Note: This story follows the version of Gil-galad’s origins found in HOME12.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Fëanorians.”
It was a curse. Gil-galad did not
know which of the elves of his guard had spoken, but it hardly mattered. His horse skittered nervously, reflecting too
much of its rider’s mood, and he put out a hand to pat the animal
soothingly. It would not do for the king
to seem ill at ease.
Fëanorians.
He did not suppose they were here to attack, there was not even a bad
reason for it, but he did not know why they had come. The message from the sentries had told only
of the approach. The guard had been
assembled hastily, whatever might be the cause of the strange arrival it was
the duty of the king to deal with it.
They had halted, some
distance from the makeshift settlements that the Elves who had fled to Lindon
from the wreck of Beleriand were beginning to construct. It was not a great host, and Gil-galad could
see, even from this distance, how worn and battered they appeared, but his own
people and those of Círdan were not very numerous and their condition little
better. Despite the brave banners of
blue and silver he did not suppose they made an impressive
sight, nor one likely to strike fear into the followers of Fëanor’s
sons. Although he could not think
assault was meant, their coming seemed an ill thing.
A single figure detached himself from the Fëanorian ranks, and paced slowly forward,
standing very straight. He bore a banner
of red and gold, but neither weapon nor armour.
A herald then.
Gil-galad looked down the ranks beside him, where bows had been drawn,
and commanded, “Hold”. Surely no elf of
his following would shoot a herald, even a herald of Kinslayers,
but it was best to take no chances.
The lone figure halted,
near enough for his voice to carry clearly.
He had dark hair and Gil-galad’s perception
told him he was young, most likely still in his first century. He stood proud and defiant before the hostile
stares of the king’s guard, and spoke with measured clarity.
“Celebrimbor
Curufinion, of the House of Fëanor, asks for audience
of Ereinion Gil-galad,
High-king of the Noldor in Middle-earth.”
“Celebrimbor?
Not Maedhros?” Although surprised
Gil-galad pitched his voice loud enough to carry, if the words lacked the
proper formality for the moment he did not care.
“The sons of Fëanor are
not here.” For a brief moment the
herald’s voice was not quite so steady.
“They have gone forth from their people, and we do not expect their
return. Celebrimbor
speaks for the followers of his house.”
“So Fëanor’s
last sons have abandoned their folk.”
Gil-galad allowed bitter satisfaction to show
in his voice, the herald’s eyes flashed in anger.
“Say rather they have set
them free. Do you have an answer for me,
Lord King?”
Gil-galad
was aware the mood of his guard had changed somewhat. The guilt of the other host was not confined
to Fëanor’s sons, but an embassy from Celebrimbor was a different matter from an embassy from Maedhros. Yet his
answer must have been the same in any event.
“The request is granted,”
he said. “Celebrimbor
Curufinion shall have safe conduct, and his people
shall not be assailed whilst we have speech.”
He would never have intended another Kinslaying,
even of Fëanorians, even had he the strength, but so
little was the trust here that he had to give the promise. “May the king ask the name of the one to whom
he has spoken?”
“I am Elrond, called Peredhel.” A slight
murmur ran down the line, Gil-galad was not
surprised, for he had seen Eärendil in the young
herald, but he was grieved nonetheless.
“Kinsman,” he said, “You
at least have welcome in our ranks, whenever you desire it. Your father was my friend.”
A slight pause, then the
herald replied, “Kind words, Lord, but I am an emissary. I do not seek sanctuary denied to others.”
Gil-galad
sighed. “Very well. But will you permit at least that I ask after
your brother?”
“My brother Elros has chosen to be counted with the Edain. He is not here.” Pain was in the herald’s voice,
before Gil-galad could speak again he had bowed and
turned swiftly back to his own lines.
Gil-galad watched him go with sadness,
although he was relieved also to know both brothers lived.
“They should have been
reared on Balar,” he said aloud.
“What has been, cannot be helped,” Círdan
said beside him. Gil-galad
wondered what Elrond had meant by ‘chosen to be counted’. It seemed a strange turn of phrase.
~ ~ ~
Celebrimbor was not long in coming. He came on foot, followed only by Elrond,
still carrying the red banner, and two others.
They were all unarmed and dressed in plain dark clothing, but with the
many-pointed silver star of Fëanor’s house worn as a
brooch upon the shoulder. Gil-galad had dismounted, and stood before his own people, more
of them assembled now than just the guard who had first ridden out beside
him. Círdan
stood on his left and the Lady Írien, Finwë’s daughter and the eldest of their house in
Middle-earth, stood on his right. For
the occasion he wore the silver crown, studded with white gems,
that Celebrimbor himself had made for him in Balar.
