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marshmellin · 15 days ago

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Star and Stone Ch. 6 | Preparations

In one swift motion, he lowered his head and kissed her. It wasn’t tentative or uncertain. She had quite literally landed in his lap, and in doing so, erased his hesitation. The soft silk of her dress felt cool as his hand slid to her hip, but he could feel the heat of her skin as he pulled her closer.

They had kissed several times by now. Tender moments under the stars. A stolen embrace in his study.

That was not this.

Rating: Explicit for eventual smutty smut; canon-typical angst

Notes: Gil-galad lives. Fluff and happy ending. Sort of a slow burn, but we'll get there. Gil-galad deserves a little smooch. He's going to get a lot more than a smooch. Repeat: Happily Ever After; everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. No beta, we die like Mirdania.

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

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

Like this work? Check out the 🔥 practice smut 🔥 for upcoming chapters with Gil-ga-daddy here: "Simple Release."

"...and if the request from King Oropher had been handled with diplomacy instead of arrogance, perhaps we would not be questioning alliances at such a crucial hour!" Ristarion’s voice rang out, his hand slamming down on the polished table for emphasis.

Gil-galad paused just inside the door, eyes sweeping over the council. Elrond sat stone-faced, arms crossed, while Arminas leaned back casually in his chair, observing but remaining silent. The other lords and advisors around the table shifted uneasily in their seats, glancing between Ristarion and the High King.

“It seems we have already begun,” Gil-galad said as he took his place at the head of the table. “Lord Ristarion, was there a point you wished to raise?” He cocked an eyebrow.

If I have to hear about grain one more fucking time…

“The king of Greenwood feels ignored, his needs cast aside in favor of Lindon’s priorities. Your priorities,” Ristarion said, his voice tinged with implied blame.

Fantastic. We’re all going to die because I can not make crops grow in winter.

Gil-galad could feel, rather than see, the I told you so look that was blooming on Elrond’s face. But, Gil-galad had become quite accustomed to the expression, so he did not need the reminder.

“Do you suggest that the loyalty of the Sindarin realms is so fragile that a single rebuke threatens it?” he asked, his voice even, spreading his hands.

“I suggest,” Ristarion said, his tone hardening, “that you do not have their loyalty. To them, you are but another elven king among many – a high king, but not their high king.”

“And you, alone, can earn their loyalty?” Gil-galad asked, leaning back in his chair.

Ristarion snapped back, his voice rising slightly. “I can speak plainly without Noldorin pride clouding my meaning.”

Most of the lords here are Noldo, in whole or in part. His eyes flicked to Elrond, whose face all but glared his disapproval at this conversation taking place in his council hall.

So Ristarion isn’t interested in making friends here.

Ristarion pressed on. “Oropher and Amdír are hesitant. Their people whisper: when have the Noldor truly stopped the darkness? They brought this evil back.”

An angry murmur passed through the room.

Gil-galad’s gaze never wavered, but he cocked his head. “As you say, I do expect hesitation from the Sindarin realms to declare an alliance for open war.” His voice softened dangerously and steel entered his brown eyes. “The Sindar have always done well by hiding behind their walls. Until their walls fall.”

Ristarion did not miss the insult, but Gil-galad pressed on. “I recognize I ask much of them, though I am ‘but another elven king,’ but know that I do not ask it lightly.”

Ristarion’s jaw was set, his eyes ablaze. He met Gil-galad’s threat. “Is dry wit and paperwork the only blade you offer them?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Elrond scowled, his displeasure almost making his hair vibrate with anger. Arminas, his dark eyes fixed on Ristarion’s, moved his hand to rest on the hilt of the dagger at his belt—an unsubtle gesture declaring: No. Wit is not the only blade my high king offers.

Gil-galad felt a headache threatening to form behind his eyes. We are not all of us from the House of Fëanor. No bloodshed in this hall. At the very least.

Posture relaxed, his hands rested lightly on the table, his voice cold. “Your boldness is noted, Lord Ristarion. If you believe you can succeed with the Sindarian realms where others have failed, then by all means, make your overtures. But do not mistake my allowance for approval.”

Ristarion’s expression darkened, but he inclined his head. “As you command, High King. I will accomplish what must be done.”

Gil-galad’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, weighing his options. Elaniel’s suggestion to bring Aeglos to council meetings seemed more and more appealing.

Or I could let Arminas loose at the man and be done with it.

Instead of pulling out a blade, he chose a different weapon. He turned to Elrond, gesturing for the meeting to continue.

“My lords,” Elrond said, his face still flushed with anger but his tone diplomatic as he shuffled maps and stacks of reports on the polished stone surface. “Perhaps we can revisit the specifics of diplomatic efforts with Kings Oropher and Amdír in a future session.”

The rest of the meeting proceeded awkwardly, the undercurrent of tension distracting every advisor present. As the council adjourned, Ristarion lingered for a moment, his eyes cold as they met Gil-galad’s before he swept out of the room.

Gil-galad stood at the head of the long table, his broad fingers tracing the cool edge of the polished stone as he stared at the doorway where Rastarion had exited. Elrond moved around the table to stand next to him, his shoulders tense. Gil-galad acknowledged him with a tilt of his head. ”Do you think Oropher or Amdír had a hand in this? Or is Ristarion acting on his own?”

Elrond all but shrugged, expression thoughtful as he followed Gil-galad’s eyes to the door. “I do not know why he plays this game or what he gains from it, but I think he seeks to back you into a corner— whatever corner he can find. And the divisions of our kin run deep.”

Elven memories do not dim. And some wounds do not heal.

Gil-galad nodded. “And that is what troubles me most. If he undermines the fragile trust between our realms, it will not stop there. The Men who look to us will see our divisions and begin to doubt us as well.”

His eyes darkened at the thought.

Why will no one listen?

This is our only way forward.

In a place of honor in Gil-galad’s private study, near a large arched window that overlooked the palace gardens, stood a new addition: a drafting table, its smooth, wooden surface gleaming in the dying sunlight. It was new, the scent of freshly carved maple lingering in the room.

It was not a standard drafting table; it had been tailored for Elaniel. In her workshop, she had nailed a scrap piece of wood with some simple dividers as a makeshift way to keep items she used most close at hand. Now, the dividers were built into the top of the desk, each container hand-carved with patterns of stars — a much more ornate solution.

Elaniel stood before it now, her fingers lightly tracing the curved edge of the table, her eyes gleaming as she took in the drafting tools, filed in a neat row. “It is beautiful. You did not have to go to so much trouble, Ereinion,” she breathed, turning to face him.

The knot in his chest tugged again. He could not stop looking at her, at the open joy on her face as her fingers brushed lightly against the polished wood. The gratefulness in her tone, the way her cheeks burned cherry-red. The way she softly murmured his name.

He thought his heart would hammer through his chest.

“No, I did not,” Gil-galad replied, forcing his voice to stay steady. “But I found I wished to do so. For you. This is my” – our – “private study, which is” – secluded and secret – “guarded as part of my chambers. I thought I could offer” – a place for us to finally be alone together – “another space that is not so public. I decided to make this space” - good enough for you - “fitting for your craft.”

She turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “Are you suggesting my humble workshop is unfit?”

“Not unfit,” he teased, tilting his head as walked toward her, smile blooming across his face. “But perhaps…your tools have minds of their own, ilmarë. They do seem to travel...”

Elaniel laughed as he scooped up her hands in his, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles. “I can not be held accountable for where they wander. Perhaps they seek creative inspiration. Who am I to stop them?”

He placed a chaste kiss against her knuckles, smiling broadly as she took her seat at the desk. He walked to his own as they settled in to their late afternoon routine.

“You’ve been busy,” she said after a moment, her tone casual. “I have not seen you in over a week.”

“As have you,” he countered gently. “Elrond tells me your review of the southern watchtower’s safety protocols was meticulous.”

“It’s necessary,” she murmured without looking up from her work. “I have no intention of letting small oversights lead to larger problems.”

He nodded, his expression growing thoughtful. “Alenya has spoken highly of you as well. She mentioned how often you visit the watchtowers to speak with the workers directly.”

Elaniel smiled. “Alenya has become a friend. She convinced me to join her for sparring practice —though I suspect she was simply curious how much of a fight I’d put up.”

Gil-galad’s eyebrows lifted in amusement. “And? How did you fare?”

“I held my own,” she said with a laugh. “Barely. I know she used a light hand.”

“It pleases me that you stayed standing,” he said, a note of pride in his tone. “Though I wish I had the chance to observe you. It would only have been fair, after the last session…”

She turned her head over her shoulder to peek at him, eyes bright. “Maybe next time. I do not have armor or experience – I can not put on the same type of show that you can, morconinya.” She paused, turning back to her desk. “Yet, there are other skills I think I would fare better at. Perhaps we can learn them together.”

He felt his face heat again and he started organizing a stack of correspondence on his desk, hiding his joy at the way she said the name she made for him. Only for him. And at her implication.

If we are deciding to learn new skills….

They fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire burning low in the hearth. Elaniel perched happily on a stool near the drafting table, pulling a blank sheet of parchment from a stack and smoothing it out with practiced hands. Gil-galad settled into his desk nearby, carefully picking up a quill to write a reply to a note from Anarion of Arnor.

The evening stretched on in the quiet sanctuary of the study. Surrounded by the warmth of firelight and the soft rustle of parchment, they found something rare and precious: a moment of peace.

“Do you realize what they say about you?” she asked, her tone mischievous as she spun her chair to face him.

Gil-galad paused, glancing at her with a confused expression. “Who?”

He could feel that quiet peace they had built shattering, but he found did not care. The correspondence could wait…

“Oh, everyone,” she said with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “I hear things around Lindon.” She pretended to assess him, setting her pencil down. “I confess, I do not know if all I hear is true.”

He laughed, the deep sound bouncing off the walls of the study. “And what things do you hear from everyone? That I have a tendency to chastise ambassadors? Because I assure you, that was necessary...”

Elaniel moved to the chair next to his desk, settling cross-legged on the velvet cushion, arranging her deep blue skirts on her lap. She tapped a finger to her chin in mock thought. “Mmm, nothing about that. I have heard that your hair shimmers in the darkest hours of night because the Valar granted you a gift – you can absorb the radiance of the stars. I am told this is how you received the name Gil-galad, but I confess the story does get murky from there.”

He sighed, running a hand through his thick, dark hair as if to shield it from scrutiny. “That is not how-- it is hair. Normal hair.”

Elaniel smiled again, her tone still teasing as she reached out to play with a few long stands that had fallen over his shoulder. “Ah-ah, I have not inspected it thoroughly and it is not yet the deep night, so I can neither confirm nor deny the claim. And anyway, why ruin the mystery? Alenya told me she overheard two soldiers debating whether your crown is enchanted to make you appear more graceful. And taller,” she added as an afterthought.

