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marshmellin · 30 days ago

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Star and Stone, Ch. 10 | Where He Dwelleth, None Can Say

The field lay trampled, stamped down by the feet of countless Elves and Men and Dwarves and Hobbits. The Last Alliance stretched across the plains of Udûn outside Barad dûr — Sauron’s last stronghold — an endless circle of gleaming armor like a silver thread winding through the plain, Men and Elves side by side, surrounding the tower.

They had, Gil-galad hoped, finally cornered the bastard.

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

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

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

✨ Star and Stone: Complete Chapter List

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

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

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

Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Ch. 9: Wherever the Need is Greatest

You are here -> Ch. 10: Where He Dwelleth, None Can Say

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

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

///

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

Outside, the camp stirred with the restless energy of an army on the brink of battle. Inside the council tent, Gil-galad stood at one side of the table, reading the same map for the fifth time. Opposite him, Elendil leaned forward, one hand tracing the markings on the map while the other rested lightly on the hilt of Narsil at his side.

“The supply lines from the western realms are steady,” Elendil said, his deep voice calm. “And we can get to the gate. But we’ll need additional provisions from Eriador and Lindon if….if we have to siege the tower.” He opened his hand casually against the hilt of his sword, his expression one of “…and that’s that.”

Before Gil-galad could reply, the tent flap rustled, and Oropher strode in, long cape trailing behind him as his grey eyes swept over the room. He inclined his head slightly, his long pale hair brushing his shoulders.

“My lords,” Oropher started, his voice crisp. “I must interrupt your discussion. I bring news from the Woodland Realm.”

Gil-galad stiffened. No news was good news when it came to messages from each king’s realm. If they sent an urgent message — it meant their regents needed support. “News, King Oropher?”

Oropher stepped closer, his gaze steady but serious. “Yes,” he said quickly, pulling a scroll from somewhere under his cape and slapping it it into Elendil's hand. “I just received word from our fastest courier. There was an incursion near Amon Lanc — a force of orcs began to siege the city, unified under one of Sauron’s lesser commanders. We’re unsure of his name because…one of our soldiers killed him before he could answer.”

And the Noldor are the bloodthirsty ones? The Sindarin seem to hold their own. Or Oropher's son, at least.

Oropher jutted his chin toward the scroll in Elendil’s hand. “My son Thranduil reports he suspects it was a diversionary attack orchestrated by Sauron. To draw our focus from Dagorlad. Thranduil did not think he could get a messenger out to call for us in time, so we remained on the field.”

At this, both Gil-galad and Elendil exchanged a glance.

They can’t stay with the Alliance if Amon Lanc was sieged. They must leave to protect their people. Dagorlad was won weeks ago. His people might not…

Elendil’s hand tightened briefly on the edge of the scroll. “Amon Lanc?” he said, his voice edged with concern. “Your people, are they—”

Oropher’s expression softened, though his tone remained formal. “Safe, yes. Thranduil and King Amdír’s son Amroth coordinated their defenses in time to repel the attack. Thranduil was able to anticipate the orcs’ movements and call for aid using the palantíri.”

“And Amroth answered?”

Oropher nodded, his voice quieter now. “Yes. We lost some of our most valiant soldiers, and we will mourn for them properly when we return. But my people are saved, and the orcs no longer roam near Amdír’s borders either.”

The Elvenking dipped his head low, lower than Gil-galad had ever seen him. “Your trust in the Woodland Realm has saved many lives this day, High King Elendil, and I wished to tell you personally, along with High King Gil-galad, who brought our request to you. Without the seeing-stones, the attack would have destroyed my people. Instead, the orcs were routed, and Amon Lanc stands.”

Elendil and Gil-galad breathed sighs of relief in unison.

“That is welcome news indeed,” Elendil said enthusiastically as he set the scroll down, his grin broad. “I am truly glad your people are safe, Oropher. And,” his tone turned more solemn. “Thank you for taking the risk to leave your people and join us on the field. The Realms of Men will never forget the faith you have shown today. That you both have shown,” Elendil ended, turning toward Gil-galad with a nod.

For the first time, a faint smile touched Oropher’s lips, though it did not erase the weariness in his eyes. “The unity between our peoples is what will see us through these dark times, indeed.”

Elendil clapped his hands, almost eagerly now. “What is our next move? Sauron still hides behind the Gate like a coward. I think direct assault against it is the only option. We can not sneak thousands of Men and Elves in through some back path we have not even found — especially with his Nazgûl securing the far lands. This is how to get him to leave the accursed tower. A shot across the bow is not enough."

Oropher’s eyes flashed. “Amdír and I had a thought on archer placement for the coming push to the Black Gate we would like to share. Both are realms have...groups of specially trained soldiers who may find that back path you mention, Elendil. And take advantage of it.”

“How long do you think it will take to bring down the Gate,” Gil-galad asked, his eyebrows furrowed. He was doing math in his head, and none of the numbers made sense for a standard charge.

“Ah,” Elendil’s eyes crinkled impishly. “Not long at all.” He cocked his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Though, the archers will make it faster."

