Chapter Text
It took Elrond a while to register that fact that it was morning. The sun did not shine across his face as it would back in Lindon. In fact, the sun did not shine at all. Only flickering firelight illuminated the room, as it did night and day, invariantly. The only sign to indicate the time of day had been the number of metal pins still stuck into the side of the candle. Elrond wondered how long it would take him to get used to waking up like this.
He sat up gingerly, pushing off the fur blanket he’d been bundled up under onto his lap. He was still slightly sore from the previous night, but it was by no means unbearable, or even unpleasant. The sheer ferocity of Durin’s eagerness had surprised him, given his reservedness in the days following Elrond’s initial arrival, and even during the wedding ceremony and the feast after.
Elrond had never given much thought to what would happen during their wedding night, much less what he wanted. It was true that he went into the arrangement willingly — forced marriages were unfathomable and a deadly violation in elven culture — but he wasn’t naive enough to believe this wasn’t a political necessity for either side, and that any romance or attraction, if there were to be any, were subsidiary to the treaty. He knew he wouldn’t have said no to anything, but as it had quickly become apparent just how much Durin was resistant to their union, he’d put the possibility out of his head, and stopped thinking any further on the matter.
And of course, just as Durin had gotten him to believe that maybe he had actually wanted this, and just as Elrond was getting into it all, his new husband turned around and disappeared without saying a word afterwards.
It was all incredibly confusing, really.
Remembering it was the morning that the elven party had been set to depart, Elrond got himself dressed into some plain robes, and stepped outside his chambers. The light was whiter outside, thanks to the faint trickle of sunlight that filtered in through the sun shafts. He walked down the path that connected the front of his quarters to the rest of the city, and found the main walk-bridge easily enough, following it just as Farin had shown him towards the front entrance of the mountains, where he found the party he came with, already saddling up their horses in the small guest-stables.
“Ah, Elrond,” Gil-Galad looked up at the sound of footsteps, straightening when he saw his former herald. Handing the reigns of his horse to Camnir, whose own horse had already been geared up and on standby, the High King walked towards Elrond. “I had been meaning to catch you before we left. Walk with me.”
With this, Gil-Galad gestured towards the stone bridge, back where Elrond had came from, and lead him at a leisurely pace away from the small crowd gathered at the stables. Elrond followed automatically, falling into the familiar habit of taking dutiful steps beside his King.
“How are you settling in?” Gil-Galad asked amicably.
“Well enough. Crown Prince Farin had kindly dropped off some material for learning Khuzdûl, I have already made a start. I have only spoken with the King shortly, at the feast last night, but he has been most welcoming.” Elrond reported readily, having interpreted the High King’s question as a check for his progress more than mere chatter, ever the devoted subject.
“And your new husband?”
At this, Elrond ducked his head to hide his blooming blush, the events of the previous night coming back to him. Conflicting feelings once again swarmed him, and quite frankly he really wasn’t sure where they stood given all that had transpired over the past few days. But of course, it would not do for his King to hear this.
“He has been courteous enough,” instead, he said carefully, not technically a lie, as Durin had never been outright hostile towards him, even in his disinterest. “I would not have expected him to take to the arrangements immediately, of course. Dwarves are naturally a reserved race, and this is most unorthodox for them. However, I am confident that I can build trust between us, and between all of our people. He has… shown himself to not be completely closed off to the relationship, last night.”
The final line was instantly regretted by Elrond as soon as it left his mouth. He didn’t know what in Eru’s name had possessed him to divulge that piece of thinly-veiled information. Gil-Galad gave him a measured look with one raised eyebrow. Elrond forced himself to stare back evenly, fighting the blush that was creeping back up his face again, refusing to incriminate himself further by averting the gaze.
Thankfully, Gil-Galad chose not to dignify it with a response.
“Good.” The High King said instead, moving on with a renewed formality to his tone. “There is something else, Elrond, that I wished to speak with you about.”