Gil-galad tilted his head, allowing her to brush her hands along his neck, sweeping the rest of his hair over his shoulder. Her fingers carded through the dark strands gently and he leaned toward her, chasing the feel of her hands without realizing it. “First starlit hair and now enchanted grace?”

“And height. According to some, yes, that is the report,” she said with mock seriousness, tucking a lock firmly behind his ear. He fought not to shudder at the touch as she traced her finger down his neck before returning to his hair. “I did not say that I endorsed these observations. I believe you come by your height honestly.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to let Círdan know I owe my ‘grace’ to him yelling at me for slouching when I was younger.” Her fingers brushed the tip of his ear again as she wound another strand around her finger and his eyes fluttered closed.

“After watching you spill a full inkpot in the workshop – all over my latest sketches and your own robes, may I add – I do not know that you should thank anyone for grace you do not have…”

“I find myself more prone to accidents around you than others, ilmarënín,” he said with an amused huff. “Though I can not imagine why I am so distracted—”

She moved fluidly, rising from her chair, and Gil-galad did not have time to register what she was doing before she was already sitting sideways in his lap. Elaniel gripped his forearms, steadying herself as her skirts cascaded across his legs, deep blue silk covering them both.

They both paused for a moment, grey eyes meeting brown. He could feel his heart pounding as he forced himself to breathe steadily, to ignore the heat starting to coil low in his stomach.

Elaniel grinned at him, her shoulders moving in a small shrug. Her cheeks were bright red, and that same lock of hair that always escaped her bun had fallen over her forehead.

And whatever thin thread of resolve he had snapped.

They had kissed several times by now. Tender moments under the stars. A stolen embrace in his study.

That was not this.

The fire cast flickering light around the room, making her eyes shine. He could feel her breath quicken as her arms wound around his shoulders, drawing herself up against him to kiss him again. Her hands tangled in his hair as she shifted her legs to bracket his thighs and now she was higher up than he was, craning down to grab his chin and tilt his head up for her. She moved like she was a wild thing finally released.

As she was, judging by the – quite pleasing – noises she made. Each time he touched her, hands roving over her back, her hips, her waist, up her sides, she moaned for him. Small, contented sounds from the back of her throat, humming into his skin. All he could focus on was learning how to make her moan again.

Elaniel had not stilled either, kissing down the column of his neck, fingers grazing his jaw. Breathing softly, she kissed his ear, nibbling gently on his earlobe before kissing her way to the tip of his ear. He rewarded her with a shuddering moan of his own, pulling her tighter against him. Her hips started to roll against him and he moaned again. He felt the tight heat in his core spread.

If I do not stop….I will not be able to stop.

To his own irritation, he pulled back first.

“It is late,” he whispered, craning back to look at her.

“I have time,” she whispered back playfully, her fingers still curled in his tunic. “And yet,” she sighed. “And yet you are right,” she whispered, planting a small kiss on his temple before untangling herself from him. He immediately missed the warm weight of her and he bit back a sigh. She let her fingers trail down his arm before calmly – how is she calm right now? – returning to her desk and picking up her pencil again.

He forced himself to pace his breathing as she tilted her head to look back at him. He was slouching in his chair with his tunic askew, hair tangled. He could tell he looked half-debauched.

Her eyes were still bright with mischief and something else. Something he had never seen in her before. “Do not become too accustomed to winning, morconinya.”

Gil-galad rode alone, the rhythmic clatter of hooves blending with the soft murmur of the river that ran alongside the path to the Grey Havens. Overhead, the cries of gulls echoed faintly. As he rounded a bend, his gaze drifted to one of the distant watchtower sites. The scaffolding looked delicate against the dense green of the forest, and he could see the builders at home with their craft. Pride swelled in him as he softly pulled his horse back to the trail. The watchtowers were beautiful, and they reminded him of her.

After following the trail up a small rise, Gil-galad entered the workshop, the familiar salt air surrounding him. The scent of cedar dust. A long table was spread with tools, curls of shaved wood littering the table.

One of the first places I found safety…

Círdan had always been a steady guide—a father in all but name. And while Gil-galad’s thoughts spun in circles, Círdan had always calmly pointed toward surefooted paths. He had a way to simplify the complex.

Círdan stood by the window, gazing out at the sea, his silver hair catching the light.

“You’re troubled, High King,” Círdan said without turning.

“I have been shattering the very alliances that I am tasked to create, unable to unify the elven realms, much less the kingdoms of Men. My political opponents are recklessly using the troubled history of Noldor and Sindar to drive division at the one time I need unity most. And because of it, we may all fall to darkness.” He paused. “Oh. And half of my days revolve around trade routes for grain.”

He heaved a deep, shuddering sigh, soft brown eyes vulnerable as he stared at the man who all but raised him. “Why would I be troubled, Círdan?”

Círdan turned, his eyes solemn but his voice light. “Anything else? Groundshakes? Invasion by the Dwarven kingdoms across the mountains? Have the Valar finally raised the sea?”

“If there is a checklist, all three are likely to be next.” Gil-galad sighed, stepping closer. He hesitated, running a hand through his dark hair. “The Sindarin elves. Or rather, Oropher and Amdír. They resist my efforts to unite us. And I…I would seek your counsel. Both as a mentor and as a leader of the Sindar. I cannot afford to lose their loyalty.”

Círdan gestured to two chairs by the window, where the sea breeze drifted through. Gil-galad obeyed, sitting heavily as his shoulders slumped, resignation in every line of his face.

Círdan studied him for a long moment. “You speak of loyalty? What does loyalty mean to you?”

The question gave Gil-galad pause. He frowned slightly. “Reliance. Confidence that they will stand with us and not abandon us when our need is greatest.”

“You speak as though you already know their choice, Erienion,” Círdan said, lowering himself into the other chair. “Have they given you cause to doubt them?”

“Not directly. But they do not hide their disdain for the Noldor. The wounds of the past run deep.”

Círdan’s expression softened. “What purpose does it serve to dwell on that past?”

“It serves to remind me why they refuse to offer me their loyalty now. They murmur that the Sindar realms will not trust a Noldo king.” Gil-galad frowned.

“Perhaps. But you can not stop being a Noldo, just as they can not stop being Sindar. Is your fight truly with them, I wonder? Who do you seek to defeat?”

Gil-galad blinked and his brow furrowed, surprised by the shift. “My fight is against Sauron.”

“Then do not make Oropher and Amdír your enemies,” Círdan said firmly, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. “Even if they doubt you, even if they disobey you. Your task is to stand against the Shadow. Do so, regardless of who stands with you.”

The words sank deep into Gil-galad’s chest, but he found a kernel of annoyance there. “I do not understand why they will not stand with me. I have offered them strength. Unity. Protection.”

“And still they hesitate,” Círdan said gently. “Because what you offer, they cannot yet see. The Noldor have made offers before...the Sindar remember.”

“I can not bear the sins of all the High Kings before me,” Gil-galad said quickly, irritation laced in his tone. “I have followed through on my promises. I have been true to my word in every way. What else must I do to show them I am not Fëanor?”

“You can listen,” Círdan replied simply, with a small shrug. “It is the one thing you have not yet done. Not just to Oropher or Amdír, but to those among their people who speak plainly. Elaniel, she is a Sindarin woman, yes? She seems to have a frankness about her, one shared by our kin.” Círdan’s eyes glittered.

And you know of her…..how do you know of her, old man?

I think he gossips with Ossë and Uinen through the waves.

Gil-galad smiled despite himself. “She does. Though I fear her temper and, ah, way with words can rival my own. She may not offer the most prudent political advice…and I will be tempted to take it anyway.”

“Temper can be tempered,” Círdan replied, his tone lightening. “And she seems to be learning that balance, from what Elrond has shared. Perhaps you could learn it too.”

Ah, so then nothing so poetic as Ossë and Uinen. Just gossiping with Elrond.

Of course it was Elrond…

Gil-galad’s own problematic (part) Maia.

“I think,” Círdan continued, “that she speaks to you with openness because she trusts you enough to do so. And because you have allowed her space to trust you. Perhaps it is time to offer the same space to the other elven kings.”

Gil-galad stilled, absorbing the advice. He found he often did not feel heard. Or certainly not heeded, despite carrying the burden and authority to lead.

Perhaps Oropher and Amdír felt the same.

The two sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the waves filling the space between them.

Finally, Círdan spoke again, his tone softer. “Ah, I did wish to tell you,” he smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “If you’re waiting for Ulmo himself to come out of the water and bid you to wed her, I must warn you, such sightings are extremely rare.”

Gil-galad blinked at the change in topic. "Wed her?" he repeated, as if the words themselves were in a different language. He quickly turned his gaze out toward the distant sea, as though it might offer him some escape from this conversation.

He knew it wouldn’t.

“I don’t…”

Círdan, ever calm, only raised an eyebrow. "It is written across your face, plain for all to see—though I imagine Elaniel sees more than the rest of us. Your next step is simple. So see it done.”

Still unable to meet his mentor’s eyes, Gil-galad sighed. "I care for her,” he finally admitted, his voice low. “Deeply. But the timing is…impossible. If I ask her to wed me, as I desperately wish to do, I’m unsure how to tell her to plan my funeral in the same breath. It is not simple.”

"And yet, it is simple," Círdan replied, tone unyielding. "Your heart is hers. Your choice is made. What action will you take?”

Gil-galad stared at his Círdan, his face lined with worry. “My fear is that no path I choose will…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I am unsure. What is best. For her.”

C��rdan smiled, his eyes full of starlight as he clasped a hand to Gil-galad’s shoulder. “Ask her, Ereinion. Not what is best, but what she wishes. Do not choose for her. Choose with her.”

Gil-galad breathed in deeply, nodding his head. Círdan was right. Elrond was right. His heart told him it was right.

Why can I not simply allow it to happen?

With a deep inhale, Gil-galad stood. “Thank you, Círdan. As always, your words ring true. I will…consider it.”

All I ever do is consider it.

“There is one more thing…” Círdan rose swiftly, walking to his large desk in the corner. He grabbed a scrap of paper and began writing quickly. “Rúmil has some obscure collections of poetry focused quite intently on, ah, couples. I’ve written the names of some of the more tasteful volumes housed in your library. They may prove enlightening.”

Several thoughts bounced in Gil-galad’s head at once as he felt his eyebrows raise.

More tasteful volumes? There are less tasteful volumes?

Why does he know what books are in my library? Why do I not know what books are in my library?

…….are they illustrated?

“Ah.” Gil-galad kept his face impossibly still as he accepted the scrap of paper. Resisting the urge to glance at it, he tucked it into his robes as he turned to leave the workshop.

“Mae glenno, Ereinion,” Círdan called out as Gil-galad mounted his horse, his voice still tinged with amusement.

It was chaos.

Elaniel stood in the center of the village, roaring flames almost drowning out the relentless growls of approaching orcs. The air reeked of smoke and blood.

