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tootoomanycats · 18 days ago

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The Plan

Chapter One: Best Laid Plans...

Pairing:

Gil-Galad x Human Reader Fem

Word Count: 6,415 words

If you prefer to read on AO3 its HERE

Summary: (SET IN THE RINGS OF POWER TV SERIES) (Takes place years before the first episode) As time settles the world’s chaos, Gil-Galad begins to feel an unusual boredom. After centuries of war, his days are now filled with mundane paperwork, the ink on the parchment mocking him with its monotony. When he receives a letter from Master Boat Builder Cirdan, asking for aid for a small group of humans whose ship has sunk, Gil-Galad agrees, recognizing his duty to help. Upon meeting the High King, you are caught off guard by an unexpected attraction. With your ship at the bottom of the bay, you aim to use your charm to secure a new vessel for yourself and your crew. However, as days go by, Gil-Galad's genuine compassion and kindness complicate things. The initial plan to flirt and deceive begins to clash with the genuine emotions that develop. You find yourself torn between the charming facade and emerging feelings for the High King. As the truth looms closer, the question remains—how will Gil-Galad react when he learns the real reason behind your visit?

Warnings:

Mentions of fire

Descriptions of injuries

Descriptions of partial nudity

Reader is not a holy good person.

Two ideots pining and refusing to acknowledge it.

Not Beta Read

(smut stuff will be in chapter two, promise)

Author Notes:

Hello Everyone!

It’s finally here! Thank you for being so patient while I finally got this done and posted. In my overeagerness, I was hoping to get this finished on New Year’s Day, but sadly, life and depression got a hold of me. I have entirely rewritten this chapter and how it plays out over four times. This time, I finally had to reel my worry that this wasn't good enough and just be okay with where it was. Please note that I'm writing this without sitting to very strict guidelines of what elves are commonly like in the book. I am writing Gil-Galad and Elves with the idea that history books and lore always paint figureheads and royalty as if they lived by strict morals and values. And I think it's much more interesting if we see what Gil-Galad would have experienced if he had fallen in love, and it, in the end, was kept secret from history. You'll notice that Elrond isn't going to be in this; that is because at the same time this story is going on- I have a one-shot of what Elrond is doing elsewhere. I am working on it, but I have no set date for finishing it as of right now. As always if you like what you have read please remember that fanfic writers live off of likes, comments and reblogs- we wont admit it but we all have praise kinks. Have you fed your starving artist today?

Tea.

Every night since his arrival in Grey Havens, the Master Boat Builder has made a point to enjoy a cup of tea before heading off to bed. Be it rain, snow, or shine, that cup of tea will always be had.

The weather was sublime this evening: cool temperatures, clear skies, and a calm breeze. Weather being what it is, he opened the workshop’s doors to watch as the sun’s last glow gave way to darkness.

Once the last sip was finished, he reached for the large doors to close them for the night. But as he pulled the last one, a shimmer of light in the water caught his attention; its reflection was unusually bright.

Leaning out the side, hand gripping the door handle for balance, he gasped in shock at finding the source. Just a few leagues away was a double-masted ship- inflamed.

Its bow was raised dramatically into the cool night air, exposing an accumulation of maritime fauna. The vessels aft dragged along the sea bed, echoing whenever it hit high points of rocks. What wood was visible was already ashes or becoming the next fuel source for the inferno. Screams and bodies jumping into the river could be heard above all else.

Running out of the boat house, Cirdan reached the town’s warning bell. Its massive size was stuck from disuse and rust. He kicked hard and kept kicking until his ankle and foot burned in protest, until finally, it groaned in movement. The piercing sound of the tocsin woke and alerted those who lived nearby as he shouted, “FIRE!”

It became chaos as orders were given, supplies packed, and horses mounted. The few elves who could, followed the older one, sprinting to offer aid to the tragedy’s survivors.

——

Wet, freezing, and homeless.

The strength it had taken to carry your first mate from the ship’s bowls to the deck had caused more than one muscle to pull. Short as he is, the man is surprisingly heavy.

Unfortunately, jumping from a burning ship was more manageable than carrying him to shore. As the line of buoyancy and gravity met, a new struggle began as you started to stand halfway out of the water.

Heavy, wet clothes worked against frozen, numb limbs with each soaking step to dry land and out of its icy grip. Ankles almost twisting with each slippery step on the shore rocks before finally collapsing onto soft sand.

A small blessing was the man you had carried came too with only a few short chest compressions. You joined him on the sand once he could fully sit up and catch his breath.

What was left of the crew watched as the top of the crow’s nest disappeared, the bay groaning and gurgling in its consumption. The ship you and many others once called home had been swallowed into the water’s depths.

A hand gently pressed into your left shoulder, its callouses felt through the singed holes of your shirt—the contact causing you to look at the much shorter man. “I’m sorry, Captain. You did your best.”

The words meant well, but instead of commiserating, they reminded you that this was your failure. When the sensation of your throat tightening and eyes misting began, you shook your head. There would be no grieving until a new home was acquired.

Looking back at the shorter man, face composed and emotions pushed to the side. “Do we know where we’ve landed, Sal? I didn’t have time to look at the map; when I saw the opening, I thought it would be the only chance for our escape.”

Sal’s singular green eye widened before looking around the visible area, knowing he would be the only one of you to see in such darkness. “Not sure, we’ve never been this far north before.”

Not good.

Standing up, you internally shivered as the sensation of wet, sandy, cloth peeled from your damp, chilled skin. The only possessions left were on everyone’s backs, holes and all.

A strike of panic set in at that realization. Taking inventory, a hand reached up to count the baubles that adorned your earnings, relieved to feel all was accounted for. Looking down at the blistered and burned fingers, you grimaced at the thought of how bad the pain would be when removing the various roughly smithed rings. One of the bands looked almost embedded past the first few layers of skin, potentially touching bone.

Sal had followed in checking his personage for anything of value, even lifting his eye patch and ensuring that the smooth, unpolished diamond he kept was still hidden in the empty socket.

“We’re going to be stuck on land until a new home can be procured.” Turning, you saw the group huddled together for warmth, teeth chattering as they shivered.

“From here on out, it’s dry land rules and roles. We’re starting from nothing, so best behaviors until that changes.” At the nods given in response, you turned to your first mate. “We need to start a fire; we don’t need anyone dying of hypothermia-“ Everyone froze at a distinct sound.

Hoof-beats.

The sound rumbled further up into the tree line, accompanied by voices that called out, echoing into the fjord. Lanterns swayed and grew brighter with each moment the owners grew closer.

Head snapping back to the others, you whispered, “Remember the rules. No one speaks until I say so.” A groan caught your attention just before Sal almost lost his balance. “What's wrong? Why-“ Pulling your hand away from the back of his head, you felt the warmth just as you smelt its metallic scent.

