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Story Notes:
This was written for Alexcat for the 2007 Slashy Santa fic exchange.

Betas: Kathy Main and Keiliss, fastest beta in the west; mere words cannot express my gratitude, ladies!

A/N: As I was new to this, I really relied on so many people for support, advice, and help that I would be greatly remiss if I did not mention them. I would like to thank Chaotic_Binky, erfan starled, java_greenca, and libraleyne for all their wonderful ideas, help, and support. I must also thank FaramirHaldir for naming Gil’s mom and Hareatic for my story title. Lastly, without Keiliss and Zhie there would be no canon in this story. Without you guys, this would not have happened. Thanks so much!

A/N 2: This fic is based on elves reaching their majority at fifty. From there, they continue to mature and develop until reaching one hundred.

The characters and world belong to the Master himself, Tolkien. I am only borrowing them so they can come out and frolic a bit, not intending any copyright infringement of any sort. I do own my original characters, but they are available for parties!

Author's Chapter Notes:
From Dor-LĂłmin to the Isle of Balar...

The heat was oppressive and growing until, as his skin burned, he began to scream, but no sound would issue from his seared lungs and throat. Gulping for air as he felt the darkness engulf him, he fell...

Startling, Gil-galad awoke, not amidst flames and terrible heat, but in the cool darkness of his tent, his lover’s warm flesh pressed close. As his eyes settled upon Elrond’s face, the pounding of his heart eased and the thrum of blood in his ears abated. It had been nothing more than a dream, a prophetic vision. But not his reality now. Not yet.

The fear and pain were gone, but the knowledge that his end was near set the High King’s mind adrift. Memories of his long life flooded through him, the bad pressing insistently even as he would will those recollections never to surface again…

Galthurineth’s fair face swam before him. Not that memory! Any, but that! Her blue eyes were over-bright with unshed tears as she caressed his cheek. “My heart, I would go with you if I could... Do not despair, the Falas is sheltered and safe and my people there are caring folk.” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “Lord Círdan is a great and noble elf. He will foster you and appreciate you as you deserve.” And as you have not known here.

Pulling her beloved son into her arms, the tears would no longer stay at bay. As Gil-galad felt the warm drops on his cheek, his own sorrow erupted and he wept soundlessly, somehow managing to keep the tears from falling. The realization that he was being ripped from the only one that had ever loved him tore at his very soul.

Fingon watched the scene and could no longer keep his anger in check. “Stop your sniveling, Galthurineth! Your constant coddling of the boy is why he is being sent away. He should be well on the path to becoming a warrior, instead he cringes at conflict and could not even lead sheep.”

Galthurineth stepped between Gil-galad and Fingon. “He is still young. Too young to be forced into warfare,” she hissed at her husband, not caring when his icy glare turned to her. Fingon noted her protective stance, but it was of no import any longer. Gil-galad was being removed from her influence and would be made fit to assume his duties. “If you had not undermined my authority at every turn, he would at least be willing. But, now, if anything happens to me, the rule shall pass to Turgon, until Círdan deems him ready, if ever.”

“Why now? He has had only twenty begetting days. Would allowing him a few more years be so bad?” She clutched at Fingon’s arm, ready to plead for her son.

“I worry that the damage is already too great. Of course he leaves now.” The High King continued, choosing to bait his wife, “I wonder if Maedhros would not have been the better choice. There is no doubt that he would be able to craft an able leader out of him.”

The mention of her husband’s lover filled Galthurineth with ire. She knew when marrying that it was not a match for love, but simply to provide heirs. That the king flaunted his lover was the deepest cut, demonstrating how little regard he had for her. “No! Not to him... Please?” She begged. “Gil must be somewhere safe.”

Dismissing her, Fingon grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him away. “Come, boy. Your escort is leaving.”