Gil-galad and Oropher turned in unison to stare at him.

“I brought ravagers." A broad smile like the sun broke across Elendil's face, hand leaning casually against the hilt of his sword, a blend of mischief and arrogance and rage in his bright blue eyes.

"I came here to beat the bastard's door down.”

The small tent that served as Gil-galad’s quarters was dimly lit by a single lantern swaying gently from the pole above, casting golden light over the rough-hewn wooden table that served as a makeshift desk. The sounds of the camp carried faintly through the thick canvas — low murmurs, the clink of armor, and occasional shout across tents or from sentries.

Serene. At least, for a camp hosting the largest military force assembled in Middle Earth’s history.

And because it was so peaceful, Gil-galad decided to read a note from Elaniel that he knew would not be a troop report or grain supply notice or an update on watchtower routes. He had saved this one as soon as he read the first line, and tonight was just the kind of night he needed to laugh. He leaned back in his chair, a huge grin on his face as he began reading her neatly-written note:

— High Ereinion King Galad-gil of the Noldor, Flame of Hair and Eye, Scion of Kings, Wielder of Aeglos, Defender of Eregion, Bearer of Vilya, Ellon who blatantly cheats at card games —

I do not! Well... can I not have one true reward for the burdens of leadership? I like to swindle Círdan once a year for bottles of wine – let me have that, ilmarënín.

Gil-galad could not stop himself from laughing out loud and he hadn’t read past the introduction yet. He saw the flap of the tent shift too late, but his instincts were faster than his eyes. He tucked the letter under a pile of maps just as Elrond entered, holding a scroll.

“High King, I hoped I’d find you here,” Elrond began, but he paused, his sharp eyes narrowing in on the slight blush creeping up to Gil-galad’s ears. His head tilted. “May I ask what you were reading, High King?”

Gil-galad shrugged far too casually. “A report from Lindon,” he said — he hoped — smoothly. He had managed to keep his face perfectly still, but he couldn’t control his inability to blush. "As always, grain continues to plague us."

“Oh, Ereinion,” a deeper voice called as another figure entered behind Elrond. Celeborn, his silver hair catching the light, swept into the tent with an amused grin. He sighed dramatically. “You are many things, and you are a convincing liar most days — but not today, nephew. I could hear your laughter three tents down. Are you reading a letter from your bride?”

Elrond and Celeborn shared a knowing grin.

Damn it.

Gil-galad sighed. “Do you both have nothing better to do than mock your High King? No other work you could attend to in the broad expanse of this camp to support our fight against the Enemy? Sauron’s forces grow ever—“

“Stronger, the darkness, the duty, the burdens, yes. I have heard this speech several times and I could recite it for you in both Westron and rhyme if you’d like.” Celeborn caught the glare Gil-galad shot his way. “Oh, please do not misunderstand,” Celeborn said sincerely. “You’ll have nothing but my respect and loyalty in the council tent and on the field, High King.”

Gil-galad dipped his head in thanks.

“But here?” Celeborn continued, smiling slyly, “Absolutely not, Ereinion. Here you’re my nephew and a new husband who's been caught red-handed, daydreaming about your wife. Ah-ah,” Celeborn motioned his elbow toward Elrond, “Look at him blush like a youngling!”

Elrond chuckled and leaned against the table, crossing his arms and lounging – an ellon with nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. “Indeed,” Elrond snorted. “Tell us more about Elaniel. Half the camp speaks of her as a legend for kicking Ristarion off the council after your rather public vows. But some of us,” — he pointed his thumb repeatedly toward Celeborn, — “haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her, after all. And I would not want to take away your opportunity to do your lady justice, High King,” he ended with a lilt to his voice.

Celeborn raised a brow. “Come then, come. Tell us all about this elleth you’ve managed to snare— who, it sounds, is far too good a lady for you.”

Gil-galad narrowed his eyes at Celeborn, who stared back unflinchingly.

A sigh. Damn it.

“Bold, both of you. Bold. But especially you, Elrond.” Gil-galad reached for the letter, folding it carefully and leaving it in his hand as he used it to point at each of them in turn. “Yes, it is a letter from her. Yes, it is private. What do you wish to know about your High Queen that is not contained in this piece of personal correspondence?”

He’d draw blood first. Gil-galad was a solid thousand years younger than Celeborn – he liked his odds at keeping the letter away from him.

Mostly.

Celeborn grinned and settled into a chair uninvited, motioning for Gil-galad to continue. “Well, tell me what she’s like. I know little of her, aside from hearing she holds her own among the councilors and the soldiers say they like her because she’s blunt — oh, and apparently, she has you blushing like that in the middle of war.”

Gil-galad hesitated, but pushed on at the open, truly eager look on Celeborn’s face. It was rare not to hold a meal of some kind so family could meet each other, even in times of war. In a happier time, Galadriel and Celeborn would have had an opportunity to meet Elaniel before she joined their family.

“Elaniel…makes me curious,” Gil-galad began slowly. It had taken him long enough to put these feelings to words in his own mind, much less to share them with an audience. “She’s smart and…blunt is a fitting term. She has a deep respect for the responsibilities I have, but I know she does not care about the titles or names anyone else uses to refer to me, and never will. I appreciate that she…does not see my crown first. I very much appreciate her.

