Title & Chapter Number: Circles and Rings: Part 1, 2/?
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I couldn't even begin to claim ownership of any of the wonders of Middle Earth. I've borrowed them for some personal edification, and to get to know a few of the inhabitants better, but they aren't mine. No copyright infringement is intended. All content and original characters are the intellectual copyright of the author.
2nd Disclaimer: I don't speak elven; I wish I did. Therefore I claim no accuracy of the words and phrases I've used. What I've used, I pieced together using Dragon Flame, which can be found HERE.
Also, much of my understanding of things Elvish and Middle Earthen have come from many hours perusing The Encyclopedia of Arda
Warnings: None
Betas: Gypsy
Cast: Gil-galad/OFC
Timeline: Takes place before the Last Alliance and makes no reference to any events Tolkien wrote of.
Spoilers: Nope
Summary: Every course of action, every path chosen, affects the course of history, and, sometimes, changes otherwise unchangeable events.
Notes: My apologies for any errors; I'd be happy to work on rectifying them (within the framework of the story) if anyone can point such errors out to me!
Special Thanks to: Char for her beta help and all of the elven research she did and passed my way, not to mention the plot bunnies she kept throwing in my path. Also to Gypsy for her beta help, as well as a jolly good game of Grope-the-Elves.
Expansive as it was, the white walls of the Mithlond palace felt like a cage, a prison, confining Gil-galad to a torment that he could not be free of. Each minute of the last four weeks had crept by too slowly. He had felt each one more sharply than he had ever noticed the passing of time before, and for a nearly immortal being, feeling each moment slip away was an agony of the worst kind.
To stave off the despairing darkness, he had thrown himself into his duties with a fury that surprised his advisors. Each had chastised him in turn, in their own ways, for the foolishness of leaving Mithlond without retainers. Didn't he understand that forces of the Dark Lord roamed the land still, that he had not yet broken that evil into submission? Did it mean nothing that he could have been killed?
He had laughed at that.
It probably galled them further that he gave them no excuses for his absence nor any details of his whereabouts. As far as they knew, he had simply vanished.
He was beginning to wish he had.
Duty was making him weary. He needed a respite. He needed something more than the High Kingship to give him purpose.
What he needed, wanted, was her. More so now that she was completely beyond him than he had ever acknowledged in all the years he had known her.
Bowing his head and turning away from the window view that led off towards her snow-covered horizon, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
His stomach rumbled softly; he had not eaten today. He had not eaten much since his return actually. He had slept even less. What sleep he did get was plagued with a nightmarish montage of images: the elfling in his arms, barely two years old at that time, staring at him with liquid ice blue eyes both terrified and calm. Then, other more personal glimpses: the child he had taught the rudiments of riding, the older girl nestling the harp on her lap, worshipping the giver with those same eyes full of gratitude. Later still, the young woman sitting upon the hearth, her bare feet curled beneath her as she sewed while he and Tawen spoke in the background. But he, always with his eyes upon her, devoured every detail of her movement, and when she looked up at him that summer evening, brushing her golden-brown hair back behind her ear to reveal her bare throat and the gentle rise of her breasts beneath that same off-white garment, it had been an unexpected shock.
Even now he remembered that look on her face. The hunger of it. The desire. And he still felt all too keenly the sudden realization that this one he had known from infancy had become this feminine creature of near-unearthly beauty. No longer an infant. No longer a child. A maiden. A maiden who had wanted him, however briefly.
Wanted him.not because he was king, but because of something far more personal. Wanted him.and what had he done? Bid her farewell that next day in the manner he had always done, as though he had not noticed that look. He had returned to Mithlond and forty-seven years of solitude, of trying to forget.
He hadn't of course. Just as he could not now. And when the recent flashes of dream gave way to the unwanted remembrances of her glare of fury and then to an inevitable flash of blinding pain with her beautiful face twisted in horror and despair, he would bolt out of what little sleep he had gained, panting and feeling as terrified as she looked.
Every time it was the same. Every time, thereafter, he could not return to sleep, as the final expressions upon her face were too vivid to chase from his mind.
He had sought out the Seer, wanting answers, wanting sleep and peace.
'The fingers of fate will find you, Te'Valishar,' the Seer had said, and sent him on his way.
It was hardly the sort of answer he was seeking. It only served to remind him that, while his people could be killed, they could also die of great grief, and if the fingers of fate were reaching for him, they might well find him before long. There was still so much to do though. The Dark Lord must be brought down.
He did not know that he had either the will or the strength to continue that fight.
In her world, the savagery of the Dark Lord did not exist. A victory for Gil-galad and the forming alliance would protect her. To bring her into his world would only be to initiate her to terror and death and despair, things that he wanted to protect her from as much now as he had when he had found her. This parting was the best thing for both of them. Most certainly for her. For himself, he was beginning to believe it would the death of him. If the Lord of Mordor did not take his life first.
He heard the door of his private day chamber open, knowing the familiar footfalls belonged to the only other person allowed to enter here.
"My lord?"