She moved through the wreckage of a crumbled wall, her face streaked with soot and resolve. A child cried out, cowering beneath a collapsed beam. Elaniel jerked around, glancing over her shoulder as the orcs closed in. Her eyes were steel as she dove toward the child, shielding their tiny form as a massive orc bore down on them both with a twisted, serrated blade.

“NO!” his voice carried, shrill and desperate against the crackling flames.

From a distance, Gil-galad reached out, but he could not reach her in time. She dissolved in front of him and he felt the world shift.

He was on a battlefield now, the ground beneath his feet littered with ash and mud and blood. He could hear the dying groans of Elves and Men around him, the grunts of orcs roving across the field to find and kill remaining survivors as dusk fell. A Man he did not recognize, but clearly a strong fighter with the bearing of a king, lay crumpled next to him. The blade of his sword was broken in pieces, the hilt falling from his hands.

A great shadow loomed over them — Sauron. His armor gleamed like blackened steel in the dying light. Something bright glowed in his hand.

Gil-galad spun Aeglos in an arc, sharp blades whirling as he aimed for a joint in the Shadow’s armor, but he was not fast enough. A gauntleted hand snatched out, gripping Gil-galad by the throat, lifting him in the air. He could not breathe as the metal seared into him, as the silver plates of his armor melted through his gambeson and into his flesh. He heard agonized screaming — the loudest death knell he had heard in over three thousand years of his existence — and wondered where it came from.

Then he realized the sound had been ripped from his own burning throat.

The world flickered, bathed in a white heat he could not escape.

—

Gil-galad woke with a sharp intake of breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. His rooms were quiet, the light of the moon barely breaking through the windows. He panted, bare chest heaving, as he sat up. Night air brushed over his fevered skin from the open window, but he barely felt it. His hand jumped instinctively to his throat, but his skin was cool and whole.

The pain of searing metal. The pain of watching Elaniel as she faced death

He could barely breathe.

Gil-galad stared at the empty space before him without seeing, his heart gripped in a fear he did not know how to name.

He did not fear pain. He did not fear death.

But he feared what he had just seen.

He rose abruptly, walking to the balcony. Through his life, he had found comfort in starlight. The stars simply were. They offered him no answers, but also asked him no questions. They gave him space to think. To examine how he felt.

Leaning against the railing, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His hands sought the cool stone as though it might ground him.

The vows of Men said “until death,” and death or divorce released them from their oaths. But the Eldar did not make oaths lightly. They wed once, and their vows were unbreakable, even beyond death. Partners would be reunited in the Undying Lands, to live together until the remaking of the world.

If they said their vows now and he were slain, Elaniel would be left alone in Middle Earth until she came to him in Valinor. They would reunite, yes, but she might spend Ages alone, parted from him in a land stained by grief and a growing darkness. The darkness he fell trying to defeat.

I cannot make her my widow before I make her my wife. I cannot.

A question came, unbidden, from a frightened corner of his mind: Could I live with her death? The image of Elaniel falling beneath the blade of an orc haunted him.

The answer came quickly, pain lancing through him: No. I cannot.

He stared up at the stars, hoping that, just this once, they would give him an answer. As his thoughts deepened, a peculiar sensation brushed against his mind. Gil-galad froze, recognizing the faint touch of another’s thoughts. It was not deliberate — elves rarely opened their minds to another without the intent to share thoughts — but ósanwe could sometimes manifest without warning.

He caught a fleeting image: The edges of the vision shimmered with the golden warmth of dreams. Elaniel was carving a simple wooden horse, her expression soft. He could not see the child for whom she crafted the toy, but the knot in his chest tugged at the sight of her.

The image faded as quickly as it had come. His eyes fluttered as he came back to the present. She is dreaming, he thought gently as he smiled. He hoped her dreams were always so peaceful. Even in her sleep she can not stop creating.

And then – finally, under the silver light of the stars – the truth of it settled over him.

Our fëa are bound.

Vows or not, they were connected. The tugging in his chest would be unbroken by time or distance or death. It would gnaw at them both until Arda was remade.

If he fell, she would feel it. If she fell, he would follow. His early resolve to protect her seemed almost laughable now.

Ah, yes, my sound strategy to keep her safely separated from me by visiting her workshop and kissing her as often as she will allow.

He turned back into the study, his eyes falling on the scattered plans and documents that spoke of war and alliances, of a future that seemed ever more dangerous. He sank into the chair, his head falling into his hands.

I am a fool.

“So, I think we have reached the point where we should discuss it,” Gil-galad said suddenly one evening, looking across the study. ‘Or, more plainly, we are well past that point.”

“Mmm?” Her eyes were still firmly glued on her paperwork.

He had not fully captured her attention. She always murmured when she did not focus – or when she was too focused.

“Elaniel?”

“Hmmm?”

He arched an eyebrow, a glint in his eyes. She looked very distracted. Beautiful. Focused on applying her formidable talents to her work.

But very distracted.

“Elaniel, I suggest we outfit the barracks with platters of cake, replaced daily.” He kept his voice steady, despite the glint of mischief in his eyes — a glint she would not notice, because she did not look up at him, as he had predicted. “Raspberry is preferred by the Lindon archers, to my understanding, though the Silvans from Greenwood will accept plain if there are no other options. The Edain have no preference as long as it is far too sweet for elvish tastes. “

“Mmm,” she murmured in absent agreement, turning from the worktable to search through a small pile of scrolls on the bench next to her.

Does she think she agreed to the cake or the archers, I wonder.

Gil-galad could not stop himself from smiling as he leaned back, appraising her. He waited patiently, studying the column of her neck, that same lock of hair that always fell out of her bun, as though a few strands had been cut too short. The curves of her body, occasionally hidden behind the leather apron she wore on her worksites, were now highlighted in firelight. The soft glow illuminated her sky-blue dress from behind and he could see the silhouette of her body.

“Elaniel,” he kept his voice as flat and uninterested as he could. “My question is relatively urgent, I find.”

She didn’t look up but moved back to her worktable, her eyes narrowing. She was flipping between two pages, confusion on her brow.

Then, as if her brain had simply needed a few more moments to catch up, she looked up from the drawings in her hand. “Did you just ask me a question about cake?”

He laughed loudly, unable to contain the joy that she caused to well up inside him. He stood from his desk and moved around it, walking toward her.

“Yes, I did.”

Elaniel’s eyes flicked to the side, her brow furrowed. “I’ve missed something. Why are you asking about cake?”

“Because you were not paying attention, and I want you to hear me very clearly the first time I tell you I love you,” he said smoothly, as if discussing the weather, as he stood in front of her.

“I thought it best, rather than risk confusion.” He lazily waved a finger back and forth in the space between his chest and hers. “The kind of confusion that is happening right now,” he huffed slightly.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he felt the tugging in his chest pull harder. He would have fallen to his knees if he was not fighting the pull.

“So, I will state it plainly, Elaniel.” He scooped up her hands. “I love you, deeply, in a way I have never loved another being. I hope you feel the same. But if you do not, I accept your choice, and we would not need to speak of it again.”

Another moment.

And then…

he waited

through

the longest pause

he had ever

experienced

in the entirety

of his already

long life.

Until Elaniel burst out laughing, tugging her hands from his to throw her arms around his shoulders. Her body melted into his as his hands settled on her hips. “You hope I feel the same? Hope?” Bright gray eyes peered up at him, her voice light. “Do you think I often let strange men lurk in my workshop claiming to seek solitude? Or to watch the stars? Or your study…” She blushed furiously.

Gil-galad had the good sense to dip his head in a bashful apology as he felt his cheeks redden at his own insecurity and hesitation. He pulled her closer, hands settling in the small of her back, pressing her against him.

“It is upsetting that you do not realize we are already in a committed relationship, Ereinion.” She narrowed her eyes in an imitation of anger as she swatted playfully at his shoulder. “And then — then! — to say you wanted to avoid confusion! By talking about archers and cake? You are the most infuriating man…”

He smiled patiently, brown eyes crinkling as he let her finish her tirade. He knew her well, and he knew how this conversation would end.

The joy was in getting there.

Elaniel ended her mock outrage in a huff. “Of course I love you,” she whispered softly, fingers playing with a long strand of his hair, smoothing it over his shoulder. “I’m saddened you had any room to question it, when I feel it so strongly,” she said, pressing her hand against his chest.

“Why didn’t you say anything,” he murmured. “If you felt it too…”

He had held himself back for so long. He had held back so much. And she…

“Oh,” she said quietly, a small smile on her lips. “I thought we might…it was clear we...Our people don’t wed in times of war…I thought we would continue as we have until we decided the time was right,” she ended awkwardly as she blushed, her cheeks turning bright red.

He blinked.

She smiled at him.

He blinked again.

Too many ideas bounced in his mind at once. He wanted to scream, to kiss her, to marry her immediately, to mutter against her lips and ask why this had taken them so long – why did this take so long? – to mourn the time he had wasted, to laugh until he cried, to throw something (most likely at himself or in a sparring ring), to pick her up and take her to his bedroom.

I am a fu–

She craned up on her toes, pulling him down by the nape of his neck, capturing his lips in a kiss, her hands fisting in his hair again.

He found he no longer cared, because they were together now.

And that was all that mattered.

--- Author's Notes:

A few notes, since I feel I threw in some context and insults between characters that don't quite hit right:

The Noldor are notorious for being Kinslayers. They killed other elves - in multiple incidents - and famous Noldo Fëanor's life could be subtitled "Elves behaving badly," or even "Fëanor, NO!"

While not all Noldo are related to Fëanor's line, if there's one thing a Noldo can and WILL do, it's fight you.

The Sindar are notorious for not liking the Noldor because of the aforementioned "they slaughtered us to steal our boats and also killed us multiple other times" situation. But they have also needed the Noldor to support them and provide protection. Which the Noldor did.

Gil-galad's quip about walls is referring to Doriath, a Sindarin realm that was protected by a magical barrier put up by a part-Maia (Elrond's momma) using a Silmaril. From Gil-galad's point of view, the Sindar used the Girdle of Melian to hide from the Shadow in safety while the Noldor and other realms fought battles and died without their support or protection.

Gil-ga-daddy is noting their tendency to hide until they are forced to fight, while firmly arguing the time to fight has come.

Círdan is a Sindar man, and had his own Sindarin realm before it was destroyed. He is one of the oldest elves, and he took in Gil-galad and his mother while their city fell. While we do not get much of his relationship with Gil-galad in the books, it would be easy to suggest their relationship is similar to Elrond and Aragorn's -- a mentor figure who took in a young man to keep him safe.

Laws and Customs of the Eldar is an in-universe document that states that two elves can marry immediately if they have "bodily union." So basically, if they had sex in this scene, they would have been married by the end of it -- and they both know this. I am working to keep this novella relatively canon-compliant, so they aren't going to have sex until they are ready to be married. (They're gonna have sexy smutty times before then, tho, don't fear).

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

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

Like this work? Check out the 🔥 practice smut 🔥 for upcoming chapters with Gil-ga-daddy here: "Simple Release."