“Oh,” Gil-galad added as an afterthought. “She’s also the most skilled stonemason in Middle Earth, but that’s not why I married her. But that,” he pointed with the letter again, “is the sum of what I am willing to share with the two — of — you.”

Elrond tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “And she writes to you often, I take it, since you seem to expect there’s something embarrassing in that letter beyond a typical report from Lindon’s regent and queen? High King, I feel I must inform you that your ears are bright red.”

Gil-galad rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, annoyed that Elrond was right — since he could not keep the smile off his face, Gil-galad had decided he may as well lean into the teasing. Now or later made no difference, it would happen to him either way, at least from Celeborn.

“She sends more letters than I could have hoped for,” Gil-galad admitted, his tone turning wistful. “I do not reply as much as I wish I could, but it helps to hear from her.” He jutted his chin. “And, yes, she does report on the state of Lindon, thank you, which she is managing quite well.”

Celeborn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If she’s willing to bluntly tell you when you’re wrong or stupid and she can run your realm, she’s already a wonderful match for you in my eyes,” he said, mischief blooming across his face. “But what of her presence? What is she like when blunt words and letters are not her medium?”

Sigh. Old man….Valar, between you and Círdan, honestly.

“Elaniel is an intelligent and capable leader who knows how to command a room and inspire those around her. She is a gracious host.”

Celeborn’s face did not change at all, as though carved from stone. Elrond tilted his head, unamused at the lack of an answer.

Together, their faces said, “try again.”

Sigh.

“She makes Lindon feel like home even though I’ve lived there for centuries. I can’t explain it. I am…connected to her. And have been since before the vows.” He could feel the blush spreading.

Celeborn’s smile turned fond. “Ah, you are besotted, Ereinion, far worse than lovesick — but that is genuine, and I’m glad for it. I always worried you’d marry out of a sense of duty. Or because Elrond arranged a political alliance and sprung a wedding on you.”

Elrond grinned. “But now, I needn’t. You’re living proof that even High Kings can fall like us common ellons if their love is quick-witted and charming enough – oh, no, no, forgive me: capable and blunt enough.”

Gil-galad’s eyes narrowed. “Mmm, you seem to have many thoughts to share, Lord Elrond. I would put forth one of my own. I find it curious that no one in this tent has yet offered a comment regarding Celeborn’s daughter Celebrían? And the conversations you have not yet had with her? The lack of letters between the two of you?”

Elrond's eyes shot open.

Gil-galad all but cut himself off, tapping a finger on the desk in mock-thought. “Oh, hold a moment. No. I find I am mistaken. Lord Elrond, I have noticed, receives many letters from Lady Celebrían. I can not recall, however, if the Lady Celebrian is the vice-regent of Imladris. If memory serves, she is not. Strange, indeed. I wonder what her letters to Lord Elrond contain — since we know they are not reports of grain or weapons supplies.”

Learn not to strike when your flank is exposed, Elrond…

He paused, letting the flush rise to Elrond’s ears at the mention of Galadriel and Celeborn’s daughter. Who, it was very clear to anyone who looked at his face, Elrond had met and fallen madly in love with during her first visit to Imladris — and yet, Elrond had not moved to make his own feelings known to his love.

Easier to whisper advice from cover than to risk its merits yourself, isn't it, Elrond? Whatever happened to “Let her know, tell her, decide together”?

Celeborn tilted his head, appraising Elrond before his grey eyes flicked back to Gil-galad, his face showing he knew exactly what Gil-galad meant and was more than willing to join in turning on Elrond if that was the most amusing course for the conversation.

Celeborn was a joyful man, full of laughter. He was also deadly on a battlefield — but Gil-galad mostly valued the mirth he brought to everything.

Celeborn turned to Elrond and cocked an eyebrow, as if to say, “shall we discuss it now?”

Gil-galad nearly smiled as he saw Elrond — Elrond. Lord of his own realm. Commander of Lindon’s troops. Herald to the High King of the Noldor, which, by the way, was no small honor. Vice regent of Lindon. — suddenly become a bashful young ellon in front of his (hopefully) father-in-law.

“Ah,” Gil-galad nodded smoothly. “Luck follows you today, Lord Elrond, as it seems we have no appetite to discuss that. So, are you two finished testing me, or shall I summon the scribes to document your lack of wit for posterity?”

Celeborn leaned back in his chair, clearly content. “Oh, no. No,” he said with mock solemnity. “You may have beaten Elrond, but I am not finished with you by any means. But, I’ll retreat and let you lick your wounds for now.” His grey eyes glittered. “I’ll confess, I’m looking forward to meeting Elaniel when this war is won. I’d like to see how much higher you’ve managed to climb the ladder of love than you deserve — your looks are already against you, and I’ve heard she’s quite lovely.”

