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mirkwdmstrss · 3 days ago

Text

The Dirt I’m Buried In

Summery:

Pairing: Reader X Gil Galad

Rating: T

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 5.2k

Tags: Blood, gore, and injury, forced proximity

A high pitch rings in your ears. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying and failing to stave off the pain threatening to cleave your skull in two. When it reaches a somewhat tolerable level, you manage to crack your eyes open. The air is thick with dust and debris. It coats your tongue and throat. You’re surrounded by crumbled stone and rock on all sides. Thick roots dangle overhead and the only light is that which streams in through a single crack in the ceiling overhead.

Something wet and sticky drops into your eye and you blink hard. You move to touch your forehead, but your arm doesn’t follow your brain’s command to move.

Confused and bleary eyed, you shift your attention to where your arm is trapped under rubble. What happened? One minute you and the High King were fighting side by side against Adar’s forces, and the next…it all goes hazy. You must have hit your head. It makes sense given the blood that continues to drip down into your eye. With your free arm, you swipe at your forehead with the back of your hand and hiss as you make contact with what must be the source of the injury. With the tips of your fingers, you probe around the skin, and feel around the edges of what seems like a short, but deep, cut across your brow.

“By the Valar,” you mutter and your voice is hoarse for the dust clogging it.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you drop your hand to brace against the ground and attempt to pull your other arm out from where it’s trapped but all that does is blast bursts of white hot fiery pain up the length of the limb. A sharp cry leaves your lips and you are filled with immediate regret.

It’s then you hear your name.

“Hello?” you choke out.

The voice rises again and this time you can clearly make out who it belongs to. Your heart swells knowing he’s alive. “High King!”

He calls your name again. “My Lord, I’m over here! I cannot move!”

“Hold steady!” The sound of rocks shifting echoes around the cavernous space as Gil Galad traverses the rubble and you suddenly wonder how structurally sound the area you’re trapped in is. When he comes into view, you can’t fight the smile that splits your face and the wash of relief knowing you’re not alone down here.

There is a shallow split in the king’s cheekbone and an abrasion across his forehead, but aside from the dirt painting his exposed flesh he seems otherwise unharmed. He drops into a crouch at your side, eyes wide as his hand immediately moves to grasp your chin and tilt your face up towards the limited light source. “This is bleeding badly,” he says after a moment.

“Really?” you quip. “I couldn’t tell.” You blink purposefully to emphasize your point as hot blood spills down over your eyelid and onto your cheek.

His eyes sharpen as he inclines his head in that way you are all too familiar with. “You’ve been spending far too much time with Commander Galadriel, it would seem.”

He drops his hand and you watch his biceps bulge as he grunts and tears a long strip of fabric from the tunic flowing out from beneath his dusty and bloodied armor, the black coloring of the stains telling you it belonged to uruks, not elves. He tears another piece off and after folding it down into a thick square, presses it firmly against the injury.

You hiss in response as white stars explode behind that eye and Gil Galad mutters an apology in Quenya, though he doesn’t ease up. As he holds the bandage in place, his other hand finds yours and brings it over his. “Keep pressure on it,” he instructs as he slips his hand out from under yours and you do as he says, though every instinct is telling you not to. With the long strip of fabric from his tunic, he winds it once around your forehead, nodding once to indicate that you can drop your hand, and wraps it around once more before securing a knot tightly at the back of your head. The wound throbs and you feel the pain of it stabbing behind your eye, but at least the flow of blood has stopped blinding your field of vision for the time being.

“Now this.” Gil Galad presses his lips into a tight line as his eyes narrow to inspect the block of stone crushing your arm. He shifts his weight onto the backs of his heels and curls his fingers beneath the crumbled lip of rock. His muscles strain as he attempts to lift it, a cry tearing from his throat as he wrestles with the weight of it. It barely budges and when his limbs give out, you scream as the weight settles back onto your fractured limb.

“I’m sorry,” Gil Galad huffs out as he drops to a knee and cradles your face in his hand. He smooths your hair back and off of your shoulders. Sweat drops down your neck as waves of pain continue to crash over you.