An anguished wail filled his ears, but he was not allowed to turn and take a last glimpse of his mother.

~~~*~~~


“Milord, the boy and his escort have passed through the outer gates. Do you wish to meet them or must I?”

At Galdor’s query, Círdan looked up from the missive he had been reading. He smiled indulgently at his captain when he noted the slight frown he wore. “Galdor, leave it. I will meet the High King’s son, and have no fear, you will not be made to serve as his ‘nurse maid’. You made your objections to that quite clear. He will only be sent to you for weapons training, just as any other youth would be.”

Círdan’s subtle rebuke was not lost on the brown-haired Teler, but he cared not. Galdor felt that fostering Fingon’s son was a mistake and would only bring unwelcome attention to the Falas, especially if the rumors of impending war were to be believed. “As you wish. I will endeavor to treat him as any other.” His frown only deepened at the thought of training a pampered princeling. “If you have no further need of me, I will check that his quarters are ready.”

The shipwright knew how long it took for a mounted party to make its way through the winding roads and hills of Eglarest, so he relaxed for a moment and decided to re-read Galthurineth’s last missive. He smiled fondly at the memory of the dark haired child she had been. Her wild ways from her youth had been transformed into a steely grace and poise. The orphan raised by his household had made him very proud. Then he frowned as he again looked at her letter. How vastly different her description of Gil-galad was from the High King’s. It was almost as though they were writing of two different boys. Círdan felt that the truth was held in both views and in neither. He surmised that the youth would surprise both parents if given the chance. The elf lord hoped to provide him that opportunity, no matter Galdor’s feelings on the matter.

Frowning slightly, he filed her letter alongside Fingon’s and went to meet the escort. As he strode into the open air at the top of wide stone steps, he stopped and gazed westward, delighting in the chatter of the gulls, the tang of salt in the air, and the cacophony of the ship yards. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He loved the sea and all that came with living beside it and amidst it. He could imagine no other life than this.

The mounted escort came into view, finally stopping in the small courtyard. Círdan quickly assessed the warriors, his eyes taking in subtle clues as to their state of mind. All of the entourage, save two, were jovial, smiling, and readily dismounted. The two that stayed mounted were Gil-galad and Alfirin, his tutor. It was obvious that the boy could not contain his amazement at the sight of the sea. The other male obviously spent much time frowning, for he had lines embedded between his brows and at the edges of his mouth. His hard grey eyes displayed a singular lack of mirth and compassion. So this is the tutor the poor youth has been saddled with. In this, at least, Galthurineth was right. That one could suck the joy from anyone. Striding down the steps, Círdan extended his arm in greeting. “Welcome to Eglarest. I am your host, Círdan, Lord of the Falas. Please join me, your mounts will be well cared for.” He nodded toward the stable hands that had been waiting to take their steeds. As both horses were freed from their burdens, they were quickly taken away.

Gil-galad continued to look around in awed silence, so Alfirin spoke up, quite haughtily. “I apologize for my charge’s bad manners. I do believe he is simply overtired from the journey and has forgotten the proper protocol. My Lord Gil-galad! Stop daydreaming and come here!” Alfirin barked at the youth. When the boy was near, Alfirin cuffed him on the ears. “Introduce yourself to Lord Círdan who has graciously agreed to take you into his home and mold you into someone fit to be king.” The shipwright did not like Alfirin at all and hoped to be rid of him quickly.

The pain from his ears startled Gil-galad and he finally really looked at his host. Once he did, all protocols and manners were forgotten for towering over him was a regal elf lord with twinkling blue eyes, long silver hair pulled away from his face, but his most disconcerting feature was his beard. Gil had seen men with beards, but never an elf. Confused by the sight, no words would come. When Gil was in a new situation, his first reaction was always to clam up and shrink into himself.

Círdan watched the lad carefully and noted his increasing nervousness as his eyes would not leave the elf lord’s beard. Wanting to reassure, Círdan spoke gently. “It is a real beard, little one. Would you like to touch it?”

At the kind words, Gil was tugged from his shell. He stared into warm blue eyes and nodded slightly as he reached a trembling hand out. When he felt the slightly wavy strands flow through his fingers, he was surprised by their texture, for they were neither coarse nor silky soft, but somewhere in between, almost like cat fur. The bright smile and astonished delight that shone from his wide blue-grey eyes instantly captured Círdan’s heart. “It feels nothing like I expected.” Círdan’s accepting manner and welcoming smile encouraged the boy and he grew bold enough to ask, “Why do you have one? I thought only dwarves and men had beards.”

Alfirin was appalled and embarrassed by Gil’s impertinent queries. His anger obvious as he clenched his hands at his side, Alfirin was about to tear into the boy when Círdan’s icy glare forced him to swallow his words. “Walk with me, my young lord, and I shall endeavor to answer all of your questions while we get you settled into your quarters.”