“You will have to earn her respect,” Gil-galad warned, though his tone was light. “Elaniel has little patience for ceremony.” And she would user a different term… “Transparency is the only way to meet her equally. She is beautiful, but that is one of the least interesting parts of her by far. Ask about the latest foundation wall she’s built, and you will understand her much more than by flattering her. Besides, she…does not appreciate many titles outside of Master Stonemason, because she earned it with her own two hands.”

Celeborn stood, straightening his posture with an exaggerated air of formality. “Then she and I shall get along splendidly, as you well know I am the very essence of humility and taste — and interest in stonework.” He smiled again, mischief in his eyes.

Gil-galad continued to blush. “Get out, both of you, before I send you to the Ettenmoors to find me a specific-colored rock.”

“Mmm, yes of course, High King, you have, uh, correspondence and reports to attend to,” Elrond said with one last laugh, exchanging amused glances with Celeborn before they both bowed mockingly and exited the tent. Their laughter faded into the night as they walked away, a rare moment of levity in the camp.

Alone again, Gil-galad unfolded Elaniel’s letter, the smile on his face growing broader as he read her words, her warmth reaching him even across the distance.

But about this cheating at cards accusation, it was one time that she knows of for Valar sake….

They had, Gil-galad hoped, finally cornered the bastard.

It had taken years. Bloody, bloody years. And even now, Gil-galad did not understand how Sauron kept finding, producing, making more orcs.

His supply of orcs seemed endless.

The Alliance’s supply of soldiers was not.

They had continued their southeastward march, moving from their victory on the plains at Dagorlad to the Black Gate — their only entrance into Mordor and to Sauron’s stronghold of Barad dûr.

They had sieged against the Gate for days, firing arrows as fast as they could be made and brought to the front. The Men of Gondor, true to Elendil’s word, had brought battering rams and trebuchets, large siege engines to break down the Gate.

If he had not been so focused on staying alive at the time, Gil-galad would have found it a humorous parallel between their peoples.

The Eldar fire each arrow with care and with precise blades. They move through hidden paths to fell their enemies. The Edain rush enemy lines and batter walls with their fists and their fury. They demand the enemy come meet them.

Both were good. Both were needed.

And the Gate fell.

For one brief moment, the Alliance all but strolled into Mordor.

Mordor met them.

More died in the open plateau of Udûn. So many more in the open land between the Gate and Barad dûr, Sauron’s tower fortress, than in any other battle so far. These days of tears were when they had first earned what a Nazgûl was — what the fell beasts of the air could do. What the wraiths were. What Sauron's twisted power had done to the beauty of the world.

And finally — finally — they had cleared Udûn and reached Barad dûr. Sauron had not exactly opened his doors in welcome, so the Alliance dug in around the tower and began to siege it. The King of Men was good to his word and, in some ways, even better:

The Edain did, in fact, come here to beat the bastard's door down.

And they had not stopped. They would not stop. Gil-galad was almost in awe at their persistence.

The Men would not stop, breaking wave after wave of their brief lives against the walls. The Men would not stop. Not until they brought Sauron out of his tower or forced their way in to kill him with their hands.

It had been seven years. Sauron was still in his tower.

Because he could not leave. Sauron had so much of his power poured into the One Ring and had corrupted so many kings of Men, there was nothing left of him to be. Too much of his power was occupied. He could control the Nazgûl that screeched through the skies above them. He could send out wraiths. He could order orcs and low men and trolls to advance. But he was trapped in that fortress.

And finally, it seemed, the bastard was running out of orcs.

There was one more push of the enemy surging against their entrenched location, throwing the field into a chaos of ash and blood. Somewhere in the distance, the cries of orcs mingled with the battle cries of Elves and Men. But at that moment, all seemed to quiet as the massive gates of Barad-dûr creaked open.

And finally – finally – Sauron came out himself.

He sent whatever was left of his forces first, sending out the final waves of orcs and trolls and other monsters of the deep to wear out the men and elves at his doorstep. The battle raged for days, but the Alliance was winning.

Victory was near.

And then, Sauron, the Abhorred, strode into the field. His towering figure, clad in jagged black armor, forged by the Shadow himself, was at least two Men tall. The One Ring, shining dully under the cloudy sky, rested on his gauntleted hand.

His red eyes, glowing like embers, scanned the battlefield. Power emanated from him – but it was a sickening, twisted version of what Gil-galad felt when he wore Vilya. Vilya was a warm presence, grounding, musical.

Even though he was far away from it, Gil-galad knew the One Ring felt wrong. Pushing and demanding and dark, underpinned with rage and grief.

Sauron – or at least, his armor – swung a large, twisted mace and hefted it over his shoulder. He seemed to be stretching, a warrior preparing for a training round.

Was there even a body in that armor to destroy?

Soldiers on both sides froze, terror rooting them in place at the sight of him. The orcs looked horrified that Sauron was on the field.

Gil-galad and Elendil stood close together after they had cut down a group of orcs, their weapons bloodied and their breaths labored. They looked up in near-unison.

Then they turned to each other and their eyes met – brown and blue. Elendil nodded slowly, a smile spreading across his face. This was what he had come for. Gil-galad nodded in return and set his jaw as Elendil grabbed his forearm in a warrior’s grip. The understanding between them was clear.