#gil-galad #the rings of power #gil galad #gil galad x oc #trop fanfiction #lotr rop #gilgadaddy #star and stone #high king gil galad #Erienion Gil-galad #trop spoilers #the silmarillion #sindarin vs noldor FIGHT #laws and customs of the eldar #melian #doriath #elrond peredhel #cirdan

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dopecollectorbarbarian · 6 days ago

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Cuddles

Gil-galad, evening

He must maintain the reputation - objective, calm, wise…

And it may require a lot of energy. So when he finishes his duties, he needs time to shift between being the king and the lover. And it may take a lot of time for him and patience for his partner.

Before that moment he is quiet, in his head he is processing everything that happened on this day. Sometimes there is no chance to make him pat attention and it may lasts for five or more minutes.

But when finally the moment comes… He wraps his muscular strong arms around you and he won’t not likely to let you go anytime soon. Exception for bathroom. And food. And of course if you don’t want cuddles he won’t make you do so.

Bonus: he may ask for attention during the day, but it’s a rare case. But when it happens, it’s something so small, but full of meaning gestures - a kiss on tips of fingers, a stolen look, whisper “i really want to spend whole day with you in warm bath”.

(Sorry for mistakes, English isn’t my first language 🤫)

Do not repost the pic, it’s drawn by me

#gil galad #lotr #the rings of power #lord of the rings #elf #gil galad x reader #gil galad x you #gil galad x oc

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lya-dustin · 4 months ago

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I Sang of Leaves of Gold

Summary: Erinti of the Maiar knew her brother would come back and that the time of the elves would come to an end.

She had not known the time would come so soon. A millennium and a half of peace comes to an end no matter how much she tries to stop it.

(Rings of Power!Gil-galad x Maia!oc)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

#erinti of the maiar #gil galad x oc #rings of power fanfiction #rop!gil galad x oc #gil-galad x ofc #gil-galad x oc

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gulnarsultan · 2 months ago

Text

#lord of the rings #tolkien elves #tolkien #the hobbit #gil galad x reader #gil galad #high king gil galad #the rings of power #rings of power #rings of power fanfiction #trop x reader #gil galad x oc #gil galad x you #gil galad rop #gil galad imagine

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queenmeriadoc · 2 years ago

Text

It was winter in Lindon, and The High King was having a little meeting with his Herald, Elrond, when Merry burst through the door in a fury. “I need to speak with the High King, privately” they knew something was wrong when Merry called Gil-Galad by his title instead of his name, they never use his title, never. After Elrond made his exit Gil-Galad looked up with a concerned look, “Is there something wrong —“ before he can finish Merry burst out a “yes” pausing and apologizing “sorry, I didn't mean to yell, but I need to know something” pointing at Gil who now has moved from behind his desk and was now standing directly in front of Merry. “What is it melissë?” Gil-Galad reaching out to stroke their cheek to his surprise have his hand swatted away. “Do you love me? Or am I just something for you to play with? Some fun that you are eventually going to get bored with?” Tears forming in their eyes, this usually happened when they were angry, and oh my god were they mad. Not long ago they hear some elf lord chatting about the elf king's plaything, meaning them, and they realized that had genuine feelings for Gil. “Please” pleading with Gil-Galad, tears starting to run down their face. This wasn’t the first time he had seen them cry, but this was different, he felt that this time it was his fault. He needed to make it right, “I am in love with you Gil-Galad” Merry taking Gil's hands stares into his very soul, their voice cracking “I rather you break my heart now than string me along like I am some kind of toy that you discard whenever you are bored.” He takes a deep breath, he could feel his own eyes starting to tear up as well, placing his hands on their face and takes deep breath before telling them what he wanted to say for so long, it almost hurt “I love you more than the sun and stars themselves, i am so sorry that I ever made you feel like you were just a play thing, because you were never that to me”. Placing his forehead on theirs and pulling them into a tight embrace, comforting each other.

———

Somewhere in Lindon Oropher is collecting bets from the elf lords.

@thranduilswifesblog not exactly, anyways

#merryverse #merry x gil galad #x reader #trop silliness #not sure if I should tag it crack #gil Galad x oc #gil galad imagines #reader insert #Tumblr please don’t delete any of the text I’m begging you #I’m sorry for any spelling mistakes I did try to use Grammarly though

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miko-of-mirkwood · 21 days ago

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Chapter one - The Ghost on The Shore

Warnings: descriptions of trauma, violence, torture in the form of a memory. Words: 4000 A/N: read here as well!! also I hoped u liked the prologue, I tried hard to make it sound fancy.

The commotion was quiet, secretive, the guards and their horses a breath on the wind, speeding silently towards the shores of the heart of elf lands. Lindon was slumbering peacefully, ignorant to the preparation of weapons and heeding of orders, a threat residing no more than a few feet from those deemed innocent and gentle. The High King rode surrounded by the best of his guards, his face serious and his hand solid on his sword resting on his hip. He had received the message only a few minutes ago, that a boat bearing white sails docked at the Grey Havens and its passenger was one not of this world, of this Age even, speaking a name that struck fear deep in all those who heard it. Many were torn in their feelings about the owner of the name, knowing them to be the Vanquisher of Darkness and Breaker of Chains, while also bearing the title of Servant to the one Morgoth and Creature of the Chasm; they had achieved many deeds during their past life in Middle-Earth, deeds both good and evil.

The High King kept those deeds at the forefront of his mind, the speckled lights of his destination coming into view as well as the escorts waiting on their arrival. They were not expecting him to ready so eagerly and so quickly, asking if he wished for them to banish the passenger without question or simply slay them on the spot. He wished for neither and demanded an audience, his choice strange and surprising and putting many an elf at ill-ease. Though the presence of his sword and the number of guards around him was rather more agreeable, coming to a halt before the Lord of the Havens who wore what could only be assumed was a fond little smile,

“She is in the oldest boathouse,” Círdan spoke slowly, tilting his head in the direction, “She put up no fight and has been told of your request for an audience. Must I remind you of who she is High King, you must heed the words you speak for there is no one greater and more gracious in song than the First Daughter,”

He was perplexed as to why the Valar sent no word of her journey or expected arrival, why now they chose to return her to her birthplace and expect the impossible. Everyone knew what she had done. And it was why there was a small gathering beyond the boathouse where she dwelt, the elves who had heard the commotion tittering amongst themselves at the prospect of their guest. They grew silent as the High King strode forward, nodding his head at the two guards stationed at the door and dismissing the rest, as well as their arguing against his choice to go in alone,

“What if she entraps you?”

“Do you think she is as fair as the songs tell? Do you think it is true how her hair still glitters with the first stars?”

“I have heard she cast illusions strong enough to destroy even the greatest of minds!”

“I wonder if she found a husband in Valinor, surely she deserves love the most given the turmoils of -,”

“Enough,” he exclaimed before taking a long breath to steady himself, “Enough, she is here by the will of the Valar, or did you not see the sails on the ship? Whether it be a trap or not, if legend speaks true; that creature vanquished Morgoth and deceived the Great Deceiver, do not let your guard down,”

The door shut behind him quietly and all of a sudden, there was silence save for the gentle wash of the waves against the wooden stilts. This house had not been used for ship building in centuries, used mainly for storage of tools and off cuts that had potential to be reused in the future. Moss grew up the waterlogged structures and barnacles threatened the integrity of the entire place, but there was still a charm about that had Gil-galad reminiscing about the times he visited to see the birthing of a new ship. There were a few candles sitting around, low in their cradles with their wicks having witnessed an Age of shipwrights coming back and forth, and now witnessing the shadow looming before him.

She was haunting if he had but one word to describe her, beautiful or monstrous he had yet to decide. A dress of black trailed over her feet with embellishments of dark blue and red curling over the soft sleeves and bodice, her neck free of jewels and no circlet sat atop her head, though with the light of the moon overhead; it might have been like a halo encompassing her. With hair as pale as the stars, it fell down her back in salt stained waves, uncaring for appearance when she had her face open and inviting, and unwavering under his gaze. He noticed, startlingly that her ears were adorned with metal studs and chains, tinkling when she tilted her head in greeting, longer than typical elvish ears, mutated and mutilated,

“My choice in being here is just as dismissed as yours High King,” her voice was tragic, throat weak with something tiresome and painful, “But unfortunately, the will of the Valar is not so easily swayed even with the threat of my life and I sincerely apologise for the turmoil my presence will ensue in your lands,”

Her words struck deep, bowing her head and avoiding his scrutinising gaze,

“And what, if you would care to explain, is the will of the Valar in regards to you? I have my reasons to be cautious, as does the entirety of Middle-Earth, for what you have done and what you could do,” he explained calmly, diplomatically and all together distastefully, something she caught hidden behind his teeth, eyes flicking to his full of mirth and a sudden defensive malice,

“I have a parasite to exorcise from this realm, a life to live according to their design and moves to make according to mine. You do not have to pay heed to my duties but I shall tell you if you so wish it,” Gil-galad closed his eyes briefly as is reconsidering holding such an audience if all she was going to do was speak in riddles,

“And what duties does Môrúan, servant of Morgoth, have here under my watchful eye?” he all but spat, a challenge and a threat, and the change was so sudden, he might have blinked and missed it.

The sea suddenly roiled under the gaze of the moon, bubbling and clawing between the boards of the floor, dark clouds drawing near but never obstructing the white light, and her shadow grew suddenly, looming before him and threatening to encompass him entirely. But through it all, through the choking tension that filled the space and the heavy weight that settled on his shoulders, she wore an expression of such sorrow that it brought tears to his eyes,

“Do not speak that name!” her voice covered all corners of the land, deep and chilling, but there was no threat in her tone, no poison as they had all come to expect. Only pain, a torturous turmoil that took a hold of their hearts and squeezed painfully, “Do not speak of my slavery with such contempt, not when it was I who cast the Great Wrath into the abyss by the ache in my bones and the skin of my hands!”

She surged forward in the blink of an eye, startling Gil-galad enough to draw his sword, though not fast enough for the creature before him, wretched with grief and turmoil, reaching out to touch his forehead with her palm.

And the world turned on its head. He found himself thrown into a chasm of fire and nightmarish terror, the ground swallowing him whole and spitting him out into a body that was not his own.

Images flashed before his mind’s eye; lying on a table bound in leather and chains, in a room filled to the caverns with monstrous objects and devices, liquid black lurking in the back of his throat as a gruesome face hovered over him. Pain tore his skeleton apart, lust put it back together again, gums aching and burning, belly eating itself in the hunger that threatened insanity. War ambushed his tired body, begging for death, for punishment, for relief from the hell of his own mind, only hearing smug laughter in response somewhere far above in the darkness that smothered him. The fire lessened to a candle in a richly furnished room, a bed lavish and welcoming meaning nothing to the shame and guilt that roiled in his chest at the images he witnessed, manipulation and intimacy making way for a new kind of torture that knocked tears from his eyes.