“It’s—” you start and stop, chest heaving as you struggle to take in a full breath. “It’s broken. I don’t know how badly, but—” you suck air in through your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut. “I can’t feel my fingers, my hand.”

The high king strokes his thumb up and down the column of your throat in an attempt to soothe you. “I will get you out of here.”

“Don’t lie to me, High King.” You drop your chin to loll against the back of his hand where it rests against your neck. “If the limb cannot be saved, spare yourself the effort and take it.”

His brow pinches. “No,” he says resolutely. “No, we still have time. If I could just find….” his eyes drop to the floor, scanning the surrounding area. He mutters something under his breath when he doesn’t see what he’s looking for and leaps to his feet. He scrambles over the collapsed rocks and you lose him to the shadows.

After a few minutes, a triumphant sound resounds off of the walls of crumbled brick and mortar. When he returns, he’s carrying the remains of a wooden support beam over his broad shoulders. It’s taller than him and thick as a young tree, though it had been shaped and hewn into a sturdy pole. You wonder what grandeur it had once held up in Celebrimbor’s great city and your heart aches to see what it had been reduced to.

Your eyes shift to the movements of the High King. He grunts as he thrusts the pole forward and wedges it under the lip of the stone trapping your arm.

“What are you doing?”

He wraps his hands around the broken end of the beam rising up from the floor and bears some of his weight down on it to make sure it doesn’t slip out from under the rock.

When he’s sure it won’t slip out, he wraps his arm around it and settles his eyes on you. “I am not sure how long I’ll be able to hold it when I get it off the ground. Be ready to pull your arm free. Can you do that?”

You swallow the anxiety that surges through you at the thought of the pain you’re about to experience, but nod anyway. “Yes, I can do that.”

He nods curtly. “On three then.” He braces his arms around the pole and counts down. On one, he grunts as he beats all of his weight down on the beam. The relief of the weight being off of the crushed limb is enough to dull the pain for a few seconds as adrenaline takes over. The veins in Gil Galad’s neck bulge as sweat drips down his cheeks and a shout of effort tears from his lips. The second you’ve enough room to free your arm, you use your opposite hand to support it and pull it free. You immediately cradle it to your chest and turn away just as Gil Galad releases the stone with an anguished cry. The resounding thud of the stone hitting the ground causes the entire space to shake. Stones loose from the ceiling and Gil Galad rushes to cover you with his massive frame, his arms curled over your head to protect you from the. falling debris.

After a few seconds that feel like an eternity, the cavernous space stills and you’re both choking on dirt and dust.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he unwinds himself from around you.

You can’t answer him. Your eyes have fallen to the broken limb now dangling uselessly in your lap and now that you can actually see the damage you’d sustained, the adrenaline is quickly wearing off and all you can hear is a ringing in your ears as your vision tunnels. Gil Galad is speaking to you, but you cannot hear him. The length of your forearm is unrecognizable. Wide splits in your flesh expose the muscle and sinew underneath and you nearly retch at the sight of what looks like hammered down cow’s meat. Any exposed skin that hadn’t been crushed and split like a tomato in the sun was a purple so deeply bruised, it couldn’t be likened to that of a blood wine.

You don’t feel any pain, which surprises you. No, that’s not right, which scares you. What damage had you sustained to not feel the pain of which these injuries should most definitely be causing you? Was the limb too far gone? You blink hard and try to focus on the words Gil Galad is speaking to you, but he sounds distant and far away; as though your head had been pushed underwater. The air feels thin, suddenly, like there isn’t enough to take into your lungs and you can’t catch a full breath.

Gil Galad’s eyes widen. His lips move but you can’t make sense of anything spilling from them. You don’t realize when you can no longer support your weight and slump back against the uneven stone floor; Gil Galad’s quick movements and hand placement behind your head are the only things preventing your skull from cracking upon the rocks.

“No, no, no,” he repeats as he struggles to maintain his composure. He swipes a hand over your bandaged forehead and begs you to stay with him, but you’re so cold it’s hard to concentrate on anything except for the way your body aches and shakes.