If we fall today, we fall together. We will not go home when our people can not.

Aeglos gleamed in his hands, its haft firm beneath his grip. Beside him, Elendil shifted his weight, raising Narsil. Together they moved toward Sauron, determined to end this – one way or another – today.

Sauron saw them coming and laughed, a slow, mocking sound that rumbled like thunder. The ground seemed to quake with each deliberate step he took to meet them. The bastard.

Gil-galad and Elendil closed the gap, their movements sharp, unified after decades of battle together. Sauron swung his mace in a wide arc, almost to test his reach.

Gil-galad attacked first, darting in with Aeglos, using the extra space the spear provided, forcing Sauron to shift and parry as he swung the giant mace in broad sweeps. Elendil followed, stepping in to aim a powerful slash at Sauron’s exposed flank – the bastard’s armor made him slow. But Sauron countered, and Narsil met his gauntlet with a deafening clash of steel.

Gil-galad spun behind them both, feinting high with Aeglos while Elendil drove forward, aiming for the joints in Sauron’s armor.

But Sauron was not a normal fighter. His mace swung with the power of an earthquake, and even when Gil-galad and Elendil avoided the blows, the shockwaves threw them off balance. The One Ring gave him that strength.

They need to get the ring off him. How? They needed to.

Gil-galad spun Aeglos in an arc, sharp blades whirling as he aimed for a joint in the Shadow’s armor. He was fast, but not fast enough. Gil-galad lunged forward, his spear jamming upward under Sauron’s breastplate. At the last second, Sauron shifted, and the blow missed.

A gauntleted hand snatched out, gripping Gil-galad by the throat, lifting him in the air.

He gasped, his grip on Aeglos faltering as the iron fingers closed around him. Gil-galad could not breathe as the metal seared into him, the silver plates of his armor melting through his gambeson into his flesh.

He struggled to free himself, clawing at the hand grabbing his throat, blindly kicking with his legs to find some kind of purchase. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't...

Sauron laughed at him, a cruel mocking sound, shaking GIl-galad's body like a ragdoll.

But through the haze of heat, the screams coming from his own throat, Gil-galad saw movement from the corner of his eye.

Elendil.

The High King of Men charged with Narsil held impossibly high, letting out a guttural roar as he swung up and slashed with as much strength as he had, aiming for Sauron’s extended arm.

Narsil struck true, and Sauron’s gauntlet fell with a sickening thud against the ground. Gil-galad tumbled to the ground along with it, his body still smoldering from the burns, armor breaking against the rocks beneath him.

Darkness pushed at the edges of his mind. He thought he saw Elendil swinging his greatsword again, aiming for the gap between Sauron’s armor that Gil-galad had exposed.

But Sauron was not there when Narsil stuck.

Where was He?

Gil-galad lost consciousness as darkness took him.

— — —

He felt cold.

In the shifting darkness, he felt a presence — a faint, distant warmth that reminded him of…Elrond? And of Vilya. Musical. The sensation was warm but prickly, pulling him back from the edge of grey darkness with tiny stabs.

Gil-galad felt like he was being knit together from the inside.

With awareness came pain, sharp and unyielding, pressing him back into his broken body. He tried to fight against the waves, but he was so cold. He felt himself slipping. Like dipping under sun-warmed waves to swim near the shore.

Since he was a child, Gil-galad had always wondered how much it would hurt to go to the Halls. It did hurt, but not as much as he thought it would. Could. And he thought it might be over soon.

Voices murmured around him, indistinct and far away. He thought he heard Elrond, low and urgent, calling for him. He thought he heard Elrond…yelling at him? Demanding something from him, and loudly, too.

Well, that was wrong, if only because how dare Elrond start yelling at him while he was dying.

Gil-galad wanted to respond, to assure Elrond that he was still here. To tell him to speak quieter. Gil-galad’s voice would not come to him.

Where was it? — — —

Elrond pressed a hand to Gil-galad’s chest, feeling the faint flicker of life. His friend, his mentor, his king was slipping away. Without hesitation, he reached for Vilya, unceremoniously ripping it from the chain around Gil-galad’s neck and jamming it onto his finger.

The elves had not used these rings in a century. Sauron controlled them since he forged the One Ring after Eregion. He could control their wearers.

But Sauron was gone. Elrond had seen him turn to dust and float over the field, carried on the wind. He watched the Nazgûl screech and moan at the loss of their master. He watched Barad dûr crumble.

Sauron was gone.

Gil-galad was here.

Elrond would use the ring.

He lowered his hand to Gil-galad's neck, looking for his pulse. Looking for signs of life. “Ereinion,” he commanded — pleaded — his voice far-too-loud from his blend of anger and fear. “Your duty is not done. You may not rest yet. Come back. Now.”

Closing his eyes, Elrond opened himself to Vilya, feeling its energy surge through him. He had felt this kind of power before, the delicate setting of the ring hiding the raw energy it contained.

Energy that Elrond needed to fix….this….

Today, he would need every ounce of power Vilya could offer him. He kneeled next to Gil-galad’s broken body, willing each pulse of energy to mend, to restore, to knit flesh and bone back together.