Your hand was entirely coated in bright red blood from just that moment of contact; a quick glance back at the sand where he had first laid showed a small puddle where the ground's compression had helped to pause the bleeding, only momentarily. “Why didn't you say anything?” you hissed before trying to apply what little pressure your pain-filled hand could tolerate. A gruff whisper was his only response: “Didn't want to worry you.”

“Idiot” was the only word that could be mustered while ideas sprinted in your mind at what to do next. The lanterns were getting closer, the voices becoming more evident each second. It was a gamble, but it was the only possible choice you could see.

“Someone, help us!” Shouting into the night air, voice raising louder with the following sentence. “Pirates have attacked us!” At first, the crew members' confusion read clearly on their faces, until your stern glare made them realize what was happening. One by one, they began clutching various parts of their bodies, crying out and groaning in pain.

Sal chuckled in your arms, shaking his head before he lost consciousness, his full weight now on you to hold up. Once the owners of the lanterns broke through the bushes, they rushed in to help. But it was clear that there was surprise on both parties’ sides when seeing who the other was.

Elves? Just how far north had you drifted?

Cirdan was genuinely shocked at what he and his townspeople stumbled upon. When first spotting the burning ship, the assumption was that the sailors aboard would be his own kind—not humans. As the others rushed to those rolling in agony on the sand, he quickly made his way to where you were struggling to maintain balance while holding a relatively short man.

Finally, you allowed the tears to flow, teeth chattering as the adrenalin began to wear off and what little warmth you had dissipated. “Please, help us.” The older elf’s heart broke at the sight before him, and within the hour, you and your crew had been taken back to town to be tended to.

By midnight, Sal’s head had been stitched and bandaged. Once asleep, the shorter man's snoring rattled the walls of the boat builders' small home. The other members' wounds had been cleaned before special herbs that none of you recognized were placed over them. With no spare rooms, Cirdan was left to care for the ship’s captain on his dining table.

The first rinse to clean the wounds on your palms had not been too painful. But as the elf used various instruments to take out the bits of splintered wood, broken threads of rope, and shattered glass, you began to think that he was torturing you instead of healing.

At another flinch, Cirdan’s focus shifted to take in your exhausted face. The grimacing expression telling how much you were ready to be done with the tedious task before you both. “Almost done. I am pleased to say you will still have full use of your hands.” He whispered.

As everyone else slept, only a few candles lit the small area needed to see as he worked. In search of distraction from the sensitive and tender discomfort, attention shifted to the papers scattered around the table he had you perched on. The first few were just lists and notes, but something caught your eye.

It was beautiful.

Triple-masted, square-cut sales, the hull was designed in such detail that it felt like, with one good shake, it would drop out of the page into the water.

As you became further engrossed with the drawing, you unknowingly leaned further and further. Cirdan looked up, ready to ask you to sit still again. But when he followed where your attention had gone, he smiled softly before gently guiding your palms back into the position needed. Focusing back on digging out a particularly stubborn glass shard, he egged on your curiosity. “If you enjoy that one, you should see the one you are sitting on.”

When a deep blush of embarrassment spread across your face, he chuckled. “Here, let me help.” With the boat master’s aid to lean to the opposite side now, he pulled free the design to lay the now crinkled paper on the table for easier viewing.

Just like the previous design, this, too, was stunning. Were such ships possible to build? Once back to work on your hands, you took the opportunity to shift your attention from the design to begin admiring the unique features of the elf's home.

Intricate hand-carved details were everywhere. Spiraled door handles, doorway arches with such delicate flowers and vines it was a wonder they didn’t break, and the wall next to the dining table was carved from ceiling to floor, detailing a flock of cranes surrounded by tall standing trees.

“Did you design them?” Attention back to the page that had previously been sat on. An idea began to form in your mind at his nod and smile. “They’re beautiful; building something as grand as those must take a lifetime.”

“They are, though I am not sure if they will ever be brought into existence.” The tone of his voice tells of the pride in his creations and the enjoyment of such praise.

Allowing your voice to soften, your head tilting, and your lips turning up at the corners as you spoke, “They’re unique. It's so clear in everything you touch that this is what you were meant to do.”

As you continued, the tips of pointed ears peeking out from silver hair tinged in a faint blush. “Every detail thought through so clearly,” Cirdan gulped as he nervously tried to focus on the task before him.

But the poor boat builder struggled even more when you teasingly smiled while praising his work. “Even your door handles and chairs adorn your touches.” Your eyes locked for a moment, just long enough to see the faint tinge of a flustered blush topping the apples of his cheeks. A single fluter of your lashes and you glanced at his lips for a moment before returning to the pages laid out.

“Um, Y-yes. Yes, I feel such joy and fulfillment in what I do and what it means for my people.” He placed the metal instruments down on the woven cloth that held other items, ones that looked sharper and more intimidating the longer you looked. The response was a murmured thank you as he began placing crushed herbs over the now clean wounds. As the gauze was wrapped around each finger delicately, it was Cirdan’s turn to ask a question.

“I am curious about your ship; it saddens me that I did not have a chance to see its beauty.” The fingers he still wrapped tensed in his hands; at looking up, he saw how the color left your face, eyes turned down; it was clear you weren't there with him at that moment. “Oh, I am sorry,” turning, he brought a warm cup of tea to your lips, your hands still unable to hold anything. “In my curiosity, I did not think of your pain and loss.”

The elves' eyes watched subtly as your lips curled and then relaxed to part, observing how your throat swallowed the warm liquid he had provided. Patiently waiting until you had your fill before putting the cup down and turning back to finish bandaging up to your wrists.

Cirdan finished the bandaging with the last wrap around your wrist. In the time it took to stand, gather the instruments, and look between you and his designs on the table, an idea began to form at the front of his mind. “Is it difficult to ascertain a new vessel in your homelands?” His back faced you as he cleaned the blood from the metal objects in the sink.

His shoulders dropped as your voice broke. “My home is very far from here.” For the second time in the night, the boat master felt his heartbreak at such sadness.

That settles it, then. He had to do something. There was only so long and so little room that Grey Haven’s harbor could offer hospitality, not to mention there being no clear path ahead for you. “What I say next, you must know, is not meant to push you out.” He watches the way you curl into yourself, preparing in resignation already.

“My home is small, not suited to provide the proper healing your crew needs. I will send a message to my king-,” Your eyes widen, shaking your head as you tell him no. But he will hear none of it. Raising a hand to stop your protests, the elf continues, “I will write to my king and ask that he finds it in his heart to show compassion, especially to those that deserve it.”

You tell him you don't know how to repay his kindness; he scoffs and drinks the now-cold tea to hide the blush dusting the apple of his cheeks. The rest of the night is spent playing a few games of chess. It would have just been one, but with your hands being as they are, you kept accidentally bumping multiple pieces around. With each game, the conversation turned back to ships, elven ships.