In the distance, a wolf howled and the vision changed again, and in his hand burned the white fire of the Silmaril, a world away and in a realm forgotten. He handed it to an elf of fair skin and black hair, a voice not of his own joining her in a song powerful enough to entrap even the Great Wrath in slumber. And then, from the shadows and the fires, the great evil of Morgoth stood before him; petting his head and promising him riches in flesh and blood, thanking him for the desolation of the Hidden City. There was possession in his voice, longing in his shadowed eyes, lust in his clawed, terrible hands and Gil-galad felt himself resisting, but only falling into chains and knelt before the one they knew as Sauron, who held his blade above his head and struck him with lustful hate and vengeful love. And he heard his voice, her voice, crying out for help every night she could not sleep, weeping for the kin who abandoned her and the gods who turned a blind eye to her suffering. Anguish that sent him to his knees, sorrow and betrayal seizing his chest and wounding his heart, reaching out for the light and finding it bearing chains and punishment for no fault of her own.

The sound of gentle tides roused him, eyes refocusing on the creature before him, a simple soul in the shadow of the horrors of her past, open and offering something he had yet to decipher. The memories had rendered him breathless, sweat wetting the nape of his neck and he vaguely felt the weight of her palm over his heart, racing beneath his flesh,

“Cassiell is the name the Valar gave me upon my third rebirth in their capable hands,” she said softly though it did not quite reach her eyes, “It is my duty to rid the world of the scorn and poison I mothered, and banish that which still lives in Morgoth’s eye. I deserve that at least, having suffered by their hands when I should have been suffering by yours,”

Gil-galad said nothing, swallowing thickly and looking upon Cassiell as if there had been a veil over his eyes the first time he saw her. Starlight shone in her skin and her eyes swirled with liquid gold surrounded by seas of blood red, full of so much emotion and a dark hope he had not seen in many, many years. He reached out, fingers gracing the smooth curve of her cheekbone, nervous and discreetly shaking as he touched her, head tilting down with an overly inviting whisper of her name.

The door was thrown open with a sudden bang, multiple guards barging through all in equal levels of distress and determination to protect their King from whatever wizardry had occurred. However, they found him simply stood before Cassiell, one hand gripping his sword and the other resting on her shoulder,

“Cassiell is no longer to be detained as a fugitive,” he declared, sheathing his sword and squeezing her shoulder, leading her out of the house and into the light of the rising sun, witnessed by those who remained, “The Valar have spoken through her, and now speak through me,” Gil-galad’s words carried upon the breeze to all who had delicate ears, their king speaking with a righteousness that could not be ignored, “I was there at the Great Betrayal, I was there when the Timeless Void was ripped open by her hand and I was there to witness the Great Wrath beg for her mercy, which she did not give even at the threat of her life. It is by her hand that we still stand today, and it is by her hand that we shall stand in days coming to pass. Many sang the Song of Lirillë, who stands by my side here and now, bearing a new name and a new will given to her by the Valar. I, as your High King, do not demand you put aside your fears and your anguish for we all remember the Fall of Gondolin, but it was thus by her hand that the line of Eärendil still lives and by her hand that the Silmarils were returned to the Valar. She is to be welcomed to this land as a hero and as your kin, ally or enemy, it is up to you to decide,”

The elves saw not a creature of the chasm, nor a monster by design; but an elf-kin who was denied a choice and had life taken away from her far too early. Many bowed their heads in recollection and final greeting, a few turned away with memories of the very atrocities she committed but after connecting them with those that filled their heads minutes ago; there was a new understanding in their heart.

Gil-galad could never expect all elf-kind and all the other souls in Middle-Earth to simply accept Cassiell in this form, but he had a strange kind of hope heating inside of him, keeping his hand secured on her shoulder for as long as he could, until he was simply forced to let go in order to return to the palace on horseback. Círdan took her hand and allowed her to use his strength to hoist herself up on to the horse of honey brown, chuffing at her new presence,

“You are most welcome here, Lady Cassiell, just send word and I shall receive you no matter the circumstance,” he pledged kindly, brow furrowing for a moment, “I - remember the day you sailed West, the day the Valar took you to be judged, the day Middle-Earth grew thankful for your actions in battle, the day we, who were there to witness it, forgave you for all that you suffered,” Círdan held her hand in his, squeezing in comfort as she looked down on him with a glassiness in her eyes, “You cried and cried, and in all my years walking this land; I had never seen tears more sorrowful and repentant than yours,”

“I still sing the Song of Lirillë, I sing it for all those who were lost and who were saved. Though tears no longer fall on my cheeks, the lament of a life I lost shall continue evermore,” she responded in kind, a hardness appearing in her eyes at the mention of her godly binding but there was no malice, no threat, just a simplicity that prompted Círdan to smile and back away with a flourish of his hand. With a lingering touch to his brow, she urged the horse alongside Gil-galad’s, eyes searching onwards and upwards towards the city that was to be her home.

Cassiell rode in sorrowful silence for a long while after leaving the Grey Havens, looking back over her shoulder every so often as if her heart longed to remain in the peace and tranquillity of the place. He noticed that, among other things, that she was innocent in the way of the living and the visions the world beheld in light of that; gazing upon the trees and how they swayed in the wind, eyes reflecting the golden rise of the sun and the way it glistened in the clouds far on the horizon, listening to the bird call and the distant cry of an elk. Her ears twitched with every sound, every rustle and chuff of a horse, every snap of a twig and every conversation being held around her. No one yet had spoken to her, in fear or in respect, and she sucked in her surprise when Gil-galad inched his horse closer to hers and asked,

“Tell me about the pale shores, I wish to know what it is like to gaze upon the great city Tirion, the home of my kin,” his tone was kind, encouraging where his host did not and Cassiell sagged in relief, as if expecting him to ask about her creation or the Sundering or her capture or -,

“Never in my life, short as it was, have I witnessed such marvel and beauty in a city,” she began with a smile, eyes glazing over at the memory though there was strain in her fists that clutched the reins and tension in her shoulders, “I resided there for a long while after my time with the Lady Nienna, and they accepted me as I was and not who I used to be. They were the host that marched to the Song of my past life and they continued to sing in my absence when I was required for - judgement,” Cassiell said nothing more on the matter, continuing on as if the guards surrounding them weren’t suddenly intently keen on listening, “A city of white, towers as tall as you could ever imagine with forges and libraries and great halls filled with music. Your people were engineers, crafters of the highest degree and none can compare to their creations in Tirion, shining as bright as the Trees that once were and visited often by Aulë simply to marvel and admire at what they had achieved. You will see it someday, and you too shall gaze upon the city of your kin as I have,”

“Will you see it again?” Gil-galad asked hesitantly and Cassiell sighed, sorrow splitting her face in two,

“Perhaps,” she answered, “They never spoke of the completion of my duties, and I fear they never shall for it is a task impossible to complete to their highest regard. One cannot simply rid the world of all that has been done in poison and malice, the hand of Morgoth still tugs on the strings of the world even beyond the Void and it seems the Valar know this, and yet still chose for me to return to do their bidding,”

Gil-galad grew stricken at the dismissive description of Morgoth’s demise, then ever so slightly amused at the frown upon her brow,

“You speak with such flippancy towards those who took you from the world and cleansed you of your sins,” and Cassiell drew away from him, not detecting his mirth and taking his words as a criticism,

“I atoned for my sins, there is a difference, High King, and I was cleansed only of the roots that Morgoth had sewn in my soul, of the game he played with my existence; it was I who stood before our Great Creator and numbered the atrocities I committed, and faced judgement and punishment for those they saw fit,” her voice came as a hiss, retreating in on herself as if a cornered animal on the verge of being captured, “I - atoned for everything I have done, and if you will it, shall continue doing so on your command,”

Gil-galad reached over and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, as to not startle her,

“You were mistaken in my comments Cassiell, Vanquisher of Morgoth, I was merely toying with you and you attitudes towards the Valar; one would have thought you held them in the utmost reverence, and not in scorn as you do so now,” he spoke with a quirked brow and Cassiell sent him a severe look, unimpressed at his choice of conversation,

“I would not even begin to list the ways the Valar have forsaken me, for it would be too long even for you to bare to listen to,” she said through tight lips that loosened into a smirk at his challenging expression,

“You would be surprised, oh Breaker of Chains, what I can listen to without comment and judgement,”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a long while, only broken by Cassiell asking questions about the surrounding landscape and about Lindon itself, answered surprisingly by the guards who escorted them; all too proud of their city and its dwellers. They spoke of how life flourished after the War of Wrath, despite how broken the land was, the city was established by the hand of their High King who saw to the unification of many elves who had been spread far and wide by the destruction of Beleriande. The day to day lives of the elves were simple according to them, duties established over hundreds of years taking up their time with little thought, enjoying an Age of peace after all that had passed in turmoil. One guard talked about his beloved most of all, about how she was the greatest tailor in the city and clothed even the High King at his request, and how she would love to clothe her if she so wished,

“Do you have - did you find a partner, after all you had seen and experienced?” he, Olthon with his beloved Helethil, asked politely upon realising his long and arduous chatting about his own partner and Cassiell swallowed thickly, offering a sad little smile,

“There were some upon my landing in Valinor, who might have taken my hand but in the end; they grew afraid of my nature and my curse, for it prevented much from being a normal and appropriate union. It is complicated for a creature like me to accept and be accepted in the name of love, but there is still a part of me that is elven and that deeply yearns for companionship,” she spoke with grief, shoulders sagging with a sigh, “And then came the complexities of a more intimate nature, of a child I shall never sire and a carnal thirst that can only be satiated by one thing,”

The horses grimaced suddenly at the way their riders guffawed at her words, propriety and bashfulness prompting excuses from their lips on the approach to the city, many of them breaking formation to ride ahead to prepare for the High King’s arrival. Who simply laughed in spite of his seasoned soldiers and the awkwardness that ensued once Cassiell realised what she had said,

“That was one thing that always escaped me when conversing with the elves,” she spoke with a curious nonchalance that had Gil-galad peering at her fondly, “I suppose they do not feel the same desires I do, having been turned into a dangerous, seductive demon of the night,” her jests had him chuckling, nodding to the guards who came to greet them, stablehands taking the reigns of their steeds and leading them through a set of great gates, wooden in design but fashioned to mimic wrought copper in its golden glittering,

“I would indeed advise you to keep your talks of temptation and intimacy to yourself, unless prompted of course, it is only polite to engage if one is particularly -,” with a great heave, Gil-galad dismounted and accepted a cloak of honeyed velvet, turning to aid Cassiell down from her own horse and the touch of her hand strangely rough in his, as if the skin was marred beyond what his eye could see, “ - particularly curious in their exploration of you,”

He looked down at her with heavy lids, lips parting when she returned his gaze with disbelief dancing in her eyes,

“Rest assured High King, I highly doubt your court and your people would be particularly curious about me, much less of an exploratory nature,” Gil-galad tilted his head down slightly, palm leaving her hip in favour of taking her hand, mouth spreading into a deceptively knowing smile,

“I wouldn’t be so sure of yourself in that respect Cassiell,” there was something else behind his words, distracted by the way he nodded over to the young stablehands who watched her with curious eyes and bitten lips, “there are many who see you as a legendary hero with many great and powerful deeds to her name. You might find yourself more popular than you originally thought,”

#gil galad x oc #rings of power x oc #rop x oc #first daughter posting #rings of power #rings of power oc

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matchamiko · 1 month ago

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Just posted chapter 4 if anyone wants to check it out ૮꒰ྀི ୨ ៸៸៸ ୧ ྀི꒱ა

#posting then ditching cause I’m nervous and embarassed #but I’m proud of what I’ve written so far !!#miko.online #miko.writes #gil galad x oc #rop x oc #rings of power x oc

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grrrlsubrosa · 3 months ago

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I've been outlining a Gil-galad fanfic and would love your thoughts on something!

