(Most of the text is on the side I can't turn it back to normal 🧑🦯)
Lord Gil-galad's headquarters were more than usually busy when Gildinwen
entered them. Dispatches had arrived from Minas Ithil, and the room was
filled with both messengers and members of the war council.
"Good morning, my lords." She bowed to Gil-galad and Círdan.
"Ah, Gildinwen." The Elven King's voice was pleased, "The very person! Lord
Anárion has just been asking me about you."
She turned to see the friendly face of the man in question, the habitual
smile on his face and a bundle of letters in his hand, "Good morning." he
grinned.
"My Lord." She returned his bow.
"I was just asking Lord Gil-galad how you'd been getting on with young
Mardil, now that he's been with you a few weeks." He wandered over to the
table where she had some maps laid out.
Her smile was genuine, "He's an excellent lad, my Lord. Helpful, friendly,
hard-working and very clever."
"And he's enjoying the work?"
"I certainly believe so."
His face grew concerned, "How is his foot bearing up?"
"Much better, due in large part to the fact that we have little marching to
do these days."
"Good!" he replied, "I'm very pleased to hear that you suit each other." He
drew her aside into a corner, and dropped his voice. "I wonder if I may be
so bold as to ask yet another favour of you?"
"I shall be pleased to help you if I can, my lord."
He looked worried, "It's Isildur."
"The same ah...trouble as before?"
He nodded, and sifted through the handful of letters in his hand. Holding
up a fat one, "From my wife," a sunny smile lit his face. Then a cloud
covered it as he lifted a much thinner one, "The Lady Varadil."
"I see." She looked down, "To be honest, my lord, I don't know what help I
can be."
"He might talk to you. Neither Father nor myself can get anything out of
him on the matter."
"If it is what you wish, then I shall try."
"Thank you." He placed a hand on her shoulder, "This siege is a hard fight
and we need him with us." He drew his letters from the bundle and thrust
the rest at her, "Here, take these as an excuse for going."
It would be a good three miles to Isildur's camp, situated in the higher
ground to the South East of the Fortress. Most of it through the awkward
twisting trench city, so she decided to leave Mardil behind.
"But, my lady." He protested, "It's not safe. I should be with you."
"Don't fuss, Mardil," she laughed, "Lord Anárion is sending two soldiers to
accompany me, and I shall be behind our lines the whole time."
He looked sceptical, "You have to cross the Road."
This was true. In order to cross the West Road the Alliance had bridged the
fiery chasms on either side, building up protective barriers over both them
and the highway. Despite this it was still a notorious killing ground, both
bridges and barriers attacked daily, if not hourly, and often destroyed.
"I promise to be very careful, and besides which," she laid a heavy satchel
on the table, "you've got plenty of work to do while I'm gone."
The boy's face lit up when he saw the new messages. He had been studiously
learning the ciphers and was keen to try them out.
The two soldiers assigned by Anárion to be her escort were lounging by the
grimy wall when she came out. Spotting her, they hastily straightened up,
dusting the soot from their tabards before giving deep bows. When they
rose, their grins of anticipation were quickly matched by her incredulous
one.
"Tom!" she cried, "Will!"
"My lady." They grinned jointly.
"How are you both?" She couldn't resist hugging them impetuously, to their
great embarrassment.
"Oh, not too bad, all things considered," replied Tom cheerfully, as they
set off, their feet muffled in the thick carpet of ash.
"And you've fully recovered from your wound?" she asked Will.
"Which one?" he returned, flippantly.
Tom laughed, "He's a regular hero now, our Will. Been wounded five times,
and saved at least three people."
Gildinwen shook her head disbelievingly, "It is so good to see you both,
and I'm very glad to have you escorting me."
"We're honoured to do it, my lady," they replied proudly.
It took them about half an hour to reach the crossing point on the West
Road. There was a queue so they had to wait. The noxious smell of sulphur
and gas was already thick, and the heat noticeable.
"It seems quiet enough," remarked Gildinwen, wiping her damp brow with a
gritty sleeve.
"That's what's worrying me," said Will, his face serious, as they shuffled
further up the line, "It means they could start at any time."
As they reached the bridgehead they were shepherded into a small group to
make the crossing. Gatehouses had been erected to house the archers and
watchmen whose duty it was to protect those who crossed. Sharp Elven eyes
were trained keenly on the Fortress windows and crenellations, alert for
any movement that would indicate an attack. For any sign of enemy bowmen or
the great catapults being made ready. Barrack rooms nearby held armed men,
ready to man the barricades and fling back any attack coming down the road.