“Help!” Gil Galad cries. “Can anyone hear me?” Something warm and wet hits your cheek. You barely feel it, but then it happens again. “We are trapped!” he cranes his neck toward the slender gap in the ceiling. “Is anyone out there?” Warm and wet again. Is that…blood?

No.

It’s tears.

His tears.

Gil Galad weeps for you.

He cradles you into his arms and gently pulls you into his lap. A strangled cry eks past your chapped lips and your vision blurs. Your head is pounding and you just want to close your eyes. Your eyelids are so heavy.

You feel your body start to go limp and Gil Galad shakes you desperately.

“No,” he orders and his voice is choked with tears. “You must stay awake. Help will come. I will get you out of here.”

“Tired,” is all you can say as your breaths become even more shallow.

A hot tear drops onto your cheek as Gil Galad rocks you, his hand fisting into the fabric of your tunic. “I know,” he says. “I know you’re tired, but you must stay awake. It’s not your time. We still have time.”

A ghost of a smile touches your lips as you weakly search for his hand with your non injured one. “There’s never enough time.”

Your fingers stop over his as you feel what meager strength you have left failing you. As your hands fall, your fingertips brush over the smooth surface of a gold band and it sends a tiny surge of power into your palm.

You gasp aloud and Gil Galad’s eyes widen. He stares at his hand in disbelief, before using the fingers of his opposite hand to twist Vilya so that Her bright sapphire faces outwards. When they’d risked capture by the enemy, he’d turned the gem inwards toward his palm to avoid bringing any unwanted attention toward the priceless ring for fear of the enemy taking it.

Gil Galad curses under his breath for not thinking of it earlier. He is still getting used to the strange power of this ring and those it shared with its sisters borne by Lady Galadriel and Lord Círdan. With as much caution as possible, he tenderly wraps his hand around your injured arm, ensuring his fingers do not grasp any open wounds. He closes his eyes and focuses on the drawing on the well of power within the ring, pleading with it to use his body as a conduit to heal yours.

You continue to shake as chills wrack your body. Gil Galad speaks in your native tongue, but you can barely hear the words. As he does so, you feel something happening to your body; something warm and foreign coursing through your veins like liquid gold. An excruciating pain suddenly explodes inside your arm and you buck against the fiery sensation. Gil Galad’s arms tighten around you as he continues to chant. You feel your bones snap into place and a scream tears from your throat as you beg him to stop, but the feeling of fire in your blood doesn’t dwindle.

Black spots dot your vision and you blink hard against them, though it does little to stop your fleeting consciousness. As darkness curtains your vision, you wonder if you’ll wake to find yourself in the Halls of Mandos facing the Lord of Death instead of the Lord which you loved most.

•

Bright, white light burns your retinas as your eyes crack open to slits. Was this it? Have you crossed over?

“You’re not dead yet, if that’s what you’re wondering?” a female voice taunts as though reading your thoughts.

You blink slowly and a curtain of golden hair flowing about the wickedly sharp and beautiful face of Lady Galadriel comes into view above you.

Your eyes widen seeing her free of the grime of battle. Minor cuts and scrapes stand out against her otherwise pristine skin, but she looks as though she’d just stepped out of her chambers in Lindon, not the din of war.

“Lady Galadriel,” you blurt out, and your voice cracks. You swallow and feel as though you’d choked down glass for how hoarse and scratchy your throat feels. You move to sit up and that’s when you find your arm is bound in a sling with a second bandage tied around your chest to secure it in place.

She swoops down beside you, the skirts of her white gown billowing about her feet as she gently presses a hand against your chest. “You need to rest,” she says gently.

You relax under her soft touch and relax into the bedroll. You lift your gaze to the tented ceiling and then peer past Galadriel towards the light streaming in through the front flaps, which had been tied back. Lush greenery blooms all around and the sounds of falls can be heard rushing in the distance.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere safe,” she answers.

Suddenly, you’re filled with an intense fear. “High King Gil-Galad, is he—”

Galadriel squeezes your free hand and looks you in the eye, hers as calm as the sky overhead. “He is well. He is with Elrond and Arondir. They are seeing to the refugees that have sought haven here alongside us.”