Gil-galad didn't answer. His steward had made a point of coming at least twice each evening, begging him to come to dinner or simply inquiring as to the needs of his King. Thus, his coming was not unexpected, and Gil-galad knew that, if he remained silent long enough, Melandur would eventually go. He did not look up or otherwise acknowledge the steward until the elf began lighting more of the lamps in the darkening room.
"What are you.?"
Melandur stopped his actions only long enough to look at the King. "Are you ailing, my lord? You look unwell."
He understood the steward's tone well enough to know this was no casual inquiry. It was a statement, a judgment of his appearance and behavior, made so that the King would understand the concerns of the Council but would be unable to honestly accuse Melandur of anything conspiratorial. "I am weary," Gil-galad snapped, eyes continuing to narrow as the steward kept lighting lamps. "I did not request."
Unperturbed, Melandur said, "No, but you can hardly receive visitors in a dark chamber, my lord.unless you wish to move to another room or else send her away."
"Visitor."
"She said she hoped you would see her." Melandur had each of the golden lamps lit now, lending the austere room considerably more warmth and welcome then it had carried in many days.
With a weary sigh, Gil-galad stood up and adjusted his dark blue tunic. No woman would dare approach him here, except perhaps Galadriel, and if she had come all this way without prior word, he should see her at once.
"Very well, Melandur, announce her and then leave us." He took another deep breath, wishing he had taken a moment to wash his face, though knowing that would have done little to wipe away his cares. Galadriel would see them. She always did.
Melandur stepped out of the room and then back in, followed by a silent figure cloaked in deep brown velvet. She was hardly tall enough to be the Great Lady, however. He could not see her face within the hood of the cloak but he guessed that the Seer had come to him with further insight into his dreams, as he had asked of her. He took an eager step forward, his eyes traveling down the form, barely hearing his steward's introduction.
It all came together in the moment the bare feet caught his eye and Melandur's voice penetrated his thoughts.
"My lord, the Lady Mithluin."
He stopped breathing. He did not dare look up, yet a silent voice beckoned him and he obeyed it, his eyes meeting hers as she gracefully lowered the hood of her cloak, spilling amber brown across her shoulders.
He was certain the color washed from his face. His chest began to ache from not breathing and from the sudden tightening of his heart. He wanted to speak, to say something, to greet her properly or to embrace her and never let her go, but he could do nothing more than stare, searching her face for something, some sign of why she was here, some measure of forgiveness for the wrongs he had burdened her with. He did not even notice Melandur leaving the room. Every fiber of his existence was focused upon her.
But her face was neutral, cold, and completely unreadable. The only thing it had revealed was a small flash of softening in the brief moment of eye contact she allowed before lowering her gaze in respect to his title.
"Te'Valishar," she finally said, her warm voice breaking the silence that bewitched him. Air rushed into his lungs again and his heart began to hammer.
It might be his title she had spoken, but at least she was here and speaking. She whom he had believed to never see again. It did not matter what she called him as long as she was here. The gold in her ruffled hair caught the lamplight; he wanted to smooth the waves but did not dare move. It took great will to speak.
"I am surprised at your presence, my lady. To what honor do I owe this visit?" He hoped she did not hear the tremor in his voice.
"There is no honor in it. I have thought long over your call upon me and realized that I was, perhaps, rude and inappropriate in my manner towards."
"No." he interrupted, "never." The sharpness of her glance silenced him abruptly.
"The position you hold grants you certain courtesies, none of which I offered. I can not rectify that." She paused to meet his gaze. "Nor do I desire to do so. I meant that which I said."
"Then if you did not wish to see."
"I do not believe I ever uttered those words," she said quietly. There was that softness again, but only a hint of it before her face became neutral once more. "Besides, I realized that I was hasty in sending you away. You are the only one who knows my history, who can tell me who I am and where I came from."
"Tawen."
"Whatever Tawen knew died with her. I did not ask that of her. She gave herself to me; what we had was our life. She owed me no more. But you."
He marveled at the way her blue-gray eyes softened and hardened with her tone of voice.
"It is your right to expel me from your home as I have done to you. But in my eyes, you owe me. If nothing more than explanations, than a telling of what you know. Give me that, Te'Valishar, and I shall trouble you no further." He thought he saw a slight quiver on her pink lips as she added, "Or do you wish me to go at once...?"
He wanted to bid her stay for as long as she desired, forever if she wished it, but instead he replied, "Stay. The hospitality of this house is yours. What you ask of me is reasonable, though I fear there is little to tell. Please. You have traveled far. Do you require water to bathe? Fresh attire? A meal, certainly? You must dine with me and then we shall talk and I shall answer your questions with what knowledge I have."
He did not give her the chance to protest or reject his offer as he opened the door and looked up and down the corridor for any of his servants. There was a young elf with an armload of towels further down the corridor.
"You," Gil-galad called. "See to it that dinner is provided in the solar for the lady and myself. And see to it a bath is drawn in the Blue Room, please. Oh, and find a maid to serve her."
She interrupted his hurried speech with a gentle laugh. The servant barked his agreement but Gil-galad did not notice. Startled by the unexpected sound of her humor, he looked back at her.
