Chapter Text
Duty has always weighed heavily on Gil-Galad, and what he knows he must do next is no exception. When the crown was placed on his head he was but a youth, hardly halfway to majority. Never in his wildest imaginings did he think his reign would be the end of elvendom in Middle Earth.
His unshakable composure has always been a point of pride before today. He’d worked tirelessly to ensure his feelings would never interfere with his responsibilities and until today he felt he’d been a better king for it.
He regretted his words the moment they’d left his lips. The hurt in Elrond’s eyes spoke volumes. All of their years of friendship and trust shattered in an instant because he’d finally begun to crack under the weight of the crown. Instead of taking the time to move their conversation to a more private setting where they could reflect on their options, he’d let Galadriel and Elrond’s urgency pull him down the path of reckless desperation.
Even as he gave the order to seize Elrond he knew he had made a terrible mistake. He could not help but imagine the worst as Elrond leapt. How could he have failed his closest confidant so completely? It was as if a vice had closed around his heart, attempting to wring the very life from him as retribution.
As he rode with Galadriel and his company towards the havens, he silently pleaded with the Valar, begging them to deliver Elrond to him unharmed. While he would never admit it, it is fear that leads him to grant Galadriel her request that she alone enter Cirdan’s workshop to ask after Elrond and the rings.
The minutes pass excruciatingly slowly as they wait. When he can take it no longer, he dismounts, thinking that Galadriel has had more than enough time to plead her case. His feet have barely touched the ground before she emerges, her expression is thunderous but her voice is surprisingly small as she speaks, “Cirdan has taken the rings to cast them into the sea.”
It won’t do for him to be seen as acting rashly in this moment. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to ground himself. When he opens them again Elrond is stepping out from the doorway behind Galadriel.
His relief at seeing Elrond is so strong that it nearly breaks his composure. Everything else fades away as the tightness in his chest that has plagued him since watching Elrond leap into the abyss subsides almost entirely. He scans Elrond’s form searching for injuries. He stands tall and unbowed without even a hint of regret in his eyes but he is favoring his left side ever so slightly.
Gil-Galad dismisses his company with a wave of his hand, nodding to Galadriel when she hesitates to indicate she too is excused. He doesn’t trust himself to deal with Elrond in front of the others. Even now, facing the terrible task of telling his people they must depart these shores forever, he can’t bring himself to feel anything beyond the solace his herald’s presence brings.
“Come.” He says after a moment, indicating the horse his company has left for Elrond alongside his own. It will be better not to have this conversation here.
He expects resistance but instead, Elrond simply nods and mounts the horse, failing to hide a grimace at the movement. They ride in silence, slowly winding back towards the center of the city, coming to a stop in front of the house of healing. As Gil-Galad dismounts, Elrond looks at him, confusion written clearly across his features. He is unsure where Elrond was expecting to be taken but it saddens him to think he expected his injuries to remain untended.
“Elrond, you are injured.” He states plainly, sounding more weary than intended.
“I am fine.”
“You’re favoring your left side, I expect you’ve broken a rib or two at the very least.”
“They will mend.” Elrond insists, still perched stubbornly on his mount.
“Indeed, and we are seeing to it then mend properly. Now come.” He says, turning to enter the house, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Yes, High King,” Elrond replies managing to sound both deferential and contrary.
Once he has delivered his herald into the hands of a healer he takes his leave, promising to return shortly for their overdue conversation.
Gil-Galad paces the courtyard, allowing the cool night air to soothe his spirit. While they will never know if the rings would have made a difference, he can not help but grieve the lost opportunity, however improbable it could have been.
He should be furious with Elrond, but his anger is but an undercurrent to his relief. He remembers when they met, Elrond barely older than he had been when he’d become a king. He’d seen something of himself in the boy, a heaviness in his eyes that revealed how quickly he and his brother had been forced to grow up.
Once Elrond had made his choice to be counted among the Eldar he had accepted Gil-Galad’s offer to serve as his herald. Few spoke their minds so openly in his presence but it was a quality Gil-Galad had always appreciated. In time, he found that there was no one he trusted more.
In the heat of the moment filled with desperation, he has spoken to Elrond more harshly than intended, though demanding loyalty was his right. The anguish that had gripped him when Elrond leapt had been almost too much to bear. The thought of facing tomorrow without him by his side was discomforting. He takes one last deep breath of the crisp night air to steady himself before turning and retracing his steps to the room where he’d left Elrond with the healer, unwilling to delay their talk any longer.
The comforting smell of a healing salve greets him as he enters to find Elrond alone, sitting in a chair by the window, his gaze trained on the night sky.
“High King, I can not pretend to be sorry for my actions though I regret the strife I have caused you,” he says without turning.
There is a formality to his words that unsettles Gil-Galad. He wants nothing more than to mend the chasm that has seemingly opened between them. “You did what you believed to be right, while I am displeased that you disregarded me, openly nonetheless, I understand both your concern and your actions.”
Elrond’s brows furrow as he meets Gil-Galad’s eyes, “My liege? I don’t...”
“Ereinion,” he interrupts, unable to stand the forced distance the other elf’s insistence on decorum is creating between them despite the centuries their friendship now spans.
The use of his father-name seems to bridge the gap, Elrond’s shoulders sag as he lets out a long breath. “I did not think you would so easily forgive my actions.”
“I understand them but they are not entirely forgiven. That being said, you are dear to me Elrond, I would not see our friendship broken by this. Do you truly think so little of me? That I would not see you restored to health but would instead forsake you?”
“I do not think ill of you but it is hard to unlearn the patterns of the past,” Elrond replies, his voice quiet and full of sadness as his gaze drops to his hands where they are folded in his lap.
Gil-Galad’s chest aches as he crosses the room and takes both of Elrond’s hands in his own, hoping the connection conveys how important he is and how deeply he is valued. After a time he senses Elrond is beginning to drift, the pull of sleep too great to resist any longer.
“Rest now mellon, we must trust that all will be as it should,” he says, gently pulling him to his feet and guiding him to the bed.
“Ereinion?” Elrond asks through a yawn as Gil-Galad moves to leave.
“Yes, Elrond?”
“I did not mean to cause you pain.”
“I know. As your penance, I am ordering you never to frighten me like that again,” he says, smiling warmly before taking his leave.