As the darkness of night began to give way to the first glow of dawn on the horizon, Cirdan excused himself to write the letter that would be sent ahead to Lindon’s Capital. At that same time, you went to Sal. Gently, you slinked into the bedroom so as not to wake the rest of the crew before sitting on the edge of the bed that was so graciously granted to your first mate.

“Sal, Sal!” You voiced louder than planned at the shorter man’s deep sleep, which refused to release him. Finally, the rough shake to his shoulder roused him. “Wha-Whats going on?” With a quick hand over his mouth to quiet him down, you pressed a finger to your lips before whispering. “I have just spent the last few hours speaking with our new friend. He has been very kind.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at the responding wiggling eyebrows, his single eye wide in excitement. “How kind?” You leaned in to reply with a whisper, a wicked smile its companion. “Kind enough to ask if his king would help us.” Sal’s jaw dropped in shock before punching your shoulder. “How in the hell did you pull that off?”

Sitting straight, the back of your hand pressed to your forehead, sighing dramatically before speaking, “Who will take pity on little ole me, a female captain with no ship to call home? My poor crew, so ill, that even elven healers struggle to help them.”

Shaking his head while chuckling, Sal crossed his arms while wiggling more comfortably into the bed’s soft feather pillows. “So what’s the plan?”

Your smirk grew at the question.

———————

With the first rays of morning light, a plan in motion, and rules set in place, you met with Cirdan and the escort outside his home, where a hiccup had already appeared.

You nervously approached the giant beast, flinching back when its large nostrils grunted out a rush of breath. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. Can I not just walk behind?” A sympathetic smile graced the boat master’s lips as the other elf mounted their steed. “Walking would take extra days that your crew may not have. If you are unsure of riding alone, ride with the escort; they will ensure your safe arrival.”

Anxiously, you nodded in agreement, unable to see a different path around the logic presented. A few awkward jumps and one petrified yelp later saw you and the expert rider heading up the road to the capital—the poor elf at the mercy of your fearfully white-knuckled grip in their ribs. The pain in your hands be damned.

Lindon’s Palace

My Dear King,

I write to you earnestly, asking that aid be offered to someone deserving of such compassion. A pirate attack has left my new friend without a ship or home, and a crew suffering from ailments beyond my healing capabilities. The ship's Captain will arrive with an escort so that you yourself can make sound judgments of their character.

Gil-Galad re-read the letter. In his years of friendship with the Lord of Grey Haven, only a handful of times had the elder asked for royal assistance, unlike some of the other stewards of his kingdom, who seemed to lack such abstention.

He sighed when sid-eyeing the pile of letters and scrolls stacked high upon the oak desk, still awaiting answers. Fiddling with the paper’s edge, unrolling it further as he sat in thought, a previously unseen line of penmanship caught his attention.

I suggest conversing over a game of chess; you may be pleasantly surprised as I was in their company.

Your Faithful Friend, Cirdan

With a scoff, he flicked the paper back to its place on the desk's clutter. It had been hours, and barely a dent had been made in the mountain of documents that had arrived the day before.

With his kingdom settling into a gentle rhythm after so many years of war, the High King started feeling something unexpected- boredom. Gone were the days of extreme stress, battle planning, and mourning for his people. Now, they were filled with small pleasantries, mastering crafts, and, unfortunately, paperwork.

Leaning back into the hand-carved chair, fingers rubbed along the pulsing ache of his forehead, pain caused by the hours of eyes straining on documents.

A groan left his chest when an unfortunately familiar warmth spread across the top of a kneecap. The morning’s rays had started to inch into his room, their gentle cares on his vestige announcing that another sleepless night had passed.

Muscles ached and throbbed as he stood to stretch before walking to the window to watch the sunrise. His attention to the sunrise over the horizon was shifted down from his room in the tower at the arrival of a horse carrying two persons.

One was an elf, and the other a human woman. It was hard not to chuckle while watching as her arms shakily reached out to the escort to assist in the dismount from their horse, legs wobbling once on solid ground. As the escort walked off with the creature to announce their arrival, she stayed in place, observing the entry area's flora and white-barked trees.

It was rare to see a human in his kingdom. Even in memory, it was a struggle to gleam the last one and when they came. It was not surprising, as curiosity peaked about the mortal creature that had appeared at random.

That is what he told himself, at least, as his eyes fixated on the wild wind-swept hair that glowed from the crepuscular rays of morning. And repeated internally again, when observing the silhouette outlined from the sheer fabrics she wore when bending to smell a vine of jasmine.

The voice was not repeated a third time when his eyes honed in on the gentle slopes of her bust; nipples pebbled hard by the cold morning's dew. Each movement allowed more and more to be revealed by the fabric's owner. The tall elf’s heart rate panicked at admiring rounded hips that harmonized with the tops of plush, strong thighs and a waist--

When a knock raps at the bedroom door, he jumps, placing a wide palm to his chest, letting out a breath he was unaware was being held. With a final glance back at the woman, he shakes his head and asks the attendant to come in.

“High King, a visitor has arrived from Grey Haven to speak with you. Master Cirdan has sent them.” Gil-Galad froze, and his heart rate, still yet to calm down from moments ago, increased.

A quick glance to the desk where Cirdan’s note sat, as its words read out in his mind. Certainly, she was not the captain he spoke of. What in the world was that blasted boatmaker thinking? The shorter elf’s expression made Gil-Galad realize he took longer than usual to respond.

“I will be there in but a moment. Please see that our guest is attended to until then.” Gil-Galad’s eyebrow quirked as his attendant paused awkwardly, a tilt of his head letting the shorter elf know to speak. “Sire, your meeting with the human may need to wait a few days so that-“ Gil-Galad held up his hand as the memory of sheer fabric flashed away just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Master Cirdan has informed me that the aid needed for the human stands on the direness of time. I will meet with them first during my morning meal; that should allow a better inclusion of my schedule.”

With a swift nod, the shorter elf leaves to inform the morning staff of the changes. In the reflection across from where he stood, exhausted eyes and a stern expression looked back. In a singular sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Just when it seems a moment to himself has appeared, the morning maids come in to prepare a bath and lay out the royal robes.

In toe behind them, the royal retainer began listing the days itinerary, explaining how every minute of the hours were filled with meetings, agreements, and document signatures. With a singular sigh and torpid blink, he turns to take the prepared bath and begrudgingly get the day started.

When an attendant had come to gather you and usher the way to an empty grand dining room to wait, it felt like a small gift.

Palpations had been occurring every few minutes since the moment your feet touched the ground after riding for hours. Hopefully, this would give time to help calm them. Chalking the rapid heart rate up to nerves and still feeling so tired, you reminded yourself that rest, food, and sleep would come eventually. But the plan took precedence over everything, no matter the cost.

The first few minutes were spent sitting at the opposite end of the room’s expansive stone table, until those nerves raised back up—skin itching, and not just on the slowly scabbing wounds of your hands. Legs crossed only to un-cross and then cross again. The liquid in the glass of wine on the table rippled from how hard your knee bounced. When all this did nothing to aid in the growing feeling of unease, you resorted to pacing back and forth, back and forth, until the feeling of dizziness came on.