~~~*~~~


Gil-galad thought the rugged terrain beautiful, but completely unapproachable. There were twisted trees and craggy hills everywhere he looked. The only open vistas were gained when one mounted a rocky promontory and gazed out to sea. He missed the wide, welcoming vistas and green lands of Dor-Lómin where he could ride and run without fear of falling from a slope or down a rocky outcrop. The constant thrum and roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs were a soothing balm to his lonely heart, but he yet missed the quiet lap of gentle waves against the rushes and reeds by the banks of Lake Mithrim. The chirruping of the crickets and cicadas had always lulled him to his rest, their lack caused him to strain too hard to hear in the long nights, and his reverie was often elusive.

As he stared out to sea from his favorite post, his ever present charcoal and parchment beside him, Gil thought on the passing years. Eglarest was still not home, no matter how patient and kind Lord Círdan was with him. It still felt too foreign and lonely. He had only a scant few friends back home, but he had his mother, her smile and warm embrace made anywhere they were together truly home. He had to admit he had no friends here because he was too uncomfortable to attempt to meet others, so he remained alone.

Círdan watched Gil-galad from his office balcony. The boy had gradually acclimated to life in Eglarest, but had yet to make friends with any of the other youths. His shyness was a barrier to any such relations, luckily the lad did not seem to mind being alone most of the time.

As Gil-galad sat upon the stone ledge and stared out to sea, his charcoal lightly brushing the parchment, Círdan sat down beside him. “How fare you, young one?”

Gil looked up, startled, but smiled brightly when he realized that it was Lord Círdan who had joined him. The elf lord had been ever kind and understanding and gentle with Gil-galad and the boy was much less shy around the elf lord. “I am well, just enjoying a break from my lessons to sketch.”

Looking over Gil’s shoulder, Círdan marveled at his skill. “You have a talent for this. Has anyone been training you?”

Gil blushed and ducked his head. Even though the elf lord was kind, he was unused to compliments and was yet unable to receive them easily. “Nay. Mother taught me before...” He paused, to insure his voice did not crack for thoughts of his mother still pained him. “I have not asked another.”

Círdan stood and offered his hand to Gil-galad. “Well, come then. I shall introduce you to Master Gelirion. He is a talented artist and is always looking for someone to train.” At Gil-galad’s stunned expression, Círdan just smiled. “You did not think that you would be allowed nothing for yourself? Aye, it will be difficult with all you have to learn, but you also need to know joy and there is nothing like creating art to inspire such feelings.”

As he was propelled to his feet by the elf lord’s strong grasp, Gil-galad could not contain the wide smile that lit his face. He would be allowed to learn art? That was such a foreign concept to him, he still had a hard time believing it, for his father had never allowed such ‘frivolity’ as Fingon had referred to it. “Thank you, milord. You have already been most generous to me. I do not have the words to express my gratitude...”

Smiling, Círdan turned and brushed his knuckles against Gil-galad’s cheek. “It is my pleasure entirely. I am glad that I can see your smile, young one. It lights up your entire being.” He began to walk away, but turned back and offered his hand to the lad. “Come along. We must make sure there is time in your schedule to study with Gelirion, so we must hurry before your next lessons begin.”