“The battle, what happened? There was an earth shattering explosion and that’s when I woke up trapped beneath the rubble and—”

“Adar’s armies had explosives. We did not predict him having technology so advanced. When they blew a hole in the wall, it took down the nearby buildings and that is how you and Gil Galad were trapped. It was Arondir who found you after the battle and he organized what little remained of our forces to dig you out.”

“And what became of Adar and his army? What of Sauron and Lord Celebrimbor?”

Galadriel’s eyes darken and a hollow pit opens up in your gut and you find yourself being the one to squeeze her hand.

“Adar was betrayed by his kin. He fell by their hands after returning Nenya to me.” Her ringed finger twitches beneath yours. “He wanted to form an alliance, but it was too late.” Her voice becomes strained as she continues. “Lord Celebrimbor fell by Sauron’s hand, deceived by him as Annatar. We fought.”

You hesitate before venturing to say, “You’re here. Alive. Does that mean—”

Galadriel shakes her head and tears brim along her lashes. “No, Sauron remains. He escaped. We are to gather our forces and build our defense. He is strong. We need more time.”

You nod and your heart breaks to know the Lord of Eregion had fallen with his Great City.

“We will come back all the mightier and Sauron will not know what hit him,” you say resolutely. You grunt as you shift your weight to sit up and Galadriel reacts, immediately moving to brace an arm against your back to help you sit up.

“Come on, help me out here.” You tighten your grip on her hand. With her support, you rise to your feet; closing your eyes as a bout of dizziness threatens to send you back to the ground. You steady yourself and Galadriel directs a steely eyed gaze at you.

You roll your eyes and smile at her knowingly. “Save it. How often do you do what you’re told, hmm?”

Galadriel shakes her head and tsks. “Gil Galad will have my head for letting you out.”

You let out a loud laugh. “Letting me out? What am I, his dog? I ought to have his head for that alone.”

That earns a small laugh from Galadriel as she threads an arm through yours and you’re grateful for the additional support. “Nothing like a little light treason after all we’ve just gone through,” she muses.

You pinch your fingers together in front of you. “A small bit, only.”

Her smile falters as she steps out of the tent and you follow closely at her side. Your mouth drops as you take in your surroundings; at the small city of tents and survivors milling about to help one another sort through what had been salvaged from Eregion. The sun shines brightly overhead, though the massive oaks and birch trees provide ample shade. Birds twitter and chirp high in their branches and you’d never felt so glad to hear a bit of birdsong. The air before the battle had been so still and void of life, yet here it teems and overflows.

“Come,” Galadriel says and gently tugs your arm. “They’ve set up a rudimentary War Council.”

You arch a brow at that. “No sleep lost on that, I wager.”

Galadriel inclines her head and takes a deep breath. “I don’t think I've seen any of them sleep since we arrived.”

“And what of you?” you ask, tugging on her arm in turn. “Have you slept? Have you rested?”

“More than you realize,” she answers. “I occupied the bedroll next to yours for several days.”

You purse your lips, another question locked and loaded but Galadriel just smiles and tenderly squeezes your arm. “There will be plenty of time to discuss our shared horrors from the battle. Seeing you up and on your feet will bring great joy to the others.” She points at a large tent. “Here we are.”

Slowly, she withdraws her arm from around yours, glancing up at your face as if letting go of you will cause you to fall.

“I’m fine, really,” you insist with a smile.

She presses her lips together and nods before pulling back the tent flap and hooking it in place to keep it from falling back.

“Elrond, Arondir,” she greets as she steps in. You follow behind and watch as she nods courteously towards Gil Galad, whose back is to you both. “High king.”

He doesn’t turn. His hands are folded behind his back and he’s twisting Vilya on his finger as he stares into the flickering flames of the candles lit on a makeshift table that had been hewn in two from a wide tree trunk. He stares down at a map with burnt edges, most likely salvaged as scholars fled the city, trying desperately to save what history of Eregion they could as they did so.