Perking up with attention, Elrond turned his full attention towards Gil-Galad, raising an eyebrow to invite him to go on. However, Gil-Galad did not elaborate immediately. He looked around warily, and, with a slight tilt of his head, gestured for Elrond to follow him.
They walked now with a slight haste that had not been present before. Not overly so, as it was clear the elven King was careful to not draw attention to their excursion. But there was a purpose behind his strides as he sought out a more secure spot to continue their conversation. Silently, Elrond followed suit, trailing behind him.
Before long, they had turned off the main pathway above the hollow cavern of the city. Following a smaller trail against the inner crag of the mountain, they happened across a small alcove in the rock face, just spacious enough for the occupation of two elves. Gil-Galad ducked his head, and stepped into the shelter of the rocks. Elrond followed, finding himself lightly pressed against the cool stone, leaning away from Gil-Galad to maintain the proper space between them.
There were no one around them now. Still, the High King glanced around towards the only opening that exposed them still to the trail outside, waiting a moment as if expecting someone to pass by. Eventually, satisfied by their security, he turned his gaze back to Elrond. For a while, he said nothing, and simply regarded him carefully, as if weighing his herald up and down. Elrond resisted the urge to squirm under the interrogating scan, and bit down the question about what was happening, awaiting instead for Gil-Galad to proceed.
Eventually, he did, after a heavy sigh. “Are you familiar with the Song of the Roots of Hithaeglir?”
Elrond’s brows immediately scrunched. Gil-Galad had seemed so pressed, so serious, he found it hard to believe that his King had dragged him out privately with such secrecy, just to speak to him of some fanciful bedtime tale that Maglor used to tell him as a little elfling.
“I do not understand.” He admitted slowly.
“It speaks of a battle,” paying no mind to enlighten his herald of his motives, Gil-Galad pressed on, “high among the peaks of the Misty Mountains, over a tree within which some claim was hidden the last of the lost Silmarils.”
It was a familiar tale to Elrond. Hearing it again now, he could almost picture Maglor, in the rare moments the twins had managed to cajole him into bed with them before they were tired enough to fall asleep, him in one arm, Elros in the other. The scrolls laid out in front of them neglected as Maglor knew the tale off by heart, and the twins cared only for his words, and not the words written on the page. It had been just a tale to him then, as a boy, not able to grasp the full extent of how his foster fathers’ fates were shackled and twisted by those very Silmarils. Now, Elrond found himself tensing up at the memory, and frowning to himself, still searching for the reason behind Gil-Galad’s reminder of the Song.
“On one side, fought an elven warrior, with a heart as pure as Manwë, who poured all his light into the tree to protect it. On the other, a balrog of Morgoth, who channeled all his hatred into the tree to destroy it. Amidst their duel unending, lightning ensnared the tree, forging a power as pure and light as good, as strong and unyielding as evil. They say it seeped down the roots of the tree, into the depth of the mountains, where it laid, waiting, for centuries now.”
Gil-Galad paused, then, fixing Elrond with a meaningful stare, as if expecting him to suddenly appreciate the relevance of the story, now that it was complete. When Elrond made no such revelations, and simply kept frowning at him, Gil-Galad continued in a somewhat more exasperated tone, slowly spelling out the significance of his words.
“I have received confirmation that the dwarves have found this product, this ore, mithril, here in Khazad-dûm.”
That was a turn that Elrond had not expected. “But the battle is simply an obscure legend,” disguising his surprise, he countered evenly, not so easily convinced by his King’s cryptic words, “regarded by most to be apocryphal.”
“I have very good reasons to believe the validity of my sources. Regardless of the truth in the legend itself, the dwarves have made a new discovery of such a material fitting the characteristics of the mithril that it prophesied.”
“Still, even if we were to… entertain such a… bold hypothesis,” Elrond said carefully, unyielding in his disbelief but not wanting to offend the King, “what does it matter to us?”
“Saving our people from certain doom, Elrond. That is what matters to us.”