Both elves hurried away, the young boy rushing to keep up with the elf lord’s long strides.

~~~*~~~


“The boy is not doing well with his arms training, milord. He does not apply himself and shrinks from the attack. I and Tarlangion have nearly injured him too many times to count when he drops his weapon instead of defending. The boy is hopeless! After I grew frustrated with his progress with the sword, Tarlangion hoped that he would do better at the bow. He was wrong. The boy will not focus…”

During Galdor’s tirade, Círdan grew increasingly irritated with his captain and his attitude toward Gil-galad, until he could not listen to more. “Enough! The boy has a name, Galdor. Use it. From your attitude around him, it is no wonder Gil-galad cannot concentrate.” Knowing that he could not force Galdor to accept the lad, Círdan clamped down on his own anger. “Since you seem unwilling to be the proper instructor for him, I shall teach him myself.”

“But milord, you have far too many duties and responsibilities to waste your time…”

Trying to keep his temper at bay, Círdan raised his hand and interrupted. “Then you shall have to take on many of those additional duties and responsibilities since I will be taking away one of yours.” The elf lord glared at Galdor daring him to say anything further.

Galdor turned away. “Aye, as you wish, milord.”

~~~*~~~


As Círdan assumed primary responsibility for all areas of Gil-galad’s training, the lad was practically inseparable from the elf lord. It made sense for Gil to be with him as he conducted inspections, tours, and general business. Once they had established a routine and all the folk were comfortable with Gil-galad’s presence, Círdan began to query the boy about the conversations, trying to get the lad to think of what was occurring and see more than what was simply being said, paying attention to what was not said and how the words were uttered. Of course, with Gil-galad’s tendency to be shy and withdrawn, it was not always easy to do this, but Círdan was patient and understanding and seemed to know how to cajole the lad to greater confidence.

The one part of his duty that Círdan truly loved was being the first to command all newly made ships. It was not a necessity as there were many capable captains among the Falathrim, but it was one duty that Círdan would not relinquish nor delegate. He loved the sea and missed being on it, so took every available opportunity to ride the waves.

Gil-galad stood on the deck of the ship and watched in amazement as his mentor calmly steered the newly made vessel from the sheltering bay and out into the open waters of the sea. It was his first time out of the bay and he was vibrating with excitement. Even the raucous cries of the gulls could not lessen his delight. As the vessel plowed through the smooth waters, his dark hair flew behind him, and his eyes shone. He turned and watched as the larger sails were unfurled and their speed increased. Gil’s eyes moved to the stern and the commanding figure standing at the helm. Círdan cut an imposing figure, his tall form clad in grey leggings and a dark blue tunic, leaving his strong arms bare on this sunny summer day. He looked down from the horizon and his eyes, the same color as the sky, twinkled at Gil-galad’s expression. He cocked his head indicating the lad should join him. Almost instantly, the youth was at his side, his joy contagious. “So, what do you think of the sea now, young one?”

For the first time in the twelve long years since he had left his mother’s sheltering arms, Gil-galad truly felt at home. His whole body glowed with his delight. “It is more than I could have imagined. The sky is so blue and the horizon stretches so far on all sides. It is as though we are the last of our kind...” At that moment, dolphins broke the surface and swam beside the swift vessel. Gil-galad was speechless, for he had only heard of such creatures. Never could he have imagined that they could swim as fast as a ship! He ran for the side to get a better view of the swift beings.

The shipwright saw the dolphins and was pleased. “Ah, it seems that we have received Ulmo’s blessing upon another ship. It is a lovely day indeed.”