Even precious horses stood in waiting should they be needed.
The chasms were still relatively narrow here, only half a dozen yards
across, but the line of sight from the Tower was wide open. Barriers were
erected along the citadel side of the bridges, and across the wide road,
these provided cover from view and some protection from arrows, but nothing
against the rocks, fire and bolts aimed so accurately by Sauron's trebuchet
men. Crossings were staggered at random intervals to prevent prediction by
the enemy.
They watched as the group before them hurried over, crouched, running
bunched together along the narrow bridgework, spreading out over the wide
road, gouged and pitted with the scars of many an attack, then single file
again to disappear into safety on the other side. A matter of a few
seconds, certainly less than a minute.
"Ready," commanded the crossing marshal, his eyes on the lookouts.
They tensed, waiting, shields ready, braced to run. Two sturdy dwarves,
leather-clad and stout, were in front of them, and a single Elven warrior
graced the head of their group. Gil waited between Tom and Will, while
behind them two or three seasoned men-at-arms chatted idly.
No signal from the lookouts. The marshal gave the word, "Go!"
They ran. The Elf's feet light and accurate on the narrow boards, the
dwarves thumping over. Gil ran crouching, shield overhead, her thighs
screaming their dissent. In front of her, she could just see Tom loping
easily, and the sound of Will's steps were hard on her own. Beneath their
feet, a hot, choking fog of steam and sulphur rose from the chasm which
fell away beneath them, black and red.
They were over the first bridge, now they dodged and wove through the
craters and rubble of the road, the second bridge just ahead.
A cry from the lookouts gave a momentary warning, but the sound was still
in their ears when the first bolt hit. A deadly accurate shot, it speared
the Elf through the chest as he set his first step on the bridge. A
momentary glimpse of surprise and pain, as he span, blood flowing red from
his mouth, then he staggered and fell back, tumbling over the rail into the
fiery pit beneath them.
The dwarves stopped dead, colliding and collapsing in an untidy heap, then
crawling as close to the barricade as they could.
Gil felt her breath knocked out as Will launched himself forward, bearing
her to the ground. A dart struck the ground beside them, embedding itself
viciously in the ground. Just in front of them, Tom was cursing loudly.
A murderous hail of bolts, darts and missiles now rained in from the Tower.
No thought could be given to running, they inched their way forward on
their bellies. Over the rough, jagged surface of the road, Gildinwen's
knees and elbows raw and scraped, then onto the bridge, its wooden surface
spattered with blood. Peering down between the boards at the roiling
depths, smoke and fumes thick in their nostrils. Crashing and whistling
sounded all around, and then a terrible scream from behind them. Gil
hesitated for a fraction of a second, then Will hissed at her, "Go on. We
can do nothing here." With great relief the three of them reached the end
of the bridge, where friendly hands reached out to drag them into the
relative safety of the trenches.
"Are you alright?" Will asked her solicitously.
She nodded, clenching her fists to try and stop her hands from shaking. She
was sweat-drenched and grimy, clothing torn and dirty, dark blood staining
the knees.
"Here," Tom offered her a flask and she took a drink gratefully, the cool
water soothing her throat, dry from dust and fear.
"Come on," said Will, "There's a place nearby where you can rest and have
some food before we continue. Besides which," he grinned, "if he finds out
you were here and we didn't bring you to visit, our lives wouldn't be worth
living."
The guardroom was smallish, but comfortable. A stove burned in one corner,
a pot bubbling merrily on the top. The only occupant sat at the rough
wooden table.
"Sergeant Gillow!" she hurried forward to greet him, hands outstretched.
He stood to take them in his and bent his grey head low, "My lady." His
gruff voice was full.
"You are well?" she felt a lump in her throat, faced with this faithful old
soldier, the first to recognise her.
"Yes, my lady." He grinned widely.
"And your leg?"
"Sound as a bell!" he slapped the limb in question. "Now don't just stand
here, sit down, have some food."
She took a chair beside the stove, her mouth watering at the delicious
smells emanating from the pot.
"So when did you come up, Bregor?" She asked, watching intently as he
spooned the thick soup into a bowl.