The only child of Fëanor’s seven sons was said to resemble his grandfather
closely in appearance, but Celebrimbor would never
have been called a spirit of fire. He
was, and had always been, quiet, grave and gentle in his manner, a strange
leader for the fell band who followed. Gil-galad kept his
expression calm, even as he wondered, and grieved, yet again, that when word
had reached Balar of the coming of the Great Host Celebrimbor had chosen to ride east with the kindred he had
once repudiated.
Fëanor’s grandson walked the last part of the
distance alone. In front of Gil-galad he knelt, not without grace, and bowed his head. Gil-galad noted the
feeling for ceremony he did not remember seeing in Celebrimbor
before, it was a thing he had had to learn himself, as he grew into the part of
a king.
“Lord King, as the leader
of the house of Fëanor I kneel to your authority, and
ask that my people be received within yours.”
Gil-galad
was keenly aware of the distrust and hostility within his ranks.
“As leader, you say.” He kept his voice clear and steady. “Where then are Fëanor’s
remaining sons?”
“They are not here, and I
do not expect their return. I do not
speak on their behalf.”
Gil-galad
frowned, feeling uncertain. “What you
ask is no light thing,” he said at length.
“The Kinslaying of Doriath,
and especially the Kinslaying of Sirion,
are not forgotten amongst my people.”
“Lord,” Celebrimbor replied steadily, “those who follow me will
submit to your authority and to your judgement.
Whatever punishment you choose to lay on those who shed blood they will
bear.” Gil-galad
heard with sinking heart, he did not want to have to deal out such
judgements. The eyes of his people were
upon him, expectant. He did not like to
bear such weight, and it seemed doubly harsh to have to play out this choice in
public, in cold formality. He wished for
a chance to speak with Celebrimbor alone.
Yet why should he not do
so? He was the king. Gil-galad took a
pace forward. “Rise,” he said. “Before I make my choice I will speak with
you apart a time.” More murmurs arose,
but he did not heed them. Instead he
walked forward and somewhat to the right, until he reached a place between the
two forces, far enough from both that although seen they could not be
overheard. Celebrimbor
had followed. The eyes of both parties
were upon them, but he could not think how to secure a greater privacy for now.
“Celebrimbor,
where are your uncles?” Of all
the questions this one mattered most. Where were Maedhros and Maglor, last
of Fëanor’s deadly sons? He could not give his answer without knowing
this.
“I do not know where they
are now,” Celebrimbor replied, “But I can tell you
they went northwards, to the camp of the Valinorian
host.” His eyes met Gil-galad’s starkly.
“The Oath has not been fulfilled.”
“The
Oath! They still cling to that foul blasphemy!”
“I do not pretend to
understand the power of the Oath of Fëanor,” Celebrimbor said steadily, “but I am thankful not to be
bound by it.”
“Do they think in their
madness to challenge the very host of Valinor
itself?” Gil-galad
shook his head angrily. “Has not there
been enough destruction?”
“More than enough,” Celebrimbor sighed.
“All I can say is that they went alone and I do not believe either will
be seen again among us, even should they survive. How, indeed, could they return? To what end?”
Gil-galad
did not expect reason from sons of Fëanor, but Celebrimbor’s tone of conviction carried weight.
“If I were to say that
those of the Fëanorian party who have no blood of
Elves upon them would be welcome in our midst, what would be your reply?”
“I would tell them,
although I believe few would be willing to be divided from their fellows.”
“And for
yourself?” Gil-galad
asked. “You would be welcome.”
“I thank you,” Celebrimbor answered, “but I am the last of Fëanor’s line, and I would not abandon those whose too
great loyalty makes them outcast still.
They look to me to lead.”
“You have no duty to
become a lord of Kinslayers!” Gil-galad
protested.
“I have no wish to be a
lord of any kind. But someone must bear
the weight. Would you have it fall on
Elrond? He will not abandon his adopted
allegiance.”
“He owes no gratitude!”
Gil-galad said angrily.
“Gratitude is not the
question.”
“Can you tell me of Elros?” Gil-galad asked, briefly
abandoning the matter at hand. “Elrond
said he had chosen to be with the Edain.”
“His heart is with men, I
believe. Perhaps you did not know? The Valar gave a
choice, to both the sons of Eärendil, whether they
chose to be of mortal or immortal kind. Elros has chosen to be a Man, although I believe he has
been promised a longer life than is customary.”