"There is no need for such things," she began, her face still neutral except for the lingering traces of mirth around the corners of her mouth.
"Nonsense. You are my guest and shall have everything you desire in accordance with."
Her expression darkened, though not with anger this time. He recognized the look as shame and something else, and realized that perhaps he was being too overzealous in his welcome. She wanted nothing more of him than answers, and here he was treating her as though she were a visiting queen after he had so badly abused her graciousness in the past. He tempered his enthusiasm as best he could, offered his arm, and said, "Come, please."
She did not accept the arm but she did pass into the corridor and walk beside him.
"You do not have to make use of either the maid or the bath; they are courtesies commonly offered. And as I have not yet dined myself," he shrugged, realizing that his appetite had suddenly returned, "if you do not care to dine, I hope you shall at least do me the honor of your company as I do."
When she said nothing as they reached the end of the corridor and mounted the white stone screw stairs, he thought that she would reject his offers. He berated himself; too little too late, generous offers meant to keep her here, offers that he should have made decades ago. She should have grown up here, under his wing, in the light of the glory of Mithlond and all Elvenkind. Instead he had banished her to a solitary existence with only Tawen's company and occasionally his own. Then he had taken even that from her, and whether she stayed or went, for that failing he would never forgive himself.
"Bathing would be welcome," she finally said as they reached the top of the stairs. "And I would appreciate a light meal, if it is no inconvenience."
"Never that, A'm." He bit his tongue and coughed to cover the faux pas. He pushed open the first door they reached and motioned her inside. There was tension in her movement again and he cursed himself silently. He remained in the door way as she passed into the room, feeling uncharacteristically stupid and self-conscious. "Take your leisure. I will call for you when the table is laid."
He closed the door, wanting to lean against the wall and catch his breath, calm his heart. But that would have appeared undignified and a line of servants was approaching with the heated water for her bath. Instead, he walked passed them, further down this upper corridor to his own rooms. Such company as this required special measures.
Mithluin did not move until the servants had gone out with their empty water pails. Only when she was completely alone did she drop the cloak upon the large bed and relax her stance.
It had been a difficult decision to come here. Never, in all of her 107 years, had she journeyed to Mithlond, a journey of only a few days. She had never left the security of the forest. She would have, if he had invited her, but he never had. Certain that there was something about her that caused him embarrassment, something that would only cause the great King difficulty if she were to be here, she had stayed away. Eventually it had also been anger that kept her back, and that anger was with her still, though it was no longer what it had been.
She tested the water with her fingers, and finding it satisfactory, she let her gown drop from her shoulders and fall to the floor. She knotted her hair upon her head, not wishing to get it wet, as it would not have time to dry before the meal, and then she stepped into the decorative metal basin.
Her thoughts drifted back to that day nearly five decades ago when she had dared reveal her feelings for her benefactor. That he had not returned them had not been a total surprise to her then. After all, he was the nearest thing she knew to a father, and though she had liked to dream that his lavish gifts to her meant something more, it was understandable that he might still consider her in a fatherly manner. There had been something in his eyes, however, something upon his face and in the shift of his body when he had registered her longing, that had told her clearly enough that he had felt the attraction as strongly as she had. Felt it far longer than she had, perhaps, without ever admitting it to himself.
Yet he had left anyhow. He had never looked back. She had run through the gambit of possible reasons, ranging from Tawen forbidding it, to the possibility of his death, to the notion that he might well have a consort and family that he had never shared with her. A family that did not know she existed. It was also likely that he still considered her a daughter of sorts, and that this shift in affections had unsettled him too greatly, causing him to put an end to their acquaintance. She had been hurt and furious, with Tawen, with him, with herself.
All of that had dwindled over time. He had his reasons and she resigned his memory to unfulfilled infatuation and carried on without him.
When the day had come that Tawen had given all she could to her apprentice and failed to rise from her bed, Mithluin dared to allow herself to hope that the woman's passing would bring the great king back to her, even if only to say goodbye to the Old One. She could not deliver the message herself, but she had hoped that the Men who had passed through her care would deliver the news to him, and that he would come at once. But as days had passed into weeks, and weeks into months, she had given up hope that he would come. The anger had again begun to root as the thought occurred to her that he knew and simply would not come.
Thus when he had so suddenly, without fanfare or retainers, appeared before her, as strong and regal as he had been so many years ago, she had been understandably confused. The backwash of forty-seven years of emotion had refused to be contained. She had struck with the brunt of it and driven him away, chased him back to the world he preferred, leaving her to hers.
But the last four weeks had whispered revelations to her, causing her to question everything she had come to think true of Ereinion Gil-galad. Had that been joy on his face upon seeing her? Had there been honest pain in his normally stern blue eyes when she lashed out at him? Had she felt his despair and regret as she forced him from her home?
Had the tears he shed in the forest, when he believed himself to be alone, been for her?
There had been no answers to be had in her long-time home. And while part of her feared what she might learn here, she did not fear him. She never had. She had closed up her home, took only what she treasured most, things in the packs servants had placed upon the bed when they had come into the room. She had left her home and left behind her past.
No matter what she found here, she did not expect to ever go back.
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