"Just in time to come to this lovely place," he grimaced, only half joking,
passing her the dish. "Missed all the fighting at Dagorlad."
She picked up a spoon and started in eagerly, "Ah, hot!" She blew on it
impatiently. "Horrible place, Dagorlad." She sipped cautiously. "Then
again," she laughed, "It's worse here!"
"But things worked out well for you? As you expected?"
"They certainly worked out well," she smiled happily, "But as I expected?"
She sat lost in thought for a long moment. Did I expect to be honoured and
trusted by Lord Gil-galad? To stand by his side in battle? To make friends
among the Elves? Did I expect to find love? Did I ever, even imagine it was
possible to love so? And to have such love in return? "No," she shook her
head slowly, "Never as I expected, never in a lifetime of dreaming."
"Sergeant!" The familiar voice caused Gil to lower her spoon. The doorway
darkened as a tall figure ducked in. "Have you assigned the guards for ....."
he broke off as his eye fell on her.
"Hello, Falcred," she said quietly.
He was thinner, dark shadows round the eyes. The boyish good-looks replaced
by something edgier.
"Gil." His voice was guarded, as if this single word held back many
unspoken ones.
"How are you?" she asked, running her spoon awkwardly round inside her
bowl.
He looked at her for a long moment, then collected himself, "Fine, thank
you." He replied curtly.
He turned to Gillow, "Sergeant, the guard list."
"Yes, my lord." He fetched it hastily.
Falcred took it, and casting a silent glance at her, left the room.
Gillow sat down again, and looked at her curiously, "Did something happen
between you two?"
She toyed with her food, appetite lost. "He made me an offer, a very
honourable offer." She smiled ruefully.
"And you turned him down?"
She nodded.
Gillow looked thoughtful, "That might explain a few things."
"What do you mean?"
"He's changed a lot from the idealistic young man that set out from Minas
Anor. I thought it was just the effect of this war, or the influence of
Lord Brithiar."
"Are they still much together then?"
"Yes," Gillow's face darkened, "I don't like Brith, and I don't like the
effect he's been having on Falcred. He was always a merry young fellow, I
don't like to see him dark and brooding like this."
"Why is Lord Brithiar with Anárion anyway? I thought Isildur was his liege-
lord?"
"He is, but Brith felt betrayed when Isildur fled to Annúminas, and so he
came to Minas Anor to join Anárion." The sergeant pushed back his chair,
"Come on, lass," he said fondly, "You don't need to be listening to our
troubles. You'd better get started if you're to be there and back before
nightfall."
"You're right, Bregor." She stood to take her leave. "I shall come again
when I can."
"You know we're always happy to see you."
At the door she paused and looked back at him, "Take care of him,
sergeant."
"I will, lass. Don't you fret about it."
Lord Isildur sat alone at a long table cradling a half-empty wine cup in
his hands. He looked very tired.
"My Lord." Gildinwen's voice was quiet.
He looked up at her with surprise, his eyes narrowing slightly with
suspicion. "Lady Gildinwen. This is an unexpected pleasure." He did not
rise.
She lifted the satchel of dispatches and placed it on the table in front of
him. "I have brought letters, my lord. A messenger came in from Minas Ithil
today."
His face became animated and setting aside his wine, he rummaged eagerly in
the bag. She turned away discretely as he drew out his wife's letter,
walking over to a side table to pour herself a cup.
He spoke again after a few minutes, "I suppose my brother sent you here?"
She turned. He was leaning back in his chair, his mouth set in disappointed
lines. The long awaited letter discarded on the table in front of him.
"Yes, my lord."
"I don't know what he is thinking of. Even were I looking to.." he paused,
"forget my sorrows, you are not what I would choose."
"My lord!" She was shocked, "I'm sure that was not his intention at all."
He chuckled darkly, "Oh, you think not? I know Anárion, he's subtle like
that. Why else would he send you, who undoubtedly have much more important
matters to attend to, all the way up here."
She replied stiffly, "He thought that perhaps you might find it helpful to
talk to me."
"Talk eh?" He laughed.
She bristled, and he hastened to mollify her, "Peace, my lady. I have no
such designs." He looked more closely at her, "Besides which, he's a fool
if he can't see that you're spoken for already."
He chuckled at her discomfiture, "Oh don't worry. I shan't ask you who it
is."
She tried to steer the conversation in a more satisfactory direction, "Your
brother is deeply concerned for you, my lord."