“Mortality
– and severance from his kin!” Gil-galad was
shocked. True, Elros
had mortal kindred also, but no close kin he could have known. He understood now the pain in the voice of
Elrond when he said his brother was not present. “That is a terrible choice, and a terrible
sundering. If I had but been able to
bring them to Balar….”
“Elros
might still have chosen to be mortal,” Celebrimbor
said. “Ereinion,
the ships could have reached Sirion no sooner than
they did. Why reproach yourself still?”
“I failed Eärendil,” Gil-galad said
bleakly. He had not known his younger kinsman
very well, but well enough to like him, to wish for closer friendship, and to
regret bitterly he had not succeeded in saving his sons from the Fëanorian sack.
“None of us can save more
than so much,” Celebrimbor looked grim. The two were no longer speaking as lord and
suppliant, they had fallen back into the way of former times, when Gil-galad had turned often to the older cousin who had all but
dragged him from the fall of Nargothrond and through
the paths of the wild to Círdan’s haven. The kinsman he had clung to, in the shock of
knowing all his closer kin were dead, to whom he had looked for advice –
although Celebrimbor had never been eager to give it
– and who had stunned him utterly by leaving Balar
with the Fëanorians.
“Why did you rejoin them?” He
could not help but ask.
“Because I cannot escape
who I am. Because
there are bonds which cannot be broken.
Because I could not hate them, and I knew they had no hope.”
“They deserved none!” Gil-galad said
harshly. “It was not enough for them to
bring ruin on themselves, they had to tangle others in
their fall.” Never, never would he
understand the fatal glamour of Fëanor’s line, the
glamour which had entrapped Celebrimbor, who was of
that line, and Elrond who was not, and others before. Even the High-King Fingon,
it was said.
“I will not defend the
deeds of my house,” said Celebrimbor, “But if you do
not wish to cause pain to Elrond then you would do better not to speak ill of
his foster-father in his hearing, and the same for Elros
if you meet him.”
There was so much amiss in
the sons of Elwing the White regarding Maglor Fëanorion as their
foster-father, but there was nothing to be gained from arguing it over
now.
“Kinsman,” Gil-galad said, “what would you have
of me?”
“You know what I have
asked. If you cannot grant it I will
understand.”
“It is no easy
thing.” Gil-galad
shook his head. “I must think on
it. Will you return when I ask it? Until then your people will be safe from
mine.”
“And yours from mine,” Celebrimbor replied with his first glint of irony. “I will return.”
~ ~ ~
“Advise me, Círdan.” Gil-galad felt bowed by the weight thrust upon him. In elf years he was still young. Too young for this.
“You are the King of the Noldor,” Círdan answered. “And my people are not yours. It is not my choice to make.”
“Yet you have advised me
in the past.” More
than advised in truth. In those
darkest times, before the coming of the great host, whilst Gil-galad had borne the name of king it was name only. He had not ruled. Yet now he must.
“You cannot look to
another to guide you forever, child of the Exiles. I advised you as I thought that I should,
whilst we all stood upon the brink of destruction. But you are a king, and you must play the
part, if it is your choice to stay in Middle-earth.”
“Who else would lead the Noldor?” Gil-galad was certain of this choice at least. “The Lady Írien
would not accept the charge, and the Lady Galadriel has been amongst the Sindar for too long.
There is no other. They look to
me.”
“Then you must lead,” said
Círdan. “This
choice is for the Noldor.”
“Not the Noldor alone,” Gil-galad
protested. “It is your kin who have been
chief victims of Fëanor’s line. And I would not have the alliance between our
people strained.”
“The Falathrim
will accept whatever choice you make,” said Círdan. “For other Sindar I
cannot speak.”
“Many have little love for
the Exiles already.” Gil-galad’s own mother had come of the Sindar,
but of the Northern people who had long since joined to the Noldor
and were regarded as half-traitors by many of their southern kindred. Amongst the survivors of Doriath
especially it brought him no favour, and he knew it. “I cannot say that I blame them.”
“The Noldor
did not bring war, whatever some may say.
War had come already.”
“What must I do, Círdan?” He knew
what his heart wished. He wished to have
Celebrimbor and Eärendil’s
son among his people. But a king was not
free to follow his own wishes.
“You must do as your
wisdom tells you,” Círdan said.