As the sun sunk beneath the horizon, the returning ship at last pulled into its slip at the docks, guided there by Círdan’s firm hand which was gently directing Gil-galad’s as he showed the lad how to steer the vessel into port. It had been a glorious day and both elves were happy as they strode home for a late dinner.

~~~*~~~


When the bloodied elf rode in on his exhausted horse, all who saw him knew that times were indeed grave for the First Born. Many of the elves of the Falathrim had gone to fight the Dark Lord at Fingon’s side, but few returned to Eglarest and Brithombar. As he made his way to the manor on the hill, silence greeted the messenger. None would cheer his news this dark day.

Círdan and Galdor met the messenger at the base of the steps. The elf swayed briefly when his legs at last touched solid ground. From the looks of he and his mount, they had been riding non-stop for days. With a slight nod, a stable hand quickly took the ruined mount and led it away. Círdan reached out a hand to steady the young dark-haired elf. “What is your name, lad? I think you should rest and have your wounds taken care of before delivering your news.”

The elf only shook his head before speaking. “Nay, milord. You must know… The High King is dead. We were betrayed!” Thankful for the hand steadying him, he took a deep breath and continued. “I am Callon. I was sent ahead. We were completely routed. There are few survivors, but they are coming here with the Dark Lord’s forces on their tails. You must be ready…”

“Callon, how fare those of the High King’s household?” Círdan did not really desire to hear the answer, but he knew that he must find out, for Gil-galad’s sake.

“The queen and her escort were slaughtered while trying to escape, milord. None survived.” Callon could no longer stand, he collapsed from exhaustion and his injuries. Though pained by grief, Círdan easily gathered the young elf in his arms and carried him to the healers. Galdor walked beside him in silence, knowing well the anguish radiating from his lord.

After turning the messenger over to the healers, Círdan looked at Galdor. “Please stay with him. Get as many details as you can when he wakes. We need to know what we face.”

“Milord? What of you?” Galdor was deeply concerned for his lord and friend.

“Gil-galad must know that his father is dead.” Clenching his jaw against his own feelings, he continued. “And, that his mother is lost as well.” Clasping his loyal aide’s shoulder, Círdan looked into his eyes and briefly revealed the depth of his pain before schooling his features once again. “There is too much to do for any of us to fall to our emotions. We have to prepare the people, insure our defenses will hold. I will grieve when my people are safe.”

Círdan was distraught at the loss of so many lives, and not just of his own folk. Fingon could be an ass, but he had been a valuable ally and ultimately even a good friend. The knowledge that Galthurineth was gone cut deeply. She had been so young when their marriage was suggested, Círdan still felt some measure of guilt at arranging it. But when he thought of Gil-galad and how his eyes would light up with delight, the shipwright could not find it in his heart to regret their marriage. Striding through the quiet streets he was unable to contain his anger and anxiety, but he knew that he must, for there was one who had not yet been informed of the losses.

Finding Gil-galad aiding the sail cloth maker who he was currently apprenticed to, Círdan strode into the small workshop, the news he was to deliver making his stomach roil. “Nathron, may I take your student away early today?”

Nathron bowed deeply. “Of course milord, that you have loaned him to me at all is a blessing that I knew would not last.”

Gil-galad looked up, concerned, when Círdan arrived at the shop. The elf lord did not come to check on him directly and never came to fetch him, that was always delegated to a page or messenger. He quickly finished the seam he was working on and carefully replaced his supplies before standing. “I am ready, milord.”

As they walked out of the small shop, Círdan’s continued silence caused butterflies to flutter in Gil-galad’s stomach. Something was wrong, he could feel it. Círdan strode through the streets with his usual long strides, and even though Gil-galad had grown, he still had to rush to keep up. “Lord Círdan, what is wrong? Have I done something? Please…” His voice shook as he worried that he had somehow done something to anger his mentor.

The lad’s pleading tone finally reached Círdan and he halted. Turning, he looked at Gil-galad. “Oh, my boy, it is nothing you have done. We need to speak and I was set upon a destination, not thinking how it must seem to you. Please forgive me for upsetting you.” He sighed, knowing that far worse upset was coming. Extending his hand, he clasped Gil-galad’s and set off again, this time at a pace easier for Gil to keep up with.

Once they arrived at Gil-galad’s favorite perch, looking out to the sea over the roofs of Eglarest, Círdan sat down on the stone ledge and motioned for Gil to do the same. Being completely unsure if there was a best way to deliver such news, the elf lord simply began. “We had a messenger today. He was injured and had been riding for many days...” Círdan paused to compose himself. “Our forces were betrayed, and most died upon the plains before Angband…”

Gil-galad looked at the elf lord, his eyes narrowed. “My father is dead then?” He had known that his father intended to surprise the Dark Lord and confront him before his lair. He tried to feel grief, but Fingon had never been a father to him. There was no real emotion called forth by his loss, save a twinge of regret that he would never be able to truly know his father.

Círdan simply nodded, knowing the lad would not be prepared for the next. “Your mother is not among the survivors, young one.”

“No! You lie!” The heartbreak in those words tore at Círdan and he reached to comfort the boy. “My mother was no warrior. She would not have been near the fighting.” The elf lord finally encircled the struggling youth with strong arms and pulled him tightly against his chest. His harsh breathing signaled that he was fighting against the tears.

“Cry. There is no shame in venting your feelings, young one. You loved your mother, as well you should, so it is natural to grieve her loss.” Círdan’s voice cracked at the last. Tears ran down his cheeks to drop into the dark hair resting against his chest. The two elves clung to each other, their shared grief cast upon the winds.