At the sound of your stomach echoing into the quiet room, you side-eyed the table. The temptation was hard to resist at the site of the varying fruits, cheeses, bread, and dishes for breakfast. While subtle, the aromas still had made their way to your nose.

With a head shake, you continued pacing; by now, you were sure that a grove had been worked into the floor. Glancing back to the chair at the opposite end of the table, a small tremor corded its way from where the palpations started to both of your poor, still wobbling legs. One misstep, one accidental insult, and the plan would be over before it could be put into motion.

With a deep breath, you hoped to calm your heart’s racing; nervousness would not be an ally. Another breath, followed by many more in succession. Still, the beating thrummed with such intensity it felt as if the betraying organ was in your throat, determined to expel itself and do a jig at your feet to taunt you.

Distraction.

Distraction would help, you hoped. Turning around, you desperately tried to focus now on the grandiose tapestry that hung twenty feet in the air. Its textured masterpiece taking so much space that the raw threadbare edges touched the flooring and side walls.

Red, look for something red. Rose bushes came into clarity on the lower section. A breath, this one a little easier- but still, your chest held tight. Animals, find the animals. Swans were flying in the open sky of the fibers- was that a unicorn?

Each detail of the textile artwork helped to distract from the sensation that rattled against your ribs. In a further attempt to add comfort, you wrapped your arms around yourself, desperately hoping to soothe the nerves that struggled to dissipate.

____

Even after the warmth of a bath and fresh clothes, Gil-Galad found his heart rate had yet to slow since looking out the window. Surely it was just another sleepless night of work that made it hard to calm such a tempestuous beating? Obviously, this peculiar feeling was not brought on by how his mind's eye sought to wave the memory of curves, backlit in a warm glow—always right when mental clarity was needed.

When reaching the dining hall, Gil-Galad held up a hand to let his attendant know he would be entering the room alone, unannounced. Cirdan had made it clear that he should make a sound and solid judgment of the Captain's character before making any decisions in the offer of aid. A wisdom he would heed. Speaking would also be better without extra eyes watching. However, it would have been better if his mind had been allowed to think of questions to ask before this moment.

Quietly, the private royal entrance opened, its door only opening for him and him alone. Stone that once lay flat and blended into the wall shifted back, then slid just enough for his size to squeeze into the room—unnoticed. The internal expectation from past interactions with mortals was that his guest would be gorging themselves on the food laid before them. But once inside, surprise met that expectation. The only other chair besides his sat empty, the dishes untouched.

There, at the other end of the room, unaware of his presence, you stood. Elven ears picked up the sounds of deep breathing, eyes watching as your heavily bandaged hands rubbed your arms while swaying gently from side to side. Gil-Galad’s eyes trailed once more to the clothes draped on your figure. Cirdan had dressed you in something so sheer?

Perhaps the boat builder had not realized that the gift offered to you had been- No. Cirdan was too bright and observant to have missed something like this. That old perverted- at the memory of this morning, the realization he had no hill to stand on and judge hit him.

Yet, he could not look away. The tension came back to his chest, and just as it began to crawl its way down, inch by inch, to an area of his body that he refused to acknowledge, panic set in and forced the moment to break.

“You have yet to eat.”

With a yelp of shock, you nearly jumped out of your skin. Turning with wide eyes and a hand to your poor, overworked, thumping heart. Finding the voice’s owner standing at the opposite end of the room.

When first trying to picture what an elven king might have looked like, your imagination pulled from what was known of your own kind. Rulers that were repugnant, rotund, and gangrenous from a life of riches and idleness.

What you did not anticipate was to be greeted with the amused expression of a very tall elf, whose attractiveness you pretended not to feel any way about. It took a moment for the shock to pass before finding yourself. “N-no.” A breath. “No, I felt it would be rude to eat before my host arrived.”

It was as if time had frozen for a moment, two statues unmoving as they visually memorized what was in front of them. Sheer fabric clashed with the opulent, almost excessive layers of gold on the opposite side. Warm brown eyes, unblinking in their seriousness, scrutinized the shocked hesitancy in your own.

When you both tried to speak simultaneously, a polite smile graced his lips as he motioned for you to go first. A thanks would be the best choice, grateful that such a renowned, elven king would spare an hour to hear a poor human captain’s woes. Pleasantries to be embellished so prettily in their bestowment.

Sadly, that option would be ruined by a comically loud growl from your stomach, no doubt retaliation at being teased for so long by such appetizing smells. Gil-Galad watched as your eyes shut laggardly before opening again, now refusing to meet his own from embarrassment.

He gave you a gift of mercy in finding the strength to choke back a laugh. “It would appear that, as a host, I have been discourteous to test the patience of such a considerate guest.” Motioning for you to sit, he continued, “Please, eat. I would ask if you are hungry, but I believe that answer has already been given.”

Unlike the High King, you did not find the strength to choke back a laugh from the jest. When your eyes met again, an expression of mirth greeted the faint blush of your cheeks. Gods have mercy; this was going to be a challenge. The elf barely said two sentences, and already, you were struggling.

Gil-Galad gulped as you pulled up your chair to sit more comfortably; he could not understand the reasons for his nerves. His gaze trailed once more to the unexpected guest across the table, unknowingly unaware of the detail being taken in of your personage.

In the earnings that dangled down to the tops of your collar bones, polished beads of sea glass glowed, backlit by the candles behind you. Indigo-dyed whalebone and sea urchin spines brandished with petrified beads of amber hung on uneven lengths of fishing wire.

Rough and raw cut jewels adorned roughly smithed mental bands, assorted in the widths of rings that hung from your neck while your fingers healed. He would admit that such ornaments are much more maximal and eclectic than is commonly seen of his own kind.

His heart rate, which had just calmed, began racing again as he watched your lips part, tongue welcoming a bite of food. His vision tunneled to take in greater detail when your brows knit together in pleasure as the flavors danced across your palate.

Blinking, he pulled himself out of the hyper-focus when reaching forward to grip the golden handle of a wine glass. Trying to calm the returning tension he had felt when watching you from when he first entered the room. This was going to be a problem.

Light filtered off your fork, hand tremoring in hunger as the choices become overwhelming. It felt as if the room was getting darker and hazy around its edges. Cirdan had offered food when playing chess, but between the pain in your hands and the nausea from still coming down from the adrenalin of survival, any thought of eating was quickly turned down.

On top of that, the ship had floated for two days into the fjord without a bite of food or water. To say you were starving was an understatement. It took every ounce of self-control not to gorge like a wild animal after the first bite into a roasted pear with salted honey, its juices bursting in your mouth.

