looking down at his hands, folded on the table. "Do you think-"
"Elrond! You're back!" Cirdan cut Gil-Galad off mid-sentence and strode to greet Elrond, patting his head and smiling warmly at him.
Gil-Galad glanced over his shoulder, and was shocked by what he saw. Cleaned and wearing clothes that fit him better, Elrond appeared to be much older, but there was still a hint of vulnerability in his eyes as he stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and his hands gripping his arms painfully. "Thank you for the assistance," Elrond said with a shy smile.
"Anytime," Cirdan promised. "We've run out of rooms I'm afraid, but you're more than welcome to a cot somewhere." He frowned and looked around the main room.
Gil-Galad didn't like the thought of putting the young elf out on his own, so he called, "He can share my room, Cirdan." To himself he muttered, "Valar knows it's big enough."
Cirdan nodded, placing a hand on Elrond's shoulder and leading him to the back room.
Gil-Galad sighed, knowing he had a long week in front of him that had just become longer.