He felt his way through the injuries with deliberate precision, focusing first on a jagged wound in Gil-galad’s shoulder. An orc’s arrow had splintered bone and sinew, but Elrond could fix that easily. He suspected Gil-galad had barely noticed the arrow, and had likely ripped it out — Elves were hardy creatures. But the dark magic clinging to the wound — that did not budge. Elrond forced Vilya’s light into the wound, feeling the resistance as the ring’s power battled against something much more evil than poison spreading in Gil-galad.

Elrond murmured every healing and commanding phrase in Quenya and Sindarin he could reach for, begging the ring to do more, faster. More. Faster.

Save him. Save him. Save him. Faster. He is not here but he is not gone. Not yet.

Elrond felt Vilya’s power begin to mend the torn muscle and splintered bone.

Booted feet came into his field of view, about ten feet away from Gil-galad. Elrond looked up, meeting Elendil’s eyes as the High King of Men picked up the One Ring that fell from Sauron’s gauntlet. Elrond felt something lance through him, tasted the metallic tang of adrenaline flood his mouth.

No.

Elendil tilted his head, appraising Gil-galad before his blue eyes turned to Elrond’s. Elendil looked heartbroken. “Tell me what to do to save him,” he said simply, motioning toward Gil-galad. “I don’t understand how to use these rings, but I will try. Or you may take it, Elrond,” he said, holding the ring in his palm, pushing it forward. “Can you…can you save him?”

Elrond stared at the ring in Elendil’s outstretched hand. Even from five feet away, Elrond could hear it calling to him. A whisper to take it. To use it to heal Gil-galad.

Just once. Just for Gil-galad.

He could use this ring for good. Gil-galad had not opened his eyes and Elrond could barely feel his pulse.

One minute. That’s all he needed. Elrond could repair it – he knew he could undo it – all of it – if he just took the ring one time.

For one minute.

And then Elrond would take it off immediately. He would march to Orodurin himself and watch it melt into the flames. He would throw himself in if he had to. He knew he would.

Elrond had taken Vilya off before, when he carried it as Gil-galad’s vice regent and willingly returned the ring to his High King. He had used Nenya to help heal Galadriel and still, again, he returned it to her and rejected the sweet, bitter, musical calling to keep it.

He knew better. He knew better. But…

Elrond could; he could save Gil-galad and he could still take the One Ring off. He knew it.

A more than even exchange, truly, given how much Elrond could repair with that Ring if he chose to. How much suffering he could undo. How much he could put right for the broken bodies of Men and Elves around him.

So much to repair. So much to heal.

Yet he was only asking for this one thing. For Gil-galad, this one time, for one minute…

Opening his mouth in reply, he had not decided what he would say – but his mouth snapped shut.

Elrond thought he heard humming.

He also thought heard his father’s voice, though it had been so long since he last heard it that he barely remembered it. A sad sound. The call of seagulls, so far away from the sea if they could be heard on this dust-choked plain.

Elrond froze, not daring to take a breath, trapped between begging for the ring to save Gil-galad and…

The weight of understanding settled around Elrond’s shoulders. Elrond could save Gil-galad.

But Gil-galad would not want to be saved that way. There were many things the Eldar could control. When they journeyed to Mandos and his Halls was not one of them.

And as much as he wished he did, Elrond truthfully did not know if he could take that ring off.

Elrond set his jaw firmly, but he knew desperation was creeping into his tone. He let it. “You have to destroy it. In the mountain. It can only be destroyed in the mountain where he forged it, Elendil. It will never save your people – it will only trap you in a labyrinth you can not escape. It can not save Gil-galad either, not without a greater cost to us all than he would ever wish for. It must be destroyed, or Sauron will return.”

Elendil nodded slowly, his sharp eyes considering the ring in his hand, bright blue seeming to fade to a darker, more inky color.

Elrond heard the humming grow louder, felt his heart hammering in his chest.

The strength of Men the strength of Men the strength of Men the strength of Men .

The chant worked its way into the humming, into the sound of the seagulls, growing louder and louder.

Elrond stared at his brother’s son. Elros’ great great great many times removed son, yes. But Elros’ son nonetheless. Elros’ kin. Elrond’s kin.

The strength of Men can not fail. My brother had such strength. His son must have the same strength. He must find it.

“Elendil. Destroy it.”

The humming turned into a blaring noise in Elrond’s ears, drowning out everything but Elendil’s voice.

“Elrond,” Elendil paused, taking a deep breath. The ring vibrated in the palm of his hand, as though it were something heavy pressing him to the earth, pushing him into the ground, bringing him to his knees.

But High King Elendil the Tall stayed standing.

“May Manwë take my vow to Erú Iluvatar and may Varda bind me to it,” Elendil whispered hoarsely. “As one of the Faithful and for the sake of my people, I will take every action in my power to unmake this Ring or I will give my life trying. I start fulfilling this vow today.”

Elendil tucked the ring firmly in a leather pouch hanging from his side, and his blue eyes seemed brighter as soon as he stopped touching it. “Help him,” he said softly, motioning to Gil-galad with his chin. “My work is not done and neither is yours. Namarië, Lord of Imladris.”