"Yes, yes." Isildur gestured roughly towards a chair, and she sat.
She glanced towards the letter, "So, how is your wife?" she asked politely.
"See for yourself." He held out the letter.
She held up her hands in denial.
"Go on, go on!" he flapped the paper at her.
She took it and read. The letter was short and formal. Giving news but no
warmth. She lowered it slowly, "I'm sorry, my lord. I see things have
improved little."
"It isn't your fault." He sighed, "If only I wasn't stuck here in this
wretched war." He slammed his fist into the table, "If I could just be with
her, to show her everyday how much I love her, I know she would warm to me
again."
"It won't last forever, my lord." Gildinwen tried to be cheerful, "I'm sure
she finds it just as difficult being separated. But when it's over you will
ride in triumph and glory to bring her home again to your palace at Minas
Ithil."
He looked up, a little hope shining in his eyes. "Yes, yes! We will return
victorious, and march into Annúminas, proud and strong. Amid celebration
and rejoicing. I will bring the treasures of Barad-dûr to lay at her feet."
His voice strengthened, "And she will see again the heroic prince who once
stole a fruit from the White Tree of Armenelos, right from under the nose
of King Ar-Pharazôn." His face grew proud, as he recalled his past feats of
legendary daring. He folded the letter and tucked it inside his jerkin,
then pushing the wine cup aside he stood up.
"My lady." He bowed shortly, "My thanks to you." His eyes twinkled, "Now if
you will excuse me, I have much to do, that I have neglected for too long."
Their journey back was thankfully less eventful, and although it was
getting late by the time Gildinwen finally reached her quarters and shut
the door, the only thing she had collected along the way was more dirt.
Mardil had lit the lamps, and left out clean water and a jug of wine. She
washed gratefully, shrugged on a clean undertunic, and had just wrapped a
robe about herself when Elrond's soft knock sounded at the door. She
hastened to admit him.
He was still dressed in his soldier's tunic, although he had removed his
armour.
"My love." He took her carefully in his arms, "I am glad you are back
safely."
She leaned into him, arms about his waist, head against the haven of his
chest. "It would take more than a few arrows to keep me from you." She
murmured.
She looked up at him. "You are tired." She reached a hand to his face.
"Would you like some wine?"
He smiled at her, and nodded, " Yes, that would do very well." He settled
himself into the chair while she poured for them.
"I had a letter from home today."
She placed a cup on the table at his elbow "I trust all is well?"
His voice was thoughtful and distant, "My steward tells me that it has been
a good harvest, and all is set for the winter to come."
She came up behind him, sliding her hands gently over his stiff shoulders,
the tension hard beneath the fine cloth.
"You miss it very much." Slowly she started to move her fingertips over the
taut muscles.
"Yes." He sighed, closing his eyes. "It is painful to think of it in this
place, it makes me long so to be home. And yet, it is to protect it that I
am here. Imladris is to me, the most beautiful place in all of Middle
Earth. The restful sound of the river in the valley, the softest light
against your eyes, and beneath your feet and all around, green of every
shade and hue."
"I have seen it," He looked round at her, surprised, and she smiled at him.
"Although I have never been there."
"Then how?"
She lifted a hand to the mithril band, "When I first put this on, I
saw....things, places. Imladris was one."
"Tell me what you saw." He relaxed back into the chair, and Gil hands
resumed their attentions.
"A green valley, with steep sides, covered with many trees and plants.
Nestling against one wall, an elegant house, from whose doors and windows
spread a welcoming light. Balconies along the upper story gave a view over
the woods, and beautiful gardens stretched down to the river. In the centre
of the garden an ancient oak tree, its girth broad as the reach of five
men."
He laughed softly, "It must be a vision of the future that you saw, for
there is as yet no second story to the house, and the oak is but a
sapling."
They became quiet, each lost in their own thoughts and at peace with the
other. Gil continued to minister to him. Soothing and tender, her fingers
pressed and eased, gently at first, then firmer as she felt him start to
relax a little.
"Take this off," she tugged at the neck of the tunic, and he obliged her,
shrugging it over his head.
Now her sensitive fingers could feel each ridge and knot.
She rubbed and kneaded, working over the shoulders, and down the back to
the scapulae. Fingertips pushing in, thumbs and knuckles digging out the
stubborn kinks.