“Lord Cirdan wrote that your ship and crew were attacked by pirates and are in further need of aid.” The question caught you off guard, cheeks chipmunk-ed out at trying to fit as many roasted butter beans into your mouth as physically possible. Peeking up, it was obvious the elf knew exactly what he had done from the smirk that pulled from the edges of his lips.

As desperate as you were to swallow your way out of this, chewing was the only option. Could you simply spit out the beans? Yes, but that would only cause further humiliation for him to watch the act. Quickly grabbing the napkin laid under the other silverware, you covered your lips and cheeks as you chewed quickly, jaw clicking from the strain.

When finally able to get the last bit down to respond, another question was put forth. “What exactly happened to your ship, the- what was its name?”

Cirdan had been correct in knowing his king would hold no punches in the judgment of your character. Gil-Galad knew that his questioning was starting to get under your skin. And what better way to begin seeing someone for who they are than by seeing how they handle their frustration?

As the minutes passed and no response was given, his eyebrow raised expectantly. Were you trying to formulate a lie? At the tilt of his head, his eyes hardened. “Are you alright?”

You chuckled hollowly, feeling a spark of enjoyment in watching Gil-Galad’s expression change to irritation as you spoke. Two could play at that game. “Only waiting to see if there are other questions, Your Majesty. I do not wish to offend such a curious mind by interrupting its thoughts.”

Gil-Galad knew that if he were here, Elrond would snort out his wine. It appears that the High King would also be judged on how his temper would be handled. Raising his palm, he gave the motion to speak.

With a deep sigh, you tried to calm the frustration that had been brought forth. “My crew and I were set upon by pirates three days ago; their cannons tore holes into the hull of my ship. By some miracle, we escaped from being boarded, but in our escape, I had steered us into a waterway that none of us recognized.”

When no interruption came, you continued. “Lord Cirdan had seen my ship just as it began taking on more water than we could bucket out.” It was unnerving being watched so intensely, warm eyes unblinking in their judgment of every word uttered into the air. “He was kind enough to offer aid. But he realized we have no way of getting home, at least not any way that would not take years on foot.”

Still not a blink from the scrutinizing gaze, you gulped to wet your now cotton-dry throat as sweat dripped down your neck. “Asking for help is not something I have any practice in. But for the people that depend on me, I will do anything in my capabilities to see that they survive.”

Silence stretched between you both. Gil-Galad contemplated your tale, sight now set on the wine glass before him. When speaking of your crew and their care, he could sense no lies, but why was his gut tightening, waiting, and expecting? It felt as if something was missing. Perhaps speaking of such a harrowing escape was not something you wished to delve into further detail.

Or -gods forgive him- the tightening that was felt had nothing to do with your words, and more to do with the internal befuddlement trying to be ignored since your arrival.

You watched as golden fibers wrapped around the barrel waist in front of you strained against expanding ribs. A deep, belly-filled breath was exhaled slowly and quietly in contemplation. As his lips parted to speak, the dining room’s doors opened. The shorter elf that first guided you in giving a small bow.

“High King, I apologize for the interruption, but the lords are gathered and waiting for you.” Whatever tension that had been building was broken instantly. Fresh air from the outside corridor wafted in, and both of you took the opportunity to breathe.

The sound of chair legs scraped against the floor as he stood, an air of equanimity held in his stance as he stared down at where you still sat, slouched back into your seat. “Please forgive my sudden departure. I would like to continue this discussion later this evening if you are amenable to the offer.” He continued at the single nod you gave while walking over to his attendant.

“Please see that our guest is given a room and fed.” At the bow of the shorter elf, the two of them slowly walked out into the hall, leaving you to watch as the door closed behind them. Once Gil-Galad was certain that you could not hear, he leaned down to whisper one last order. “And see to it that she has…warmer attire prepared. I would not wish for our guest to take a chill from the temperature tonight.” At the hesitant bow given before the shorter elf left, Gil-Galad realized he was not the only one struggling whenever what you were wearing was seen.

Once alone, he sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose. It had only been a singular hour of the morning, and already, it was obvious that the day would be as long as it was stressful.

I have this idea that Gil-Galad is never truly content. War? -Hate it. Calm and tranquil? - Bored out of his mind. So when this Captain comes around he both loves and hates how hes feeling. I'm working on outlining the next chapter but it may take a bit before its edited and posted. So please be patient. Love you all and hope you enjoy and are surviging my friends!

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marshmellin · 3 months ago

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Star and Stone, Ch. 3 | Fair and Free

Elaniel took the small tube and opened it, quickly scanning the contents. Her eyebrows furrowed. It was a simple request: Please join me at the base of the tower when convenient. There is something I wish to discuss regarding the recent fortification readjustments - Gil-galad He’s waiting at my worksite? Wait. He’s waiting at my worksite?

-> COMPLETE! F FOR FIX IT: Explicit for rare smut (🔥) between consenting partners. All other content is Mature for language and canon-typical descriptions of angst/violence. Gil-galad x female OC Sindarin elf, Occurs between the Fall of Ost-in-Edhel in Eregion and the Battle of the Last Alliance. Contains references to other Tolkien lore and the Silmarillion with author notes for full explanations.

Repeat: Happily Ever After; everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. I try to be as canon-compliant as possible except for the whole 'keeping Gil-galad alive part.' No beta, we die like Mirdania.

If you enjoy this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

✨ Star and Stone: Complete Chapter List

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

You are here -> Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥 [Explicit scene]

Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Ch. 9: Wherever the Need is Greatest

Ch. 10: Where He Dwelleth, None Can Say

Ch. 11: Of Whom the Harpers Sing 🔥 [Explicit scene]

Ch. 12: Last High King of the Elves of the West

The clinking of chisels on stone and the steady thump of mallets filled the crisp morning air at Lindon’s northern towers. The masons were already hard at work, voices occasionally rising above the din to exchange advice or good-natured jests, to call for material and support. Among them, Elaniel walked with measured steps, her gaze sweeping over the scaffolding and newly laid blocks.

She carried a set of drawings tucked beneath one arm and a tool belt slung over her shoulder. Halion and his crew of stonemasons had returned from their scouting of Imladris and met to finalize plans for Lindon’s fortification. Materials and craftsmen were not unlimited – the two needed to work together to achieve their shared goals of supporting Lindon and Imladris.

She stood near a flat stone slab they were using as a makeshift table and spread the plans across its surface. The group of masons leaned in, their murmurs quieting as they studied her annotations.

“These adjustments focus on the lower levels of the towers,” Elaniel began, her voice steady despite the watchful eyes around her. “The cross-bracing and anchor points will strengthen the structure against prolonged strain—whether from weather or siege.”

Halion crossed his arms, his brow furrowed as he examined the plans. “And you’re confident?”

“They held in Eregion,” Elaniel replied evenly, meeting his gaze. “Until the city fell, our eastern defenses withstood weeks of bombardment. I’ve taken what we learned there—both successes and failures—and adapted it for Lindon’s needs.”

“Adapted,” Halion echoed. “But not tested under the same conditions?”