And with that, the King of Men walked toward the nearest group of his soldiers, telling them to gather as much water as they could carry and to follow him toward the mountain.

The humming stopped. The silence was jarring now.

Elrond wondered what it was. Where it went. The gulls stopped crying, too.

Elrond turned back to Gil-galad, grieving that he may have doomed Gil-galad to the Halls. But he would not stop trying. Elrond’s sharp eyes moved to the wound deep in Gil-galad’s thigh and he started murmuring again, weaving tendrils of healing energy from Vilya into the gaping flesh. “Come back.”

Chastise me for ordering you around. Mock me for not having told Celebrían. Yell about grain shipments and Oropher. Just come back.

Finally, when he had done all he could, Elrond felt the faint rhythm of Gil-galad’s pulse. Not strong. Not steady. But here.

Elrond drew a shuddering breath, pulling his hands back slowly. Gil-galad was still. His breathing had steadied, but he had yet to awaken, and his body was…Valar. His body was broken.

But he was still here. For now.

Elrond lingered a moment longer, then rose to his feet, glancing toward the warriors around him. Raising his voice, he called out to a group of lieutenants in Lindon’s armor. “Gather a group of twelve to bring him back to Lindon. We ride immediately.”

“It’s three week’s hard ride–”

“Then. start. NOW,” Elrond snarled, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

These three lieutenants now stood between him and getting Gil-galad home. He could be healed if Elrond got him home, and Elrond would not hesitate to remove any obstacle between him and that goal.

Regardless of which uniform the obstacle wore.

It showed on his face.

Without even glancing at Elrond’s sword — which he had already thumbed out the scabbard — the Lieutenants moved quickly toward Gil-galad's body.

— — — Gil-galad drifted through a haze, caught between dreams and darkness. His body felt distant, an ache pressing him from somewhere beyond wherever he was now to somewhere else he did not understand. The first thing he noticed was the sound.

It began as a faint hum, gentle and sweet. What he always imagined the light of the Two Trees might sound like. Galadriel described it to him once. The music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Gil-galad stood barefoot on a golden beach, the cool sand pressing between his toes, the waves rolling lazily to the shore in the moonlight. His arms, once streaked with blood and ash, were now clean and unscarred. He stared at his hands and arms with curiosity, turning them over.

The ache in his body, the burns and cuts that had seared his skin, were gone.

Where had they gone?

Where had he gone?

Above him, the stars gleamed brighter than he had ever seen in Middle Earth. The last time Gil-galad had seen stars like this, it had been in a dream with Elaniel. Maybe more than a dream, he could not remember.

Where was she?

He did not know how he knew, but Gil-galad knew Elaniel was too far away from him. He felt for her in his heart, finding the golden thread that wound them together. It was thin and weak, but he tugged on it anyway.

Perhaps it would help her find him. He wanted to see her again, but he did not know how to find her here.

He did not know where he was.

Gil-galad tugged on the string again. But his heart stayed hollow. Empty. No matter how many times he reached for her. No, she was not with him. She was not here. That felt both right and wrong to him. The way it must be, for now.

But he did not know why it must be that way.

When would she come find him? How would she? Would she know where he was?

As he gazed across the water, his heart tightened. The song grew louder, clearer, as though beckoning him back into the water, away from the shoreline. Yet he did not move. Something held him rooted to the sand.

Then Gil-galad saw her.

A figure stood farther up the beach, where the golden sands gave way to white. She wore a pale gown that fluttered behind her in the breeze. Her hair, deep golden and glittering under the stars, spilled down her back, catching the moonlight. She looked at him with eyes he knew well — a familiar shade of deep, thoughtful grey.

The same shade as their mother’s eyes.

Finduilas.

His sister. His Finduilas. Who had been lost so long ago.

Why was she here?

She did not speak, but beckoned him, pointing up at a collection of stars he did not recognize. Constellations he had never seen before. She had taught him all the names for every constellation in Middle Earth, even the ones from the East.

But these stars were strange.

Finduilas’s smile promised she would teach him these new names, too, and they would watch them together. He hoped they would teach Elaniel together. For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Finduilas had walked towards him, nearer now, the smile never leaving her eyes. If Gil-galad reached out, he could touch her, but…he could not reach her.

He tried.

He took a step forward, his hand reaching out to her, but his feet sank deeper into the sand, and the waves surged higher around him. The song seemed to shift, growing fainter, its melody now tinged with something new.

He could not name it, but it made him sad.

Finduilas remained where she stood, her smile never faltering. She shook her head gently and the stars seemed to brighten behind her.

Gil-galad wanted to call out to her, to hear her voice, to ask her all the questions that…that he did not want answered. To tell her all the things she had missed.

But no words came.

The edges of her grew hazy, as though she were dissolving into the starlight she had brought with her.

Was she going? Or was he going?

“No,” Gil-galad whispered sadly, a youngling once more, begging for his sister to pay attention to him. Tears came quickly. “No, stay with me. I have so much to tell you. Please don’t leave me again. Nésa, no. Stay. Please.”