He groaned with relief as her hands worked, muscles softening and body
relaxing under her touch. She moved up to the back of his neck, rubbing and
stroking, up under his long dark hair to the nape. Then onto the scalp,
gently circling her fingers over the whole head. His eyes were closed now,
and he leaned back in the chair, long legs relaxed and arms loose. She
changed to a softer motion, lightly stroking his long hair back from his
forehead. Her hands trailed down, fingertips feather light, behind the ears
to the neck, and she gathered up his sleek hair into one hand, and lifted
it, bending her head to gently kiss the back of his long neck. She smiled
to herself as she remembered how she had wanted to do this the very first
time she saw him.
He quivered, and she touched her lips to him again, the lightest of kisses
on his soft skin, following the hairline and on upwards until her warm
breath touched his exquisite ear. So curious, so beautiful, so Elven, never
did she tire of it. She released his hair in a soft fall and ran her hands
over his shoulders to caress the smooth skin of his chest, feeling the
shape of hard muscle and carved bone beneath her palm. Lips on his ear now,
softly, softly. He sighed, stretching his limbs with pleasure, the sound
causing her a thrill of anticipation. Her kisses were more demanding now
and her hands insistent, fingers spreading, reaching lower. And when she
brought tongue and teeth into play, exploring and caressing every fold of
his ear, the resulting groan did not disappoint her. Now she moved around
to take his face in her hands, running the fingers lightly over his elegant
features. Familiarity had failed to sate her with his beauty, giving her
only the freedom to enjoy it. Tracing the jaw and running fingers over the
sensuous lips, then up past the arch of the brows and on into his hair.
Looking down at him with hungry eyes, she lowered her mouth to brush his.
His hands moved to caress her. Her mouth was firmer now, then adamant,
demanding, gently pulling on his, softly biting the lips and delving deep
with her tongue. His touch became more urgent.
She lifted a leg and slid onto his lap, pushing her hands back into his
hair and pulling herself against him, mouth seeking again, hips moving ever
so slightly against his readiness. His hands were firm against her back,
his mouth soft and sweet beneath hers, and when she released him he gasped
for breath. She leant back slightly, watching his hungry eyes with a touch
of amusement as she began to unfasten her robe. Slowly she made her way
down, before easing it open and sliding it off. The fine thigh-length
undertunic highlighted her secrets while doing nothing to hide them.He
watched, rapt, eyes and mouth eager, as she caressed herself through the
sheer material, running hands and fingers fervently over her breasts and
nipples, sighs of pleasure from her half-open mouth. Soon she moved lower,
fingertips daring, accompanied by provocative gasps.
He groaned aloud, his hands hungry on her thighs and hips, and her mouth
reached for his again, her breasts firm against his chest. He pulled her in
close, his breath hot and urgent in her ear. She sat back to unfasten and
free him while his fervid fingers touched her both through and under the
cloth. Taking him in her hands, she stroked him. One hand then the other,
gently at first, then a little firmer. He groaned and leaned back in the
chair, watching her fingers work, lifting his hips, eyes dilated, mouth
soft.
"Gil," he moaned, pleading.
But she was not finished, and when she shifted her position to lower her
mouth to him, he gasped aloud with the sheer unexpected pleasure of it, to
both touch and sight. With lips and tongue she teased and delighted, till
he was helpless and trembling. She released him, to move forward, lifting
one leg at a time, and straddle him, balanced on tiptoe as she poised,
ready.
His ardent hands caressed her urgently, and he panted with desire.
"So," she whispered, just touching him, "do you reckon the due is paid?"
He groaned, eyes heavy with want and soft with love, and whispered, his
voice throaty with need, "I think.... that the student has become the
master." Then his voice was drawn away as she lowered herself onto him,
enveloping him in her heat, a cry of pleasure escaping her. He clasped her
close, strong hands against her back and in her hair, his breath heavy on
her neck.
A slow, white hot fire was stoked. Sparked by their desire, fuelled by
their bodies and fanned with each gasping breath, it threatened to consume
them.
"Elrond," her voice was a trembling whisper, as she clung to him, moving
with him, "Oh, my lord. My love."
"Ah Gil," he growled, deep in his throat, "My woman. My beautiful, fiery,
fearless, wanton woman."
Slowly they climbed that mountain of heat, step by step to the very
pinnacle, to stand for just a single long moment, eyes upon each other,
sharing everything, before leaping off it together, to soar briefly upwards
then float gently down.