~ ~ ~
Gil-galad
did not feel wise. He felt too young and
too well-aware he had been hailed as King of the Noldor
after the fall of Gondolin more in an act of
desperation than from any belief in his right to rule. Son of Orodreth,
grandson of Angrod, late-born scion of a junior line,
his only virtue that he was alive and not of Fëanor’s
house.
There was anger amongst
his people at the Fëanorians’ approach, he felt it
and did not know that he had any right to counter it.
“Do not forget the streets
of Sirion, sire!”
It was Galdor who spoke, one of those who had
survived the fall of Gondolin, then faced the swords
of his own people in the Third Kinslaying.
“I do not forget,” Gil-galad replied. “Nor
do I forget there are some who renounced their allegiance, at Sirion or before, and yet rejoined the Fëanorians at the
last.”
“Grant pardon to them, if
you will,” said Galdor, “but there are murderers and
traitors in that host.”
“I know it, Galdor.” By what
authority could he decide? Could he even
dare to trust? What did he truly know of
the Fëanorian followers?
They had lived for a time
on Balar, in the last bleak days before help beyond
hope had come out of the West. They had
been hated, never accepted, yet admitted, for Círdan
had said that when the last foes of Morgoth had their
backs to the wall it was no time to be asking if they should seek out different
walls. Galadriel’s words had been more stark, if Morgoth came then
the best place for the Fëanorians was between his
host and the other survivors. Why should
they not take the first brunt? The Kinslayers had kept apart, accepting their outcast
standing. Gil-galad
had seen a little of their leaders but almost nothing of the rest. It might be time to change that.
~ ~ ~
He took two of his guard,
and ordered them to keep their swords sheathed.
This was a visit, not a challenge.
They crossed the empty ground afoot, without ceremony, and Gil-galad knew they were watched all the way.
It was not quite a war
camp. He could tell they had settled
their chosen ground with long practice, making as little visible change as they
could. There were light shelters, no
more than clumps of tree and bush to an unseeking
eye, there were horses, there were sentries watching, all but invisible. Gil-galad was not
challenged, but more and more elves moved from shadows to stand alert, not
hostile but careful, poised. He felt
pride in the eyes upon him, and pain, and a kind of grief.
He did not think they were
all Noldor. It
could be hard to tell at a glance a Noldo born in
Middle-earth from elves who were not of Aman, or were of mixed birth like Gil-galad
himself. He was reasonably sure however
that there were Green-elves in the company, and some of the North Sindar, and again he wondered at the lure of the Kinslayers. All of
the company were elven though,
those Men who had followed the Fëanorians must have
taken their leave, perhaps to go with Elros.
“Does the High-King wish
for the hospitality of our camp?” asked one of the watchers, a tall Noldo
whose eyes held the Light of Aman.
High-King seemed to Gil-galad a foolish title.
It had had a meaning once, when the Noldor in
Middle-earth were great, but for the lord of a worn-down remnant it was close
to absurd. The speaker’s voice had not
held scorn, but there was no reverence either, indeed there seemed little
feeling of any kind.
“The king wishes to walk
among those who would be his subjects. If it is indeed the wish of all here to join my people.”
“To what other kennel may
we turn?” This was another elf, younger
than the first speaker he might have been Noldo or Sinda and his voice was bitter.
“To Valinor,”
Gil-galad said mildly. “Or to the east, to find
new realms.” His kinswoman
Galadriel had already crossed the mountains, so had many who had once been of Doriath.
“A realm
of outcasts? And what is Valinor
to us now?”
“Enough, Formir,” the elf who had spoken to Gil-galad
before said sternly. Lean and grim, his bearing suggested some authority. Gil-galad did not
recognise him. “Lord, we come as a
remnant, to be united to those we once lived and fought beside, if that may
be. We would join our strength to those
of our kin, who have suffered and grieved and fought long against Morgoth, to find purpose as we may.”
“A better purpose than Kinslaying,” Gil-galad said
evenly. The other elf might have been
braced for the challenge.
“Those of us who bear
guilt will not deny it.”
“Do you speak for them
then?”
“All who are here come of
free will.” Celebrimbor
had come up during the exchange, it was he who spoke, deliberately calm.
“But not all have the
blood of kindred on their swords.”
“Erestor
has followed my house since we marched from Tirion,” Celebrimbor answered the unspoken question. A Kinslayer
indeed.
“Any who were unwilling to
accept the authority of the king would not be here,” Erestor
said steadily.
“And those who bear no
such guilt? Do they hold by you?”