The last please he tried to whisper made no sound. His whole body shook from the sadness in his chest, his vision blurring as tears clung to his eyelashes.

The music ebbed, growing faint and distant and solemn once more, an echo carried far away from shore.

The strange stars he could not name glowed even brighter.

He felt a new yearning, one he didn’t understand, to turn back to the sea. To the east. He looked out across the moonlit water. It called. It whispered. It promised rest. It tried to sing him to sleep.

He was too tired to whisper back.

He could not rest.

He was already asleep.

— — —

Pain surged back like high tide returning to shore, lapping at the edges of him, yet he could not wake. Gil-galad stretched for it, reached through layers of pain to open his eyes, but he could not. The sounds and shouts around him made no sense and he did not know where to listen because of how loud and jarring they were.

Finduilas was in Aman. He was with Finduilas. So, he was in Aman. Aman did not sound like this.

Why did he know what Aman sounded like.

Why did the sounds stop.

It was quiet.

Where was he.

Where is he.

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Author's Note:

Dear reader, I married him I am sorry, but please know I am in it with you. I was whispering, “it’s a fix it it’s a fix it,” while I rocked back and forth and sobbed the whole time.

Why is this my hobby, again? Hobbies are supposed to be fun. 😭

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Ok, the rest of the note, which is long if you want to skip it:

THAT'S RIGHT I FIXED THE DEAD MARSHES, SAVED THRANDUIL’S DADDY’S ASS AND A BUNCH OF SILVANS, AND KEPT GIL-ENDIL ALIVE IN THE SAME CHAPTER.

Here’s the actual breakdown, though, since some may not know what I’m having these leaders *not* do.

-> -> -> We’re opening when their largest Elf Eff-Up already undone:

In the lengendarium, Oropher and Amdír were truly pressed about the Noldor/Sindar/Silvan thing and did not trust Gil-galad’s arrogant Noldor ass to keep their people alive. ****(see well-earned Oropher slander at the end).

So in a show of hubris that only Lee Pace Thranduil’s daddy could pull off, Oropher bum-rushed some of Sauron’s forces on the field at Dagorlad against Gil’s order AND without proper support. Oropher managed to get his own ass handed to him and ALSO cut off Amdir’s escape route at the same time.

Both kings died because of this choice. More than half of Amdír’s soldiers ended up trapped in the Dead Marshes. Oropher lost 3/4 of his people and died in front of Thranduil, if I recall. (which is why Thranduil is Like That™ in The Hobbit– an isolationist king who won’t answer your call for aid. Ever.)

So, I changed it.

I used the palantíri as the Thing™ that changes the course of this storyline.

The stone that changes the course of the star.

The scene a few chapters ago where Gil-galad heard loud humming, that Elendil could not, as he asked Elendil for the stones, is the main turning point for the AU/fix it.

Gil-galad sets his (High Elven) pride aside to ask for help from Elendil in securing Oropher’s trust, admitting he can not speak for all Eldar. A huge thing for that Lorge Irritated Burdened High King to admit, since it seems he is allowed to have their problems but not their trust.

In return, Elendil agrees to share an important part of his birthright if Oropher and Amdír vow not to not abandon them in battle. Elendil is asked to sacrifice the potential safety of two of his sons’ cities and their people, as well, so this is fair request on his part. He believes the Valar will hold the elven kings honest if they agree to stand together (e.g. if they all refrain from making choices solo. Such as, say, deciding to be a platinum-haired jagoff who floods a battlefield against orders with no support. As a random example).

In return, the palanteri do provide a chance for Oropher and Amdír’s people to call for aid.

These two actions of vulnerability and trust from Gil-galad and Elendil change the fate for all four kings and their people in the narrative.

Another pivot point happens with Elrond and Elendil: Gil-galad did not outright die on that field, and therefore Elrond now has a shot he never had before to save him. Elrond was tempted – to show us that Elendil is in the same frame of temptation Elrond is facing re: the One Ring. Elendil treats capturing the One Ring differently than Isildur, and I believe he may have tried to use it differently than his son -- but still fail.

Elrond and Elendil’s choices, to not use the ring to save Gil-galad and for Elendil personally to make a vow before Erú to destroy it, are why the crying stopped in this pivot point. The seagulls Elrond hears is his momma joining in to beg him to make wise choices, instead of Varda.

Also yes Elendil swears like, well.....a sailor. And so does Elaniel. They both rubbed off on our golden boy. He'll be worse than Elaniel by the time we're done ;) jkjk

***** Oropher Slander Alert: You know, some might say Oropher, a Sinda, rolling up to rule a realm of Silvan elves who have no representation because they “asked for his leadership” when he left Lindon to find a place to rule is also sketchy af. He’s throwing around “don’t like the Noldo, they’re arrogant and act like they own us all,” while he moved into someone’s spot and said “I’m the king here now, welcome to my realm, thanks for begging me to be here.” Some may say it’s sketchy. NOT CELEBORN AND GALADRIEL THO THEY THINK IT MAKES SENSE. But I digress.

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