Chapter Text
Never did he foresee this day would come. Not to Elrond. Not Eärendil's son. Kith and kin, distant as those lines were drawn; by centuries still a child, with wisdom far beyond this Age.
Never to him.
Yet even as Gil-Galad realized his folly he sprang to seize one arm, corralling that rebellious youth who would cast himself to Ulmo just like his mother, and the other hand moved without thought.
A warrior’s hand.
Calloused by lance and hardened by the Ages which only those who had survived Morgoth’s defeat would ever know, it spurred without conscious intent and Gil-Galad recoiled from the sound before sensation reached his fingers.
Elrond staggered and would have fallen if not for the hand wrapped around his wrist. Gone were the shields that had clinched his gaze the moment Galadriel cast forth her accusations. Shimmering walls instinctive to the strike were blinked aside in the next instant, and his hand trembled as he lowered it, fighting the urge to cradle the cheek that was already darkening to the first tints of sunrise. Accusation and fear mingled in the silent entreaty for explanation, and revelation speared through Gil-Galad’s chest as surely as a poisoned blade.
He spun his herald away from the falls, revulsion clawing up his hand as he saw even more red streaks on the wrist Elrond cradled as Loreláthon threw down his spear to catch him.
Anger was something Elrond had earned time and again. Punishment was meted as fitted each misdemeanor, but never had Gil-Galad raised a hand to him. He had sworn —
He had failed.
“Take him to his quarters,” Gil-Galad ordered distantly, wondering that his voice could be heard at all as he rubbed the sting in his hand and willed time to fall back and erase this moment. “He is to remain there until I decide his fate.”
Fury in blue eyes hardened to disdain and Loreláthon dared to show his teeth like a challenging wolf. “Was that really necessary?”
“Dínen!” He had let it come to this. Making allowances for his commander and now his herald to mock his orders, until he had no control over his own soldiers.
Or himself.
“Vändel.” The border guard who hovered in customary silence to offer his report could at least be trusted to follow orders, unlike the fools and children Gil-Galad had trusted to guard Elrond’s wayward tendencies. “See to it that Herald Elrond is escorted to his quarters.”
The conceited huff of a commander lording over the misfortunes of his charge was no more appropriate than Loreláthon’s irrepressible contempt. “Shall I assign my own guards?”
“You’re not fit to guard an ash heap, you reptilious — !”
“Your services are no longer required in Lindon,” Gil-Galad warned the insurgent, ire painting his voice as Loreláthon half-cradled Elrond while his fingers twitched for his sword, as if to ward off him. “You and your comrade will report to Lord Círdan and remain in Mithlond until you are called for. Now give me the rings before I send both of you to the West Tower.”
Give them to me and let us put an end to this nonsense.
Let me escape to silence, where I may bear my own reproach in peace.
Though Galadriel’s throat wavered to speak and she cast Vändel a scowl that would frighten the hooves off his horse, she strode to Elrond’s side and knelt, wresting the pouch from his hands. Grimly she steeled herself as turbulent seas assailed her in turn, but it was Vändel whom Loreláthon sprang against as the border guard stepped forth to carry out his duty.
Dropping Elrond to seize a handful of grey travelling cloak, the inexorable fool loomed over a ranking commander as if Vändel was their enemy reborn. “You put so much as one stripe on his back and I’ll —”
“Ego!” Gil-Galad shouted. A gesture to Nuréin was all that he needed to guarantee order. The much shorter guard was quick to grab his companion by the arm and haul him to a respectful distance.
Elrond did not fight when Vändel lifted him to his feet, yet Gil-Galad found that he could not meet those eyes which had so often regarded him with unwavering trust. Trust which he no longer deserved.
“High King,” Elrond said faintly. “If you would only let me explain —”
“Dín,” Gil-Galad breathed, holding out a hand for silence. The hand which even now tormented him with muscle memory and shuttered Elrond’s words like an athelas blossom crushed under the pestle.
“Do as your king commands.” The words were meant for all of them, or none. They were but a numbed reflection of needless escalation that had ended with a broken oath and hollow claims.
Elrond was led away in silence as the insurgents retreated, hissing words that should not be spoken amidst Orc clans, let alone on peaceful hills. When Galadriel approached Gil-Galad met her eyes only briefly, acknowledging without reproach the disappointment mingled with sorrow. He held out his hand and when she surrendered the pouch he nearly threw it over the falls.
Too often Elves had turned against Elves for the sake of priceless gems. Elrond himself was the sum of those bleak and wasted centuries.
“Those who react in haste shall never hear the nightingale’s whisper.” Gil-Galad sighed the proverb, finding himself once more trying to rub out the stinging memory from his hand.
Sympathy muted the ire in Galadriel’s eyes as she stilled his hands with her own. “Neither was he listening to you.”
‘I did not mean to - ‘
‘I know .’
Ósanwë could not sooth the fea as it did the mind, just as commiseration could not absolve guilt. Gathering himself to face the rumors which would scatter through the city faster than an infestation of woodlice, Gil-Galad tucked the pouch into his belt, not to be acknowledged or tampered with until Círdan at last rode to the city to inquire of the matter himself.
“High King,” Galadriel said briskly, arresting his next stride.
“What.” If she even considered defying him now he would exile her to the tower and forget about her until the next age.
“I do not trust Vändel,” Galadriel said candidly.
“I am well aware of his company’s repute,” Gil-Galad answered without inflection. “This is not his patrol and he will not stray from his orders. That is his one commendable trait — and one which my commanders should emulate.”
He dismissed her mental tirade with equal swiftness, determining to make it very clear that Elrond’s punishment was limited to confinement alone. In this case Vändel would prove himself useful, for he was not wont to entertain such insurgents who defied the king, nor would he smuggle wine or gambling devices to his post.
Although there was the matter of neglect rumored among principal members of his company — something about Lannah forgetting to water her horse and demanding a spare once a healer was required — and for this reason he would ensure Elrond’s health and wellbeing was regarded with greater consequence than his confinement. Ever did Elwing’s son court despondency, trailing shadows of his own making even as he inspired hope for the next sunrise. If he gave into it now, before Gil-Galad could settle the words he was not ready to confess… no, that would not happen.
Vändel would ensure it.