“Why else would we have
come here?” The elf who spoke now had
the accent of the Green-elves, that retired and wary folk who yet had trusted Fëanor’s sons more than the other Noldor,
save perhaps King Finrod. “Those of us who joined our allegiance to the
foes of Morgoth will not turn aside. Were it otherwise we would have gone east,
with others of our kin.”
“Why are you here, Ereinion?” Celebrimbor interposed.
He was wearing a sword now, and he kept twitching at the hilt, an odd
habit Gil-galad remembered from before. Celebrimbor could
use a sword well enough if he had to, but he never looked comfortable wearing
one.
“To see for myself those
who wish to come under my rule,” said Gil-galad. Suddenly he decided to be as straightforward
as possible. “To see whether they can be
trusted. To see whether there is any
possibility of admitting them into my following without disaster. It is a hard thing to ask of my people.”
“For the first,” said the
elf named Erestor, “many things have been said of us,
with truth, but not that we are liars or breakers of given word. Those who take faith with you will keep
it.” A harsh pride rang under his
words. Gil-galad
sensed its echo in the host, a bleak and fallen people, come to bend the knee
in submission, and yet proud still. It
struck him that in this they were barely different from those Noldor who had submitted again to the will of the Valar after the great host came from the West. The degree of guilt was different but the
choice the same.
He stood now in a
half-circle of watching elves. Reaching
deep into his own perception he found bitterness in the minds that surrounded him, and something akin to cold despair, but also a kind of
longing. They were not his enemies, nor
wished to be, and whatever anger they felt was not for him.
“If you come amongst my
people than you will find anger,” he said.
“You will find bitterness. You
will find yourselves called traitors to your own”
Someone laughed. “Think you we do not know all that?” It was a woman, wearing a sword. She had silver hair and the accent of the
north. A Sinda. “Most
of us have been accustomed to it. My
people came to the plain of Himlad long ago, against
the will of Thingol whom we had once called
king. Think you we have not heard such
words before?”
“Think you we did not hear
the scorn of our kin in South Ossiriand, who knew
little of the terror of Morgoth?” That was the same Green-elf who had spoken
before.
“The anger of kindred is
not new to those of us who dwelt for a time by Mithrim,”
said Erestor.
The reconciliation of Mithrim was a story from Gil-galad’s
distant youth. From Nargothrond
before the death of Finrod, from the days when the
union of the Noldor still held true. A tale of forgiveness and
renewed hope, which in the end had come to darkness and despair.
“Yet have you lived with
the anger of kindred day by day, not for a season, but for all the future you
can foresee? Have you thought on what it
will be to bear the hard names from those whose lives you share? For so it will be, if you join with my
people.” His eyes dwelt on the young elf
called Formir, and saw that he was flushed. Then suddenly Gil-galad
was aware of Elrond standing among the crowd, and the hard defiance in his
face. He sighed.
“Why would you choose to
face this? What do you think to do,
among my followers? Angband
is broken, there are no more battles to be
fought. What would you do, people of
war?”
“What do you mean to do?”
Elrond had taken a few steps forward, standing now before the crowd. “What do you intend, that keeps your folk in
Middle-earth?”
“We mean to amend, if we
may. We mean to heal, and bring fairness
back to these lands and those beyond. We
wish to see growth and flowering.”
“Think you we do not wish
for these things!” Elrond asked. “Does the king believe we desire only to
destroy?”
“The king knows but little
of you,” Gil-galad said, controlling his
thoughts. “He does not wish to decide by
report alone.”
“Then will the king
receive the hospitality of our camp?” said Celebrimbor.
“No,” Gil-galad said. That
would seem too much like acceptance.
“But he will walk among you.”
He did do so, but it told
him little that he had not already seen.
These were a hardened and a practical people, they knew how to live from
the land, and he noticed the preparation of food, both gathered and hunted. One elf was repairing some leather work, another making arrows.
He stood for a while watching one who was tending, with quiet
concentration, to some young trees that had had orc marks hewn in their trunks.
“The land has been much
wounded,” the speaker was the Green-elf, whose name Gil-galad
had learned by now was Lindir. The words were true of course. Lindon had escaped
comparatively lightly, but still the marks of Morgoth’s
servants were everywhere.
“It will heal,” Gil-galad said, “and it will be fair again.”
“But never the same,” said
Lindir.
“There is no way back to
time unspoiled,” said Celebrimbor. “But it may be that we can make the lands
that live more fair than before, and create works more glorious than those
which are lost. Why should we not become
greater than our sires? We have time.”