Arondir’s eyes widen and Elrond’s mouth curves into a wide smile upon seeing you, but before they can speak you place a finger over lips and incline your head towards the High King. They nod in understanding. Arondir claps Elrond on the back as they shuffle out of the tent. Galadriel looks at you and smiles, winking as she follows behind them and looses the tent flap. It shuts with a gentle whoosh.

You tilt your head and study the rigidness of Gil Galad’s spine, the tension in his posture. So much had gone wrong. So much to salvage. So many of his subjects, his kin, lost.

With quiet footfalls, you approach him from behind and place a gentle hand on his back, feeling it tense further beneath your touch. He turns his head only just, and when the curtain of his dark hair falls away his eyes widen. He turns then, shifting his body to face yours, and his lower lip trembles as he searches your face, his deep brown eyes flickering across your face.

Reaching out with your unbound arm, you swipe your thumb across his lips before cradling his face in your palm. He closes his eyes and leans into it.

“Meleth nín,” you whisper and his brow creases, as if the term of endearment causes him physical pain. “What troubles you?”

Gil Galad wraps his hand around the wrist you hold against his cheek and he turns to place a kiss upon the heel of your hand.

“I nearly lost you.”

Your heart fractures at the pain in his voice. When he collapses onto his knees, a startled gasp escapes your lips as he wraps his arms around your hips and his shoulders shake with sobs as he buries his face into the soft cotton tunic covering your stomach. Tears well in your eyes as you thread your fingers through his hair and whisper soothing words.

“Please forgive me,” he cries and his shoulders rattle as he does so. “That I couldn’t do more.”

You pull away from him and grasp his chin with your fingers, forcing his watery gaze up to meet yours. “You did all you could with what you had at your disposal. Were it not for you at all, I’d be dead.”

Tears continue to stream down his cheeks, streaking through the fine layer of dirt coating his flesh.

“Have you rested at all?” you ask. “Taken any time to tend to your own needs?”

“So much has been lost,” he drops his eyes and shakes his head. “What kind of king am I to see an entire extension of my kingdom destroyed, my kin slaughtered, and not spend every waking moment trying to rectify these ways in which I’ve failed our people.”

“You’re of no use to your people if you continue to burn yourself at both ends.” You incline your head towards the camp. “Do you have your own private quarters?”

Gil Galad swallows and nods, though his eyes remain void. “On the hill overlooking the glen.” You drop your hand and extend it toward him. He takes it and his palm is warm. His fingers thread through yours and you squeeze his hand reassuringly.

Elves bow their heads and offer greetings and praise to the king as you pass by. Gil Galad nods in turn though he doesn’t offer any words of wisdom or hope or strength. It hardly looks as though he has any remaining right now, his shoulders usually spread wise to assert his prominence are bowed forward, hunching under the heaviness of loss and grief. Has he had any time to process the events that transpired in Eregion? Has he allowed himself the time to grieve and feel the loss of his dear friend, Celebrimbor? Just the thought of the master craftsman’s passing is as sharp as a lance through your heart.

The gentle buzz of people speaking and working fades into the sounds of nearby waterfalls pouring into blue pools, birds singing, and leaves rattling in the boughs of trees overhead as you climb the hill towards Gil Galad’s tents. The ground is even, but steep enough that you’re now keenly aware of every bruised patch of flesh on your body. You blow out a particularly harsh breath and Gil Galad turns to you, brow pinched with concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks evenly.

“Fine,” you blow out between clenched teeth. You force out a laugh. “Perhaps Lady Galadriel was right when she told me I needed to stay down.”

Worry flashes in his deep brown eyes and you raise your free hand in a placating gesture. “We’re nearly there,” you say and incline your head toward the tent that’s mere meters away. “Trust me when I say there is no place I’d feel more comfortable than by your side.”

Gil Galad presses his lips together, but nods. “Very well.”

With him, you cover the short distance to his tent. He holds back the tent flap and you nod your head in thanks as you pass by.