“No,” she admitted, her voice calm but firm. “Not yet. But we cannot afford to wait for conditions to test us. If we build with caution now, we can prevent catastrophe later.”

There was a pause as Halion studied her. The other masons exchanged glances, waiting for his response.

Finally, he nodded, his expression unconvinced but not unkind. “You make a fair point. And the designs… show promise. We will consider adapting this for Imladris.”

“Understood,” she said, her chin lifting, “I appreciate the consideration.”

Another mason, an older elven woman named Narnion, spoke up. “I’ve seen her work on the western scaffolds. She knows her craft.”

A few others murmured in agreement, and Elaniel felt a flicker of warmth at the unexpected support.

Halion gave a short nod. “Then it’s settled. We’ll begin planning these improvements. Talfirin will review your initial bracing plans and ask questions, if you’re willing, Master Elaniel.”

Master? That might be the most respect the man has shown anyone outside Gil-galad in at least a century. …

And for the first time since her arrival in Lindon, she felt a glimmer of acceptance—not just from Halion, but from the stonemasons themselves. And as she turned back to the drawings, her mind already racing with plans for the next steps, she allowed herself a small smile.

The restoration of Lindon’s eastern towers was well underway, and the steady rhythm of work filled the air. Elaniel stood near the base of the easternmost tower, surveying the progress as teams of craftsmen shaped and positioned massive stone blocks. The sun was high, casting a warm glow over the site, and the tang of salt air from the sea mingled with the earthy scent of freshly dug earth.

“Master Elaniel!” a voice called.

She glanced over her shoulder to see an apprentice walking quickly toward her, holding a small tube in her hand. “A message for you. From the High King. He is at the bottom of the tower.”

He’s waiting at my worksite?

Wait. He’s waiting at my worksite?

She felt that now-familiar tug in her chest at the thought of him. She also briefly wondered if Halion had gone to Gil-galad to complain about the cost of the hardwood she requested which, she was more than prepared to remind the High King, he had approved. Elaniel folded the parchment and slipped it into the pouch at her belt, casting a final look at the papers on her makeshift desk before quickly making her way across the construction site.

The base of the tower loomed above, its foundation newly fortified, scaffolding climbing halfway up its stone walls. In the last months, they had laid four full levels of the tower’s base. Gil-galad stood near a cluster of workers unloading a cart of timber, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched them with a thoughtful expression. He wore a simple tunic and trousers in a dark color - a blue so deep it was almost black, and a lightweight cloak covered in embroidered golden leaves. His hair was half-braided down his back, and to anyone passing by, he was no more than a casual observer, an elf interested in the construction project.

But even without a crown or golden robe, and even in the midst of the bustling construction site, his presence was still impossible to miss. He did not have the bearing of a casual observer. He had the bearing of a king. The workers nodded respectfully to him as they passed.

Several thoughts bounced quickly in Elaniel’s mind at once as she walked towards him:

Something in my heart sings to see him. He’s slowing my workers down by standing there. I need to move him away from that pathway as soon as I can, everyone is curtsying at him instead of focusing, for goodness sake. Dark colors suit him, and tunics more so than robes – which is a controversial opinion in Lindon, it would seem, as most men seem to wear full robes with cloaks and jewelry at every possible moment. He looks much more handsome without the crown. What do his days as a king look like that he can just wait at an active buildsite for me to appear? Surely he would summon me to him at the council hall in the city? To come all this way out…

Elaniel approached him, brushing the dust from her hands on her apron. She voiced none of her thoughts. “You asked to see me, High King?”

Gil-galad turned to her, offering a small smile. “Thank you for meeting me, Master Elaniel. I hope I’m not pulling you away from something pressing.”

She shook her head. “Nothing that cannot wait. How may I help?”

He gestured toward the half-finished tower. “I wanted to speak with you about the adjustments you proposed for the lower levels. The cross-bracing and additional supports with reinforced timber.”

Truly, Halion….Truly? You took that to the High King? She started to sigh.

Gil-galad continued, ”Master Halion submitted a request to change his plans for Imladris, and he specifically noted your recommendation as one he would like to implement.”

Oh. She stopped mid-sigh. I take it back, Halion.

“I’ve reviewed his blueprints, but would still like to understand your thoughts in more detail,” Gil-galad finished, allowing himself to be herded away from the pathway to the bottom platform of the scaffolding.

Elaniel raised an eyebrow before she could stop herself. “You’ve been reviewing the blueprints yourself?”

He’s been reviewing the blueprints himself?

“Of course,” he said simply. “If I am to defend these walls, and to ask others to defend them, I must understand their strengths and weaknesses.”

Something about his simple earnestness struck her. It was not the response of a distant ruler delegating decisions but of someone deeply invested in the protection of his people. Elaniel was accustomed to leaders visiting her worksites. She never had someone outside her craft ask for more than a simple tour.

“Very well,” she said, nodding toward the temporary stairway attached to the scaffolding. “The adjustments are easier to explain in context. Shall we take the scaffolding up?”

They climbed the wooden framework, the planks creaking underfoot as they ascended to the uppermost completed level. Gil-galad asked several questions about the stone blocks and reinforcements at the base of the tower, about secondary escape routes from the tower’s keep.

Finally, the conversation circled back to the reinforced beams. Elaniel crouched near one of the I beams, gesturing for Gil-galad to join her. “Here,” she said, pointing to a series of marks etched into the stone. “The cross-bracing will anchor at these points, distributing the load more evenly across the structure. Without it, the upper levels would sway too much during storms.”

Gil-galad knelt beside her, studying the marks with a critical eye. “And the materials you will use? Will they withstand the elements in a storm?”

“We’ve chosen seasoned hardwood oak for the bracing, treated with a new type of pitch to resist moisture. The anchor points will be reinforced with iron. This is why the decision needs to be made in unison with Master Halion – the wood and pitch will take extra time and cost to prepare, but the result will be stronger.”

“Indeed,” he nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I see you have considered every detail.”

Elaniel glanced at him, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, her cheeks turning apple-red. “I try. That’s what I’m here for.”

Their eyes met briefly, and Elaniel felt that same hum from the courtyard. The tugging in her chest tightened, but she still was not certain what it meant.

If he felt it, he would say something….I am not…youngling’s crush.

Nearly in unison they both stood, gazing out across the view as the sun set in brilliant fire, glinting off the sea. They had spent a full afternoon together, discussing the finer points of the construction projects.

Gil-galad smiled, speaking softly. “You have all well in hand, Elaniel, as I knew you would.” He hesitated a moment. “I should let you return to your work,” he said, his voice light but tinged with reluctance.

Elaniel tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her gaze not quite meeting his. She had not been ready to end her time with him. “And I should finish marking the anchor points before the masons start tomorrow.”

Gil-galad nodded, giving her one more smile before turning to leave.

“Thank you for your visit, High King” she added almost as an afterthought.

“Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Elaniel.” As he moved down the scaffolding stairs, his figure soon became lost among the bustle of the site.

A king absolutely does not need to know that much about anchor points. Only a stonemason would have that many questions.

And I don’t think he’s looking to change his career.

The last rays of sunlight streamed through the high windows of the masons' workshop, bathing the room in amber light. The air was thick with the scent of dust and resin from freshly worked wood. Tools lay scattered across benches: chisels, hammers, measuring rods, and a carefully rolled blueprint here and there.

Elaniel sat at one of the longer tables near the far corner, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hair pinned back loosely to keep it out of her face. In front of her was a half-finished sketch of a reinforced arch, its lines meticulous and shaded to emphasize its structural supports. Her brow furrowed as she worked, and smudges of charcoal darkened her fingers.

She was alone finally; the other masons had long since packed up for the evening. They started before first light, and ended before sunset. The workshop, usually lively with chatter and the sharp clink of tools, was quiet save for the occasional scratching of Elaniel’s charcoal against paper and the faint crackle of a small hearth fire nearby.

The creak of the workshop door pulled her from her focus. She turned to see Gil-galad stepping inside, his silhouette tall and commanding in the doorway.

She found herself blinking for a moment, taken aback. He was the last person she expected to see come through that door. Gil-galad’s presence felt at odds with a practical drafting room surrounded by the trappings of a laborer's craft.

For a panicked moment, she wondered if something had gone wrong at a worksite. But the calm smile on his face suggested he was not there to bring sad news.

“Elaniel,” he greeted, his voice deep. As she moved to stand, he waved his hand, indicating she should remain seated.

“High King,” she said, tilting her head.

Gil-galad moved closer, his gaze falling to the plans spread before her. His robes shifted with his steps, and Elaniel noticed they were simpler than what he usually wore—richly woven but lacking the embellishments she was used to seeing.

“I came to see the progress of the designs for the outer defenses and archer’s slots,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost conversational. “I heard from Halion that your insights have been particularly... interesting.”

The corner of Elaniel’s mouth twitched. Halion’s grudging respect was an unexpected turn in recent weeks, but it had come only after she had proven her expertise. Repeatedly. “Interesting is a polite way to phrase it, I imagine.”

Gil-galad chuckled, surprising her with his laugh. It was…musical. It made something in her heart sing. “Halion is not easily impressed. I would consider that high praise from him.” He gestured toward the parchment in front of her. “May I?”

She nodded, sliding the drawing closer to him. “This is for the northwestern watchtower. The foundation is sound, but the upper levels do not provide enough protection for archers during an extended siege. I wish this to withstand multiple direct attacks. Halion agrees, and we are jointly discussing options for the watchtowers in Imladris.”

Gil-galad leaned over to study the design, his brown hair catching the firelight as he examined the archway and its labeled supports. “You’ve noted a cross-bracing technique here,” he said, pointing to a set of angled lines. “Is this the same technique you showed me a few weeks ago?”

Elaniel inclined her head, though her expression turned more serious. “Yes, very observant. It was a technique we learned in Ost-in-Edhel after the first breach in the eastern wall.”

He straightened, his gaze lingering on her face. “A hard-won lesson, I imagine.”

Her hands stilled, the charcoal in her grasp forgotten. For a moment, she was back in Eregion, the air thick with smoke and screams. She was side by side again with soldiers, building new temporary blockades to reinforce weak areas and stop orcs from flooding into the city. Hurrying civilians to safety through the hidden tunnels near the thick walls — built with the hope they would never be used.

Every lesson there was hard-won. Every change I make, every rule I enforce, everything I demand is written in the blood of Eregion.

She did not know how long it took her, but she forced herself to nod.

Gil-galad sighed, his voice heavy with grief. “You honor us by working so hard to ensure Lindon is protected.” His voice softened. “Despite the pain we all feel.”

Elaniel looked at him, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his tone. He looked back at her with the softest expression she had ever seen. No one had ever looked at her so tenderly in her centuries upon centuries of existence.

She could see on his face that he meant he felt her pain. That he worried about her pain.

And she didn’t want that. She did not want to be pitied, least of all by him. She wasn’t weak and she wasn’t in need of healing. All of it had made her stronger, tempered by fire, more resilient. More equipped to fight. There had been a reason for all that pain. There had to be.

No, pity was not what she needed of him.

But she wanted to cry at his soft offer of comfort anyway.

She turned her gaze back to the charcoal she dropped, blinking hard to fight the sting of tears, the tightening of her throat.

One day, perhaps I can share it with him. But I can barely face it myself.

As if he felt a door closing, Gil-galad’s posture changed and he stood back, giving her space. Elaniel didn’t know when she started to notice it, but she was always amazed at how he redirected conversations – how he could change the temperature of the room – so easily. Gil-galad gestured toward the work table. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” she waved to the open seats without looking, the sting in her eyes fading.

He took the chair across from her, reaching over for a design near her elbow. “I’ve been meaning to ask about the ramparts,” he said in an even tone, deftly shifting the conversation back to practical matters. “You’ve proposed anchor points embedded in the rock—would that method stand against sustained assault?”

Elaniel welcomed the change in topic, eager to delve into something she could explain clearly. “It would. The chains we used in Ost-in-Edhil were reinforced with steel alloys.”

Their discussion deepened as the evening wore on, the initial formality between them giving way to a more relaxed exchange. Gil-galad asked thoughtful questions, probing her reasoning with the curiosity of someone deeply invested in understanding the intricacies of the work.

He took another stack of designs and began lazily flipping through them. The fire crackled in the quiet that followed, and Elaniel found herself studying him in quick glances as she sketched – or pretended to sketch, anyway. There was a gravity about him, a weariness that came from carrying the burden of so many lives.

She could barely stand the weight of one loss.

She wondered how he bore it, how he did not falter under its weight.

She wondered if he did falter, but she simply had not seen it yet.

“I should not take more of your time, you have already been most generous,” Gil-galad said suddenly, standing as he dropped the stack of papers on the table. “I must prepare for meetings tomorrow, if you’ll excuse me.”

Elaniel rose as well, confusion on her brow at the sudden shift. “Thank you for your visit.”

He paused, looking at her with a faint smile. “Thank you, Elaniel, for your work.”

As he left, the door closing softly behind him, Elaniel sank back into her seat. She stared at the paper in front of her, but her thoughts were no longer on the design.

Valar forgive me, but this man confuses me.

They fell into a steady rhythm over the next few weeks. Gil-galad had taken to bringing sheaves of paperwork or correspondence with him to the workshop, saying no one in the palace knew where he was – and therefore, it was the only place he could find decent peace. They would work at the drafting table, across from each other, in companionable silence.

The more they interacted, the more Elaniel found herself unexpectedly moved by Gil-galad’s manner—by his patience and thoughtfulness, qualities she hadn’t traditionally associated with kings. He listened—truly listened—when ideas were brought to him, even when he disagreed. She noticed the way he weighed each suggestion, each opinion.