Yes, thought Gil-galad, they had time.
All the time they could need, freed as they now were from the shadow of
death which the presence of war had cast for all his life. They were deathless again, true to the
intended nature of their kind. They had
Ages ahead of them.
They had time to heal old griefs.
He returned to his own
people deep in thought. Celebrimbor bade him a formal farewell and Lindir and the Sindar woman, Lithwen, walked with him and his followers half the
distance. It might almost have been a
meeting between allies.
The chance was his to
build anew. His, and his alone, Ereinion Gil-galad, High-King of
the Noldor, could make his kingdom what he
would. Now was the first great choice of
what he wished to shape.
~ ~ ~
Gil-galad
stood before his people. He wore his
crown, modelled after the crowns of Finwë and Fingolfin, although it was itself a new thing, and he wore
a mantel of blue and silver, which was the finest garb he had. Behind him Arminas
upheld the great banner of the House of Finwë, and
the gold and red of its blazon flamed in the sun.
“Hear now the judgement of
the king.
“Wrongs suffered and
committed may not be forgotten or made as if they had not been, nor would it be
right to attempt it. The grievances
borne by many against those who now sue for admittance into the king’s
authority may not be abolished by royal command, and no such command will be
made.
“Yet there are other
matters which must be remembered if a right choice is to be made here. First that our people have
been ever strongest when we stood together. From union came our triumphs, and division
and resentment, no matter how caused, led ever to bad ends. If we would grow strong again it is better we
be united.
“Those of the Noldor who stand with me must know also that all of our
people transgressed when we chose to march from Valinor
behind the banners of those who shed the blood of kin. Those who did not draw their swords that day
took nonetheless a share in the blood-guilt when they did not renounce the deed
but held their course unchanged. For
this, pardon has been extended by the Valar and those
who would sail West again may do so. Those who accept pardon should not be too
slow in extending it, or at least in forbearing from hatred.
“It is in my mind also
that the life of Elven-kind is as long as Arda, and we have age upon age ahead of us, wherever spent. For lives to be lived out forever in anger
and bitterness is a thing that seems to me not right. We must all live out Arda’s
span, better to do so without barriers of grievance.
“The word of the king is
this: the House of Fëanor
and all who adhere to it shall be admitted amongst our people. No penance or punishment is laid on them save
that they do not seek to evade or conceal their acts of old, and any who ask
their history with an honest heart shall be answered, for griefs
must not be left to fester.
“The king does not order
any among his people to forget or to forgive, for those are things beyond his
power. He urges acceptance, for the sake
of all who would rebuild, but further that that he may not go. However he will not permit violence or the
deliberate stirring of trouble.
“Those who kneel now to be
accepted amongst their kin will accept his word and his power, any not prepared
to do this may depart now. Those who
accept will be assured of treatment as fair as any other of his subjects in all
things that befall in future. Any who
are present and do not agree with the judgement of the king may speak now. Those who are silent accept the choice.
“Do any wish to speak?”
None spoke. Behind him Gil-galad
could hear the heavy flap of the great banner in the breeze.
He walked forward, and Celebrimbor came to greet him and be the first to
kneel. Gil-galad
raised his kinsman, and motioned to Celebrimbor to
stand beside him as the others moved forward.
Elrond was second, and although his eyes were still defiant as they met
the king’s Gil-galad could sense relief in him as
well. There would be time enough to gain
Elrond’s trust.
It took a long time for
all to kneel, but Gil-galad stood straight
throughout. He did not suppose the time
ahead would be easy. He and Celebrimbor and others would have much work
to even begun to heal old rifts. Today
was a beginning, no more. Yet he was
confident that he had chosen right.
When it was done he turned
to face those who had stood behind him and said, in a loud voice, “Now let our
people be one!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Endnotes: Whilst there is no proof that Celebrimbor rejoined the Fëanorians at the end of the First Age there is equally no
proof he did not. That there was a close
relationship between Gil-galad and Celebrimbor is my speculation, but if Gil-galad grew up in Nargothrond they
must at least have known each other.
There is an odd ambiguity
about the Green-elves in The Silmarillion, they appear to have worked
closely with the sons of Fëanor, yet we are also told they accepted the
lordship of Beren. I’ve chosen to
explain that by assuming a geographical divide with those who lived nearer
Angband being more inclined to the Fëanorians and Beren’s lordship confined to
the south.
Fingolfin’s sister Írien
is a canon character, although we do not know whether she survived to the end
of the First Age.