I created an OC with a backstory to fit into Tolkien’s lore. Since the story takes place in royal courts and titles are used, I’ve given her a name ("Y/N" always takes me out of the story).

That said, it seems like reader inserts are more popular (I enjoy them myself), but since the character has a backstory I think I'd write this more like a role-playing insert than a classic reader insert.

Anyway, I want to make sure this story is as enjoyable as possible before I start writing! Please vote below and thank you so much for your input! If you have any thoughts or advice, I'd love to hear it! 💕

Edit to clarify: Reader inserts normally don't give the MC a backstory or personality. Role-playing inserts gives the MC a backstory/personality/role so it feels more like you're stepping into the shoes of a pre-existing character (Kinda like a blend between OC and Reader insert).

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ladyoflindon · 3 months ago

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Across the Seas (Ereinion Gil-galad, Rings of Power)

Author's note: My OC, Itarille, is the younger sister of Elrond and Elros. Gil-galad has just asked to court her recently. Takes place way before the events of Rings of Power. Can be read as a reader insert, and either as a standalone or part of my upcoming Tolkien fic series. From @sotwk "Comfort Fic Writing Challenge".

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It was a nice day, Itarille thought to herself. She was sitting on the windowsill in her chambers, overlooking the sea. Her ears picked up the faint sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shores. Her grey eyes, so like those of her older brothers, drifted back down to the book in her lap.

Adûnaic, the language was called. From the land of Númenor, Elros' kingdom. She was reading a book about the island kingdom's history with the sea.

“From the dawn of Númenor, our fate has been intertwined with the sea. It guides, it judges, it endures. The sea is always right.”

It was a longstanding belief of the people. Itarille glanced out of the window once more, her eyes fixed on the blue waves of the ocean. It seemed calm, serene, steadfast. Just like how Númenor should be. How the Eldar should be. How she should be, considering that she would soon marry the High King and become Queen of Lindon.

She flipped the page, deciding to move on from the poetic passage. On the next page, there was a portrait. A man, regal, with high cheekbones, gazed back at her with eyes so familiar. His raven hair was mixed with streaks of white, and age was so visibly shown on his face.

Elros Tar-Minyatur, the description below the portrait read. Founding King of Númenor. Itarille hadn't gazed upon a painting or portrait of her brother in so long. It had been too long since his passing, but for her, it felt like yesterday.

The day Itarille had received word of Elros' passing, it was as if the floor had collapsed from beneath her feet. When she'd heard it, Itarille was at dinner with the High King. The news was delivered to him by a messenger, then him to her. When the last word had left his lips, Itarille stood up abruptly and fled. She remembered the look in Gil-galad's blue eyes. Those blue eyes, blue like the sea.

She and Elrond grieved. He did his best not to show it, maintaining the stern facade of the High King's Herald, but Itarille was different. She had locked herself away in her chambers, sitting on this very windowsill, gazing out at the sea which Elros had sailed away on the day he decided to be counted amongst Men.

She had known that day would come, but it didn't hurt any less.

A knock on the door brought Itarille out of her reverie. Wiping the tears from her face hastily, Itarille spoke softly, "Come in."

The door opened gently, and in stepped Gil-galad. As usual, he was the picture of elegance and serenity, clothed in robes of a deep blue, a departure from his usual gold. His gold crown of leaves was nowhere to be seen, and his deep brown hair tumbled down his back in waves.

"My lady," Gil-galad spoke in that velvety voice of his, bringing Itarille's hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her fingers, "how I've longed to see you so. This day has been dreadful without your presence at my side."

Itarille didn't respond, her mind still whirling with the memories from Elros, the memories that reading that book had stirred up. Gil-galad noticed her silence, the lingering tears in her grey eyes. He was about to ask if everything was alright, when he saw the Adûnaic book on her lap and he understood.

"You were thinking about him, weren't you?" Gil-galad asked quietly. Itarille gave no verbal answer, only the nod of her head. After a moment of silence, Itarille finally spoke. "O-oh, Ereinion," she sniffled, a fresh wave of tears falling down her face. "I miss Elros."

"My love." Gil-galad pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. For a moment, they both said nothing, Itarille's sobs speaking for her. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, her tears staining the fabric of his robes.

"Why does it hurt so much?" She looked up at him, her eyes glimmering with tears.

"You loved Elros deeply. He was your brother, and like Elrond, your protector. Your closest confidante. It's natural to feel this way about him." Gil-galad exhaled. "It's alright to grieve, melda."

"But," he looked down at Itarille, wiping a tear from her cheek, "Elros wouldn't want you to cry for him. He loved you deeply and would wish for you to be happy. He'd want you to live a happy and long life. So, please, do not weep, my love. Live, for Elros, for Elrond. For me."

Outside, the flowers bloomed. The birds chirped. In the distance, the waves lapped against the shores. Somewhere up there, Itarille sensed that Elros was watching. The grief was still fresh, it would always be, but for now, in this moment, Itarille felt at peace. Gil-galad's arms tightened around her, the High King murmuring words of reassurance and love in Quenya, the language she adored.

Everything would be alright.

#lotr #rings of power #ereinion gil galad #gil galad #the rings of power #writers on tumblr #gil galad x reader #gil galad x oc #lindon #rings of power x oc #rings of power fanfiction #rings of power x reader

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feyhunter78 · 2 years ago

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Rings of Power Masterlist

Key: 🔥= NSFW 💕= My favs

Elrond Peredhel:

Snapdragons -> Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, Ch 13

Reader Inserts:

Spilled Ink and Married Bliss🔥

A Herald and His Knight (Elrond x NB reader)🔥

The Princess and the Herald🔥💕

Another Use for his Writing Desk🔥

SFW Alphabet

NSFW Alphabet🔥

Put Your Head On My Shoulder

Flattery and Breakfast

Durin and Disa: Matchmakers Extraordinaire, Pt 2🔥

The Object of All His Desires💕

Ice Skating Gone Wrong

The Day's End

Wedding Braids

Jealous Elrond Headcanon

Jealous Reader HC

Valentine's Day HC

Two Ripples in a Pond💕

Sleeping among the Scrolls

Accident Prone Princess💕

Dad!Elrond Headcanon

Elrond and Sick Reader HC

Long Day W/H Elrond HC -> Moodboard made by the lovely @emmyspov

Rough!Elrond Smut HC🔥

Elrond & Physically Affectionate Reader HC

Writer's Block!Elrond x Reader HC

Curious Minds

Take my Hand💕

Sit Down🔥 Pt 2🔥

Elrond Wedding HCs

Protective Prince

Purity in the Hurricane (Francesca by Hozier inspired)

Courage and Comfort Sparring Sessions

Fratboy!Elrond: HCs, Poolside, Birthday

Elrond Snippets:#1

Gil-galad:

Reader Inserts:

The Queen's Father

The High-King's Love

Isildur:

Decadent Moments🔥 No Betrothed? Good.🔥

#meg's masterlist #rop #rop fanfiction #elrond x reader #elrond x oc #elrond x maeria #elrond rop #rop elrond #young elrond #elrond x you #young!elrond #young elrond fanfic #gil galad x reader #ran out of room on the other one so now it has its own place to live #isildur x reader #rop isildur

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marshmellin · 1 month ago

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Star and Stone or, The Fall of King Gil-galad

Elaniel, a stonemason fleeing the fall of Eregion, makes her way to Lindon. When she meets Gil-galad, something unexpected occurs. Amid the chaos of preparing for a war against Sauron, their growing love is tested by the weight of duty: his to lead armies into peril, hers to rebuild what darkness has destroyed.

The pull of two fëa is strong for the Eldar. But is duty stronger?

Rating: Explicit for eventual smutty smut; canon-typical angst

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

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

Like this work? Check out the 🔥 practice smut 🔥 for upcoming chapters with Gil-ga-daddy here: "Simple Release."

The Fall of King Gil-galad Gil-galad was an elven-king. Of him the harpers sadly sing; the last whose realm was fair and free between the Mountains and the Sea. His sword was long, his lance was keen. His shining helm afar was seen; the countless stars of heaven's field were mirrored in his silver shield. But long ago he rode away, and where he dwelleth none can say; for into darkness fell his star in Mordor where the shadows are

For days, survivors trickled westward along narrow paths toward Lindon, carrying few possessions but heavily burdened by the memories of what they had seen. Of who they had lost.

Soldiers from Lindon supplied waypoints to help protect the survivors from straggling orc groups, with mounted soldiers ferrying civilians between waypoints from Ost-in-Edhil. Gil-galad’s scouts had reported the arrival of each new group, describing not only weariness but a grim determination in their eyes, a will to endure that hadn’t been crushed by the growing darkness.

The elves of Eregion were strong.

The road was long, winding through the remnants of ancient forests. Elaniel trudged along the rough path, flanked by the silent company of her fellow survivors. It had been days since they fled the city’s shattered walls, and the journey to Lindon was slow. She was with one of the last groups of survivors on the trail — an assortment of warriors, tradespeople, and elflings without their parents.

Two handfuls of us at most. This week has made many orphans.

They stopped at the next the rough outpost built of half-finished wooden barricades, lashed together quickly and supplied with the barest essentials. There were no formal fortifications or armaments here, just hastily constructed barriers and watchfires burning low. This place had no room for rest, only vigilance. Around her, other survivors from Eregion huddled near the fires, speaking in hushed tones.

She watched as a small group of Lindon’s soldiers gathered around the central fire, speaking in low murmurs. Their faces were steady, their voices calm.

Are they calm because they are so familiar with the horrors of war?

Or are they calm because they are not?

Her gaze lingered on one of the warriors—a tall, lean elf with silvered hair braided down his back. There was a steady rhythm in his movements as he collected bundles of lembas bread to hand out at the campfires. His smile was soft as he came to the orphaned younglings, giving them a few sweets to share in addition to the bread.

Elaniel felt a pang at the look of compassion on his face. She waited for feelings to flood her, but none came.

Standing in silence, she watched the fires flicker in the clearing, the light casting warm shadows across the faces of her fellow refugees.

They were strong. They would rebuild.