It’s the simplest you’ve ever seen for royal chambers. Even the king’s tent on the battlefield is usually littered with finery; thick furs lining floors and walls, furniture, candleholders, and schematics. Here, there is only a bed roll neatly laid out in one corner, undisturbed, and you know he’d not slept in it. His golden armor lay in a pile in one corner; the gleaming gold nowhere to be found beneath the layers of grime and blood and filth coating it. There’s a small chest as well, likely carrying whatever clothes and toiletries could be salvaged for the king. That was it. The canvas walls ruffle gently in the cross breeze blowing in through the far wall, which is rolled up and tied off revealing the beautiful valley beyond.

You approach the backend of the tent and breathe in deeply, closing your eyes and inhaling the soft scent of honeysuckle in the air. You open your eyes and shake your head, feeling grief gnaw at your insides. “It’s hard to imagine such beauty persisting in the wake of such horror.”

“And yet the sun still rises,” Gil Galad murmurs from behind you.

You turn and incline your head towards the view. “Bring that chest over here and come sit with me.”

His brow furrows, but he does as you ask; pushing the chest from its position against the wall over to you. You wince as you kneel down and you don’t miss the way Gil Galad’s hands reflexively reach out to you.

With your free hand, you wrench open the lid and rummage through the salvaged items; smiling when you find what you were looking for. You allow the lid to fall shut with a loud thud and turn to rest your back against it. After stretching your legs out in front of you, you gesture for Gil Galad to sit between them.

“What’s this about?” He asks.

“Take but a minute’s respite, will you?” You gripe lovingly and the smallest ghost of a smile twitches at the corners of his lips.

“Very well,” he relents with a sigh, lowering himself to the ground before you. He folds his legs in neatly and rests his weight on his hands, which are pressed flat against the ground.

You study the single dark braid trailing down his back and wonder when he’d last tended to his hair. He prides himself on his ability to braid, often adding small details to your own hair here and there on slow, early mornings spent lazing between the sheets; before the sun had fully risen and your respective duties stole you away from one another. This braid had been woven quickly and without care. Small pieces had freed themselves and hung limply about the loose shape of the plait. Pieces that wouldn’t usually fall across his face, brush against his cheeks sticking to the thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin.

With a gentle hand, you remove the simple band of leather at the tail of the brain and place it on the ground beside you before moving to comb your fingers through his hair; careful to avoid pulling at any tangles.

You smile when a quiet moan slips past his lips and continue to move your hand through his hair, feeling your heart warm as his posture relaxes more and more. You pick up the brush you’d found inside the chest and drag it through the deep brown of his hair. Several minutes pass as you work, the rhythm of the movement comforting to the both of you as the soft breeze passes through and birds chirp on branches high above the tent.

A hand reaches to still yours after a while. Warm lips brush the tips of your fingers as Gil Galad turns his face toward his shoulder and gently pulls your hand closer to him. He turns then, fully towards you and his eyes shine with a hurt you wish you could take from him.

“In this tempest, you are my glimpse of the sun; my light and my hope.”

He steals the brush from your hand and sets it on the ground. With gentle hands, he cradles your face in his hand and lowers his lips to yours. It’s a soft kiss; one that promises safety and forever.

“Thank you, meleth-nin,” he whispers against your mouth.

A quiet laugh escapes your lips. “For what? Brushing your hair? That hardly merits thanks.”

“Small acts of kindness,” he answers and a flicker of life dances in his eyes. “For reminding me good yet remains.”

“Something the enemy will never have.”

Gil Galad presses his lips together and nods resolutely. “Our people are strong. We are already rebuilding. Once things are settled here, we will return to Lindon and arrange for supply caravans. This will be a place of peace, one His hand can never reach.”

“It will never replace Eregion,” you muse mournfully.

“Nothing can replace what Lord Celebrimbor built. It was a feat of engineering and a testimony to his brilliance. This place, this valley. It will be different. I can feel it. It will be a place of healing and repose. It will withstand the darkness.”

Gil Galad takes your face in his hands, his eyes suddenly alight with newfound fire. Passion burns in the depths of his deep brown gaze and his jaw steels with renewed vigor.

“We will withstand this darkness,” he states resolutely.

“Together,” you affirm.

A determined smile curves at the corners of his lips as he presses them against yours. He touches his forehead to yours and makes a vow.

“Together.”

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