~~~*~~~


The next months were a whirlwind of activity in both Eglarest and Brithombar for both towns were rapidly filling with survivors from the massacre of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Gil-galad was doing his best to help in any way his newly learned skills would provide the most aid, but he mostly found himself used merely as a messenger, something he was quite capable of doing long before he had begun studying with the local tradesmen. It was frustrating knowing that there was so much to do, but he was simply to carry messages from one place to another.

One day found Gil-galad sitting on his favorite perch, charcoal in hand, softly rubbing against the surface of the parchment. He was finally attempting to draw his mother from memory. That he might never see her again still hurt, but at least now he could think on her without sobs trying to issue from his throat. Thinking of her unconditional love and bright smile made him feel warm inside and he smiled slightly.

Suddenly the air was rent by a lone horn in the distance, one long blast followed by three short ones. The enemy had been sighted! That was the signal to close the great gates in the outer wall. Gil-galad was suddenly nervous with anticipation. He had never seen battle before. He quickly hurried to Círdan’s study, ready for whatever duty he would be assigned, even runner.

As he walked into the elf lord’s chambers, they were awash in activity, with elves leaving and arriving hurriedly. Above all the hubbub was Círdan, quietly but effectively issuing orders right and left. As one elf would leave him with their duties, another would arrive. It was amazing how well oiled everything seemed, even though the Havens had yet to be attacked. When Círdan spotted Gil-galad, he motioned for the lad to come to him. Gil-galad’s heart was in his throat, not knowing what was expected of him.

“Young one, I am glad you came unbidden. You really have learned so much in such a short time…” Círdan trailed off as a map was spread out on his desk and different areas were indicated by a pointed finger. Looking up at the elf speaking, he replied, “Aye, we need that information. Please convey it to Galdor. I shall return in a few minutes.” Motioning with his head, Círdan indicated that Gil-galad should walk with him. They strode down hallways and stairways until they soon arrived at the lad’s rooms. Opening the door, Círdan walked in.

Once Gil had entered, the elf lord closed the door behind them and began speaking. “Gil-galad, please gather what things you value the most. There is a ship leaving shortly from the docks. You will take your things and get on that vessel.”

“But, milord, I am needed here. I can be of use. Do not send me away!” Gil-galad struggled valiantly to keep his voice from cracking. He did not want to be treated as a child, so he must not behave as one, but the reminder of being sent away once before rose like bile in him. He was forever to be pawned off on others, someone too valuable as a symbol to be allowed in the midst of conflict. Someone that must be shuttled aside, ‘kept safe’. That it was Círdan who was doing it to him this time hurt the most. His eyes glittered with unshed tears as he looked up, his hurt and betrayal clearly written on his face.

Hating himself for again wrenching the boy from what was familiar, Círdan gathered the lad in his arms and held him tightly. “Please understand… I am not sending you away to be rid of you. You are not an unwelcome burden.” Tipping the boy’s chin up so their eyes could meet, the elf lord continued, gently, “I need to know that you are safe and well. It matters greatly to me that nothing happens to you. When all is safe here once again, I will send for you to return. It is not another permanent exile.”

“If you command it, I will go.” Gil-galad let out a resigned sigh. At least he was not being sent away again forever. Or that was what they both believed at the time.

~~~*~~~


Elrond moaned quietly and stirred in his sleep, pulling Gil-galad from his musings. The High King turned on his side and pulled his lover close, smoothing his hair away from his face. He smiled as Elrond snuggled against him. Warmth, along with the scent of his lover, flooded Gil’s senses. He pondered how such few places in his life had given him a sense of warmth and belonging. Being here, holding Elrond was one, his mother’s embrace another, and the Isle of Balar loomed large in his thoughts…


TBC
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