He was a serious man, but he dealt with serious problems.

One late afternoon, as the sun slanted low through the chamber windows, casting amber light across the papers scattered on the table, Gil-galad leaned back, stretching his arms after hours of hunching over his work.

“I think,” he said, voice laced with weariness, “that if I look at another diplomatic letter today, I might consider becoming a hermit. The Ettenmoors have simpler problems. I could establish a new realm. No, that would still be too much responsibility,” he murmured. "Somehow their letters would find me nonetheless."

Elaniel chuckled, not glancing up from the sketches. “Are the problems in Lindon too complicated for someone as accomplished as our High King?”

His eyes sparkled with a dry humor as he glanced her way. “I think you've earned the right to call me Gil-galad. And every problem becomes complicated when too many people have opinions on how to solve it." He paused. "Sometimes more than one opinion per person.”

Her laughter softened, and she shook her head, glancing down at a requirements list she had been adjusting. She hoped not meeting his eyes would help her hide the joy that ran through her. “And perhaps you have a point, Gil-galad. I’m accustomed to making decisions about my work based on my own judgment—no persuasion, no debates. It’s a simpler life.”

“No debates,” he asked with a teasing tone, a glint in his eyes. “None at all ? You find everyone agrees with you at all times? A powerful skill, if so. I should ask you to teach me your methods.”

She finally looked up at that, eager to take the bait. “Eventually, most people do come to see things my way, yes.”

“But not because you persuade them?”

“No,” Elaniel said simply, a small smile on her lips. “Because I out-argue them.”

Gil-galad laughed warmly. “The old saying must be true. ‘When all you have is a hammer, every problem you see is a nail.’ Or, I suppose, a stone, in your instance. Crushing through every obstacle.”

Elaniel’s cheeks warmed at his continued teasing, though she held his gaze defiantly. The number of times she had been called too brash, too bold, too much came flooding to her.

Her expression sharpened, and she arched a brow, the spark of a challenge in her eyes. “When all you have is endless circles of persuasion without action, no problems are solved at all,” she countered. “I’d rather a solid hammer than empty flattery.”

They shared a long look, and then his expression softened, amusement fading into something quieter. He dipped his head, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the table. “Indeed,” he murmured, his voice a shade more serious. “And, it would seem, I find myself agreeing with you with no argument needed. You are skilled at more than one form of persuasion.”

The back of his hand brushed against her arm—a barely-there touch, silently apologizing for an unintended slight, or perhaps for the distance that duty had once again placed between them.

Elaniel felt the now-familiar tug in her chest. She searched his face and found admiration there, perhaps affection?

“Tomorrow,” he continued quietly, folding his hands on the table in front of him, “would you accompany me to the southernmost watchtower, if your schedule allows? There are some small elements in your plan I still don’t entirely understand.”

He’s about three days away from earning an apprentice seat on his own builders council, at this rate.

“Of course,” she smiled broadly. “I would be happy to.”

He collected his papers and smoothly walked around the desk. “Goodnight, Elaniel.” And he shut the door behind him before she could respond.

The morning sun cast its golden light over Lindon’s trees as Elaniel and Gil-galad rode side by side, horses’ hooves thudding softly against the forest paths. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine and the sea.

“Here,” she said, stopping her horse atop a ridge overlooking the hills. Another watchtower, under construction, was about a quarter of a mile away. "You can see the foundation walls there. The watchtower will rise there —a way to keep an eye on both the sea and the inland forests without disrupting the view." She gestured toward a high, rocky outcrop. "Much of the stone is already in place, and as we work, we will maintain the natural beauty of this place."

Gil-galad dismounted, approaching the edge with a keen eye. “Indeed.” He turned in a slow circle. "I can see now. The placement here was quite wise," he agreed, eyes sweeping over the hills and trees around them.

“Thank you," she replied, glancing at him, holding up the rough sketch she presented to him days before. “Efficient, as well. Because of this stone deposit nearby, we also saved time transferring materials from a quarry. We are using this area,” she pointed to a portion of the plans, “here, as a gathering point for the builders and craftsmen.”

Gil-galad nodded, his voice gentle. “You have made sure to keep those large groves of trees untouched, I see.”

“The trees have been here longer than any of us,” she replied softly, her gaze moving to the trees surrounding them. “And they will remain after we are gone. It is their land.”

He made a low sound of agreement behind her, that same rumbling in his chest from the night they first met. He had moved behind her to peer over her shoulder, and she could hear him breathing softly. She felt her pulse quicken – that same tugging in her chest – and wondered if he could hear her heartbeat.

A simple stonemason with an obvious and inappropriate crush on a king. How wonderfully unique of me.

Elves and Men told similar tales. And tales they were, because those stories never came true in reality.

If he felt something, he would have….. I was tired and hungry and… I misunderstood, that is all. A simple thing.

There is no weakness in a misunderstanding, she told herself.

Only a hand’s breadth between them. If he wanted to, he could hook his chin over her shoulder, bring his large hands to her waist and pull her against him, crane down to–

“Have you decided how best to supply fresh water to the barracks?”

A gust of sea air blew his hair in the wind, and she caught the scent of him. Rosemary and cedarwood. He had not moved, still inches behind her, peering over her shoulder at the sketch she held in front of her. She imagined she could feel how much body heat he radiated, and she felt her cheeks turning red.

“Elaniel?”

“Yes?” she murmured absently, her turning her head toward him. The tug in her chest pulled stronger.

Gil-galad laughed, a deep, warm sound that resonated over the cliffs. She fell in love with the sound. She wanted to make him do it again.

A large smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. “I believe you are distracted by the beauty around you. As am I.”

He was still just an inch or two away from her. She never noticed him standing that close to another before. And then, as if responding to the tug between them, Gil-galad gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

Again, something buzzed between them, unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. The knot in Elaniel’s chest pulled stronger as she turned to him.

She could tell he was pleased – feel that he was pleased. She could sense admiration thrumming under his hand. And another feeling she could not name but that she also felt in her own chest.

“I am pleased to place this land in your care, Elaniel,” he said softly.

She felt herself blush again – she had learned to control some of her expressions over her long life, but her apple-red cheeks always gave her away. “I am pleased to be entrusted with it, Gil-galad.”

The hum between them flickered, bright sparks where he touched her shoulder. Gil-galad’s fingers lingered before he gently withdrew his hand, his expression a mixture of restraint and, she thought she saw, frustration at that restraint.

And Elaniel knew she had not misunderstood.

She had not misunderstood at all.

// Authors Note:

According to Tolkien's timeline, the "Sack of Eregion" (which was long) is typically placed around SA 1697, while the "Siege of Barad-dûr" (or the battle of the last alliance with Gil-galad and Elendil) begins shortly after SA 1600, meaning there would be roughly 97 years between the two events.