Before Elrond could process the deeply unsettling, bombshell of a news that Gil-Galad had dropped on him, the latter moved to produce a piece of leaf that had been stowed in the folds of his robe, and held it out to him. Elrond took the leaf and turned it over in his hand. It was a withered, blackened thing. Thick, twisted veins crawled across its surface as a disease, almost obscuring its entirety in its dark grasp. But the shape of the leaf, along with the last, desperate tinge of gold seeping through the black blight, made it undeniable from where it had been sourced. A thunderous hum suddenly flooded his ears, as if he had been clubbed over the head.
“I first took notice of it just prior to Galadriel’s return from the North. I had hoped that by bringing an end to the last vestiges of war, we might arrest the decay. But when Galadriel returned, she had only proved that the evil of Sauron dwells still in this realm. Thus, despite our every effort, our decline has only quickened.”
Finally, finally, it was all beginning to click for Elrond. The legend in the Song, the High King’s utter conviction that the ore existed, the decision to tell him this, just as he had secured his place in Khazad-dûm, afforded the privilege of an insider, a consort to a member of the royal family.
“You want me to find it. The ore, mithril. You think it could restore the Great Tree.”
“The blight upon the tree is but an outer manifestation.” Ignoring Elrond’s interruption, Gil-Galad carried on, the urgency in his voice completely unveiled now, “I’m sure you can understand the inner reality it reflects — that the light of the Eldar, our light, is fading.”
“If the situation is so dire, why not ask for it during the negotiations, as part of our terms of the treaty? If the dwarves have truly discovered such a miracle substance, they would surely wish to celebrate this at the first opportunity.”
Shaking his head, Gil-Galad sighed in defeat.
“The King guards it closely as a secret. He has put an outright ban on its mining, and forbade anyone breathe a word of its existence. Even with my source, we’ve heard nothing but rumours. Though given the description of the ore and its location, it is too much of a coincidence to not be what we are looking for. Even then, even if we could confirm its existence, it would not be wise to push this head-on. The dwarven King is stubborn, and doing so could further alienate him, and endanger the whole treaty.”
“So you chose to deceive him!” Elrond said hotly, now that the full picture had been revealed to him, “you planted me here, to spy. You had me believe I came to Khazad-dûm with a proposal of friendship, but in truth, you sought something far less honest, didn’t you?”
For once, Gil-Galad said nothing, and simply kept looking at Elrond with an unrelenting gaze, leaving him to feel the reality of the predicament sink in. Deep down, Elrond knew that there wasn’t a choice to be made. The gravity of the situation was terrifying, and its weight fell entirely upon his shoulders. It wasn’t something he could just walk away from, no matter his principles.
He felt betrayed, tricked, put in an impossible situation with a choice where no options left him intact. It was true that, had he been informed of the real reason behind this move by the elves beforehand, there was no way he would possibly have agreed to it. But he would have worked tirelessly to find alternatives. He would have worn down the dwarven King with his diplomatic charm. He would have saved his people on his own terms.
Instead, his King had trapped him in a hopeless position he could not escape from, and only told him when it was too late.
“I swore an oath to Durin, when we wed. Pact or no, it was an oath sworn willingly, and without deceit — that I knew of at the time.” Elrond insisted stubbornly, swallowing down the fear and despair in him, and pouring every bit of conviction he had into his voice. “To some, that may now hold little weight. But in my esteem, it is by such things our very souls are bound, and I do not intend to let mine slip away.”
“If the elves abandon Middle Earth now, the armies of Darkness will march over the face of the earth.” Gil-Galad’s voice was trembling now. Not from nervousness, but from the sheer ferocity with which he was speaking to Elrond. His eyes were ablaze with a piercing intensity, and there was an ice-cold fury written on his face.
It made Elrond’s own eyes widen, afraid.
“It will be the end, not just of our people, but of all peoples. If preventing that is not reason enough to make you reconsider your oath, I suggest you find another.”
With an air of finality, the High King turned around with a sweep of his golden robes and marched off, leaving Elrond, frozen on the spot save for his fingers that were still twirling the stem of the decaying leaf, feeling as if the entire mountain had crashed down upon him.