Twilight settled over the sky. Elaniel reached a rise in the path and paused to take in the scenery around her. In better times, she might have found beauty in the rugged landscape, the mossy rocks, the towering oaks and golden aspens reaching high into the sky. The wind bit at her cheeks and she pulled her cloak up tighter against the chill, wisps of hair peeking out of her hood. They would make the city by nightfall.

Lindon was the elven kingdom furthest west in Middle Earth. It clung to a strip of land between the mountains and the sea, the rebuilt remnants of a near-fallen kingdom.

This realm would be her new home. For now.

She kept moving.

As their small band approached the end of the trail, the city gates opened, revealing stone walls that curved gracefully into archways and towers, glimmering like silver branches in the dusk. Her eyes lingered on the architecture, the skill of the stonework. She reached out to touch a foundation wall as she walked by, feeling the solid rock beneath her hand.

She was a stonemason with centuries of experience in her craft, but Lindon’s walls were unlike anything she had seen in all of Eregion or even Khazad-dûm. The skill in the curves, the way the stone flowed as if the walls grew from the earth itself. The old masons of Lindon leveraged the beauty of natural stone to craft protective walls. The masons of Eregion sought to tame the woods and rock around them.

The thought stirred something in her, a memory of Eregion’s walls and those who had fallen to defend them. Now was not the time to mourn. She would have an Age to weep.

Or I will weep for an Age, she thought. Or perhaps both.

As the group entered the city, they were guided to a large courtyard where guards moved through the crowd, offering food, blankets, and kind words to each group. The survivors clustered together, many calling across the courtyard, begging for information of their families and friends who may have already arrived — and of those who had not.

A ripple passed through the crowd, and Elaniel glanced up, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. At the head of the courtyard, a broad figure stood, wearing an unadorned, simple gray-blue and golden robe – if “simple” and “golden” were terms that could be used together. A circlet of gold leaves added to his already imposing height.

Ah. This must be our welcome committee, then. High King, it looks like, unless everyone in this realm wears golden crowns. Wouldn't surprise me if they did.

Annoyance twitched through her. She wanted to see a hot meal and a clean bed, not a politician offering platitudes.

“Elves of Eregion,” he began, his rich baritone carrying across the courtyard. His tone was soft, yet he commanded a respect that quieted the crowd. “I welcome you all to Lindon, and invite you to stay with us as if this were your own home. You are safe within our borders, and your lives here will be as peaceful as the stars allow. Come; rest in safety with us.”

Gil-galad finished his speech and began moving through the crowd, greeting each cluster of survivors in turn, calling for healers or sleeping accommodations. Elaniel watched him draw nearer, noting his unhurried steps.

I am exhausted, hungry and covered in dirt – perfect time to meet a king.

She also noted he was quite handsome. Up close, his chest was broader and his build more muscular than he appeared from across the courtyard. Strong jaw. Soft brown eyes. His long, dark hair was drawn back into a half braid, a few gray strands at his temple.

She reminded herself that she had seen many handsome faces over the centuries. His face was no different. And it was rude to stare.

She was too tired to focus on not focusing. Her eyes started to flutter close.

Finally, he reached her in the corner of the courtyard. “It is my honor to welcome you to Lindon, my lady.”

“High King Gil-galad,” she replied with a similar, if slightly sleepy, formality, blinking herself awake. “It is my honor to be welcomed. I am Elaniel, a master stonemason from Eregion.”

His eyebrows lifted in polite interest. “A stonemason? A skill of great importance for our people. Did you practice your craft in Ost-in-Edhil, I wonder?”

A red flush rose to her cheeks, and her tiredness waned for a moment. “Yes, I did, under Chief Mason Carasta,” she replied, a note of pride creeping into her voice despite her– admittedly unenthusiastic– attempts to squash it. “I designed and oversaw the construction of the eastern walls and watchtower fortifications.”

They were strong.

A shadow passed over her face, a reminder of the destruction that had claimed her city. Of crumbled walls that she once marveled at, thick and sturdy.

But not thick enough.

“Fine work, indeed, and no small task,” Gil-galad said solemnly, his eyes filled with sadness. He dipped his head to catch her gaze. “Elaniel of Eregion, you have my respect and gratitude for your service to our people. Many are alive today because of your work.” Reaching out, he clasped her hand between his in a simple gesture of thanks.

And then, the world shifted.

She looked up at him, curiosity blooming into open surprise. She sensed his fëa, a deep knowing she had never experienced with another being in her two thousand years of existence. His soul contained a fierce tenderness she hadn’t expected, a warmth that softened the sharpness of his mind. And a pull towards duty, to do better – be better, stronger, wiser – for his people that bordered on frustration. Impatience simmered at the edges of him, held back by wisdom and weariness. Her eyes went wide with wonder.

And Gil-galad stared back at her, shock etched into every line of his face. His eyes flicked down at their clasped hands, before he held her gaze again.

Elaniel felt known in return. Her stubbornness, the defiance and wit she used to hide her more vulnerable emotions. The compassion for others that hammered in her heart, louder than anything else. The anger she wrapped in layers and buried beneath a pressure to work, to do more, to earn her place. The sadness that sometimes filled her when she looked at the stars, a stirring she never named.

He had not let go of her hands. She did not want him to.

They could stay here for an Age. No, they would stay. Like Melian and Thingol, they would stay rooted to this spot, bathed in moonlight, unable to leave each other. The courtyard would crumble and overgrow. The trees would reclaim the land. Tilion would chase Arien’s flame across the morning sky and finally hold her sunfire in his arms.

And Eleniel and Gil-galad would still stand here. Knowing and known. The string between their chests tying them together.

“High King, Herald Elrond requests your presence as soon as possible. The Commanders have gathered to present an urgent report,” came a strong voice over Gil-galad’s shoulder. The voice could have come from the wind or the mountains – Elaniel did not see who spoke. She did not care.

But the message seemed to shake Gil-galad awake. He nodded over his shoulder in response, his eyes never leaving Elaniel’s.

“The walls here are different from Eregion,” she whispered tightly, groping for something else to say, anything to say to keep him here. “Living stone. Beautiful.” She was not sure she was speaking in full sentences. Again, she did not care.

A deep noise came from his chest, a rumbling agreement only she could hear, his voice low. “Yes. We treat beauty with reverence here.” His thumb brushed softly against her knuckles. A flicker of hesitation – burden and responsibility fighting curiosity and desire – played across his face. She thought she saw his jaw twitch. She knew she saw him hold back a sigh.

And she saw the exact moment that responsibility won.

“Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo,” he whispered. A star shines on the hour of our meeting.

Gil-galad pressed her hands between his once more before letting go, and she instantly missed his warmth. Then, as if a door had shut in front of her, his face smoothed into one of a politician. “Welcome, Elaniel of Eregion.”

And without a glance back, he moved on, leaving her standing among her fellow survivors. She watched him until he disappeared from the courtyard into the palace. Seeing the last glimpse of his robe as he walked out of the courtyard caused a tugging at her heart. A new, unfamiliar type of….sadness? Yearning? A pulling at this new knot in her chest.

She blinked, confusion on her brow.

What was that?

By the time she fell asleep that night, face down in a hastily set up cot, she wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not.

Elaniel wound her way from the low, humble building that served as the gathering place for Lindon’s refugees to the city center. Her quarters—if they could be called that—were modest, one of many small, shared rooms in the main hall set aside for those who had fled.

Elaniel often shared the space with two other women from Eregion, each bearing their own wounds from the city’s fall. Every evening, they sat together in silence, staring at the flickering candlelight, each lost in her own thoughts.

But she would not let herself be idle with her thoughts for long. She busied herself helping where she could, assisting with basic repairs, offering an extra pair of hands for craftsman work.

Herald Elrond put out a call for skilled craftsmen to volunteer their skills to prepare for the upcoming conflict, and she had answered. She was glad for the distraction it provided, even if she often lingered on the fringes, an outsider looking in.

Today, as she entered the small council chamber for the stonemasons’ meeting, a hush seemed to fall over the craftsmen gathered there.

At the end of the table sat Halion, one of the oldest and most influential masons in Lindon, known for his meticulous designs and proud, exacting standards. He barely acknowledged her presence, instead choosing to ignore her altogether.

Today was no different. As the council discussed the defensive measures for Lindon’s outer gates, Elaniel waited for a pause to interject. She cleared her throat when there was a lull.

"I would like to share this concept," she replied, her tone upbeat and respectful as she pulled a drawing from the stack of papers in front of her. "I have experience with fortifications—"

Halion interrupted with a scoff, his arms crossing over his chest. “Experience with fortifications? In Ost-in-Edhil?”

Elaniel held his gaze, determined not to be shaken. Her tone flattened slightly. A warning. “Yes, in Ost-in-Edhil. I was part of the team that oversaw the building of city fortifications and the eastern wall. I know where we fell short and where we succeeded after four weeks of continuous siege. I believe Lindon could benefit from these insights.”

She paused for a moment before pushing on, clamping down the anger in her voice.

“During the fortifications of Eregion, we strengthened the ramparts with reinforced stone blocks with chains attached to anchor points in the rock,” she began again. “A similar approach here could add to the strength of—”

Halion’s hawkish face was hard and unforgiving. “Had the walls of Eregion held but moments longer, perhaps more of our kin would be with us.” He spoke as though each word were calculated to cut deeper. “I am unsure your counsel is needed here, stonemason.”

A murmur of agreement moved around the table, some of the others nodding or casting her brief, condescending glances.

The accusation stung. She had fought so hard to tame the memories of that day—the crashing of stones, the cries of her elves around her, bodies amid the rubble. But here it was, brought to the surface casually by a man who had not been there. Had not seen.

She dug inward for a measured, appropriate reply.

And all she found was anger.

She dug again.

Rage.

“If we’re assigning blame for the loss of Eregion, perhaps you ought to consult the enemy,” her cheeks heated, scathing words flowing quickly now. “Do you not allow for growth in Lindon? Or is it your intent to personally cast out every stonemason here should their work fail once? I did not recognize we all stood in the presence of perfection.”

“That’s enough,” Halion started, standing up.

No, it’s not.

“Oh, I understand, Master Halion,” her voice lowered, a false softness. Poison and mockery filled every syllable. “Perhaps if you had been in Ost-in-Edhil with a bucket of mortar and a trowel, they would all still be alive. I know you would have single-handedly turned the tide of the battle with a stack of bricks if you were. but. there.

“But you were not there, Master Halion, so I suppose we must disregard your thoughts on the matter.” She could see outrage and embarrassment flash across Halion’s face, and a twisted satisfaction blossomed in her chest at his discomfort. The other craftsmen around them began murmuring louder, and she knew she was not winning over hearts or minds.

Anger does not serve me now.

Anger does not…

Anger…

Be angry later.

She let out a slow, steadying breath, willing her muscles to unclench. Weariness crept into the lines of her shoulders, her body sagging slightly. “Forgive me,” she continued, “But I share my failures to ensure that none of you must face it in the future. You may not welcome my insights, but Herald Elrond has asked all capable stonemasons to contribute to this council. And until he says otherwise, I intend to.”

The room fell silent. Halion glared at her, but something in her tone must have touched a nerve, for he gave a grudging nod.

“We present our recommendations for fortification improvements to the High King in two weeks,” he said finally. “We will allow you to share your council if it is requested.”

Elaniel nodded, her jaw set. “I look forward to your questions.”

With that, she turned and took a seat among the gathered stonemasons, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, determined to carve out her place here, no matter how many skeptical gazes she had to face.

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

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

Like this work? Check out the 🔥 practice smut 🔥 for upcoming chapters with Gil-ga-daddy here: "Simple Release."

#gil-galad #the rings of power #gil galad #gil galad x oc #trop fanfiction #lotr rop #gilgadaddy #star and stone #high king gil galad #Erienion Gil-galad #trop spoilers

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shadows-and-flowers · 3 months ago

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I will be writing some Rings of Power fanfiction (one is Annatar x OC and the other is Gil-Galad x OC) and I am looking for someone to be my beta reader/editor.

If you are interested, let me know!

#the rings of power #the rings of power tv show #amazon prime rings of power #annatar #annatar x oc #gil-galad #gil-galad x oc

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lya-dustin · 4 months ago

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The Stone Table

or a rewrite of a one shot i did when rings of power first came out in my now deleted lotr blog erinti-of-the-maiar

Gil-galad x Erinti(oc)

could be read as part of both The Moon Lives in the Lining of Your Skin(silmarilion version)and I Sang of Leaves of Gold(Rings of power verision

inspired by this post made by @queenmeriadoc

summary: Gil-galad’s Maia wife wants a baby but his schedule is too busy so she uses their bond to spice things up during a feast to get what she wants.

cw: sex, telepathic dirty talk, cunnilingus, p in v sex, breeding, table sex, breast play

Her husband has always been too serious.

He had been serious and sensible with a perpetually stern brow despite his youth when they first married. While Ereinion Gil-galad had never been wild, he has always been bold.

The burden of kingship weighs heavily on him as does a strange hint of evil growing in the air. He smiles less and less these days, rarely takes a day off and Erinti has found him too tired to seek pleasure as of late.

She aches for him, to feel him move within her and see his troubles melt away as he sows his seed into her womb.

The Maia wants a child, to have their feä join and create a life inside her that will become a babe in her arms for them to love and nurture for the rest of their days.

And that cannot happen if her husband refuses to fuck that baby into her. To have him be rough with her, to have him overpower her and fuck her until all of Lindon feels the effect of their orgasms.

It would soon be autumn, but no plant would die nor leaf fall if the High King were to take her bent over his desk, or against the wall or on the balcony like they did a while ago.

Gil-galad’s hand on his glass tightens as his wife’s desire is felt through their bond.

Elves can hold a strong bond to the point of feeling one live and die no matter the distance, a Maiar could even manipulate a person so long as there is an opening.

Erinti and her husband have a bond so strong she knows the Halls of Mandos wouldn’t stand a chance against it. Sometimes they do not even need to speak out loud, his thoughts and hers can be heard and even seen as clearly as if each other were part of their psyche.

She is half expecting him to ask her to stop and yet her husband does not. Instead, her stick in the mud husband matches her desire with his.

Despite the regal and rigid as stone aspect he has, Gil-galad has quite a filthy mind. And, of course, the stamina to tire his maiar wife.

Something he reminds her with a hidden smile as he drinks his wine. Wine he claims is not as fine as that nectar that flows from her womb.

A womb he will fill the moment the feast is cleared, or so he promises.

But it does not end there, no, he doesn’t allow her to concentrate on the things said by those speaking to her as he takes his revenge.

He likes the low cut of her dress, the swell of her bosom on display like that for him, the fact that she wore no shift, or any other undergarments, had not gone unnoticed by him.

The king wants to tease her over the clothes, to knead and brush his thumb over her sensitive nipples as he kissed his way down her fair neck and collarbone until he is tearing off the dress to free her body from its confines. He intended to lavish her perfect breasts and use his mouth and fingers to string out that beautiful melody she makes when she comes.

A good prelude for what he had planned after the feast is over. By the time she’s readied for him to breed her Erinti of the Flowers would be naked and exposed to the cool autumn air.

The stone table would suffice, stone does not grow roots and leaves when he fucks his queen on it. Their bed had become a living tree with great roots and thick foliage with how attentive her husband usually is.

This particular stone was of great strength, carved from deep inside the mountains of Eregion and able to withstand the might of an Ent if it is to be believed.

A maia in the throes of passion may test that myth. Erinti’s hands had broken many things when her control slipped, while her ability was to nurture the earth as a servant of Yavanna and Nessa, her strength could destroy towers and castles with ease.

Gil-galad prided himself in making her lose control and admire his handiwork after. Not all furniture survived after he and his Queen were done.

It would not end with the table; he wants to take under the stars like he did when they wed. To have her ride him as the stars frame her like the goddess she is. To have the heavens and the earth witness the creation of a second Lúthien Tinúviel.

Not a princess, she corrects, but a son, a prince whose name she has seen from the moment she first laid with Gil-Galad.

Finnellach, flame of hair and eye.

The feast is scarcely over when the king makes good on his promise.

The king wastes no time in picking her up and setting her at the edge of the table, hiking up her dress until she could feel his hardness pressing between the heavy robes separating it from her cunt, feel how their game and his victory have affected him.

If she was as wet as the Lhûn before the final course had begun, the Maia Queen was sure to drown her husband with the waters from her womb.

“Has your husband been remiss in his duties, Lothíriel?” he asks between kisses with his sharp eyes dark and voice dripping with arousal.

Lothíriel, maiden crowned with flowers. The name he gave her when they first met, the name she wears as his wife just as he is Rodnor to her and the only name he cries out in pleasure.

“Our bed has wilted from your neglect, Rodnor.” The maia locked her long legs at his waist and let her hands roam up his chest and breaking the gorget he was wearing and tossing it aside as if it were nothing. “The leaves have begun to change color, but you’d notice that if you didn’t come so late and leave so early each day. I had half a mind to file a petition and demand a private audience with his grace to fix the issue.”

“You should have, I would have remedied the issue right there on my throne.” The vivid memory of all those times they had defiled his throne had her as wet as the Lhûn. “Her grace shall be crowned with oak blooms before dawn tomorrow.”

There is no promise of him taking the day off tomorrow, but the maia will fix that before the night is over.

“I better be, or his grace will not be leaving our bed.” The red haired being struggled to contain her desperation for him and effortlessly tore his robe of him to leave him only in his breeches.

He was built like an ox, trained in the same weapon that killed his beloved sister and as darkness grew around them, ready for war.

The scars from the Wrath have long since faded, you would not be able to tell he is a seasoned warrior and commander from looks alone. His physical strength could almost match her own, something Erinti Lothíriel has always loved.

“I won’t leave it either way.” With a smile he tears her dress apart until it pools around her waist on the table, and he is free to kiss his way down her neck and collar to her chest.

Gil-galad loves her breasts, the way they fit perfectly in his hands and their rosy peaks stiffen even more in the autumn air after he’d taken each of them into his mouth. He doesn’t stop there, the high king pushed her gently down to lie on the stone table as he continued down to her cunt as her hands threaded themselves in his dark mane.

The first time he had done this, the maia had turned made the meadow bloom to its fullest and remain so despite summer turning to fall soon after. The other times had resurrected the oak trees their bed had been.

Now as he threw her long bare leg over his shoulder, they would see how the stone would fare against the Scion of Kings putting his mouth and fingers to better use.

He is not the stern king with the weight of the world bearing down on him when they make love. He is simply her husband, her lover who knows exactly how to make her lose control of this fair form she made to be with him.

Her hand gripping the rough edge of the table feels nothing of the discomfort the stone against her soft palm nor does the stone show any sign of crumbling in her hold. Who was to say what would happen when Gil-galad makes her come undone?

She tries to hold back, not an easy task when Gil-galad uses every trick he knows to have her unravel with pleasure.

As great a singer and orator her husband is, Erinti things tongue fucking may be his best talent. The first time he had pleasured her this way the ground had shaken in tandem to her first orgasm and the hold on his hand had resulted in a hard to explain injury.

Still the stone does not break when the crescendo comes to its grand finish. They may have to procure more of it now.

“It passed the first test, but can it pass the second?” Gil-galad wiped her spent from his chin with the torn fabric of her gown, it won’t be of use anymore either way.

His manhood needs little help in reaching full mast, but the sight of it with some seed at its tip has desperate to feel it inside her. To feel it hitting those places only Gil-galad knows as they fuck hard and loud in open air without a drop of shame.

It was far too difficult to stop people from taking notice of their rulers’ sexual habits when their queen’s moods affected the life around them. So difficult it no longer mortified them almost two thousand years after.

“Only one way to find out.” The Maia breathes hard from the peak he brought her to, leaned back on her hands and spread her legs wide for her husband waiting for him to plow into her until Elbereth herself feels as if she too has been fucked senseless.

“The way her grace behaves, one would think she was a courtesan of the Edain and not a holy being.” he snaked an arm around her waist as the other pulled her face to his.

“Perhaps this holy being likes to be worshipped differently.” The maia kissed her husband deeply, tasting herself in his mouth as she pulled him closer to her until he dropped the hand on her chin to guide himself into her.

The wholeness that comes with being with him like this is heavenly, their feä melds into each other’s own as their bodies join in ways forbidden to anyone else.

“Then I will make this table a second altar to worship you on, Lothíriel.” His voice is low with desire and groans as he begins to move within her. Slow and steady, savoring every contour of her perfect body and driving her slowly to madness.

She may be Maiar, but Valar, did she find sexual compatibility the best thing Ilúvatar could bless his creations with. Her womanhood fit him like a glove, or so he says.

Perfection even Valinor would envy, his thoughts fill her head as he goes deeper and harder and brings his deft fingers to her button as his mouth seeks out her breast.

Their lovemaking brings the much-needed release Gil-galad desperately needed. Too many troubles coming seemingly out of nowhere and the lack of respite to find the why of it.

He is not the stone king teetering on the edge of a burst vein in his cerebrum, he is the elf groaning his wife’s name as their lewd sounds and smells fill the air. Time passes by around them and yet nothing exists beyond the two of them and their bliss.

Gil-galad comes just as he brings her to a second climax, a beautiful melody ending with a kindling of a new life.

“The stone didn’t break.” The King of the Noldor is still catching his breath when they remember to see if his theory proved correct. “We shall need more of this stone.”

“The table at your war room will need replacement.” The Maia grins hoping to see how they break that great round table hewn from a weaker stone.

#erinti of the maiar #gil galad x oc #gil galad smut #i sang of leaves of gold fic #the moon lives in the lining of your skin fic #silm fic #rop fanfiction #gil galad rop #rop oc

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