Under the Light of the Stars by janeways  

Chapter 1

The 28^th day of Ringarë, of the 3431^st year of the Second Age, by the King’s Reckoning

The first time I saw him, he shone like a beacon. He rode at the front of his host, armor gleaming and a great spear across his shoulder. Its blade was unsheathed and it glinted in the dimming light. Behind him snaked the long trail of his army, glittering quicksilver against the dark hills. It was nearly gloaming when he appeared, and the camp was growing restless. Joined by those of Isildur’s guard who had made it with him on his fortunate escape, we had been anxiously awaiting the Elven host at Amon Sûl. The king paced the watchtower like a sailor’s widow watching the seas; the soldiers and camp followers alike were jittery with nerves and cold. But then he appeared, cresting over the Weather Hills like the break of dawn, star-spangled banners snapping in the wind. I set my eyes upon him and all my weariness departed from me.

Gil-galad is his name. It means Starlight.

They say he is some sort of grandson of Finwë himself, one way or another, for he is called Ereinion, Scion of Kings. A son of Fingon, perhaps, or a son of Orodreth. To think! All those long-ago-and-faraway names from history lessons, suddenly alive and made flesh before my eyes. They say, too, that he was crowned High King young; a boy-king, the last of a ragged house, long beleaguered even before the world collapsed beneath itself and Beleriand sank beneath the waves. Yet he seemed to me as a mighty king from the West in the elder days, a vision of splendor from before the darkening of the world.

He came to me at midnight that first night, camped under the stars. My fire was burning low, but it was still burning. Most of the camp was asleep, or getting to it. We were exhausted from the hard days and short nights of travel, and from the long dread of the task ahead. But sleep eluded me, and so I kept watch by the fireside, wondering whether or not, when this was all through, I would ever see these hills again. And there I sat, ruminating, until I heard him speak.

“Heavens above,” he said as he emerged from the shadows, sitting down by the fire and rubbing his hands vigorously, “it’s cold.” Unbelieving, at first I could only stare.

“I thought Elves couldn’t feel cold,” I finally blurted out. As soon as the words left my lips, my only wish was to die. “Your majesty,” I amended quickly, and somewhat clumsily. He smiled at me, and the beauty of it hurt.

“We are indeed in possession of all our senses, I assure you,” he answered lightly, in slightly accented Sindarin. “Besides,” he added, “one must warm the spirit as well as the body, and nothing brings good health to both as much as the cheer of a campfire.” He spoke as jovially as if he were a stable-boy seated beside a boyhood friend. Do kings have boyhood friends? Is there such a thing as boyhood at the end of the world? The thought struck me then that he must be terribly lonely.

I began slowly. “My deepest apologies, my lord”—at this, he waived me off—“I meant only that I did not expect an Elf to have need of a fire, least of all a meager fire such as this.”

He smiled again, more gently this time, but no less brightly. His eyes twinkled in the firelight. “All light is beloved of the Eldar,” he said softly. “And no warmth is wasted.”

I began again. “That is to say…you surprised me, for I was under the impression that you did not sense such things as cold so keenly or as deeply.”

“This is so,” he began.

“Yet let it not be said that you do not feel, for there must also be that which you sense even more keenly and more deeply,” I rushed on. I burned with the embarrassment of my own boldness—to interrupt one such as he!—but a soft look overcame him, and he said again wistfully—

“This is so.”

We sat in silence the long night through, and he did not speak again, nor did I, but I found that we did not need to.

We have been encamped in the secret vale of Imladris for two weeks now. Since then, I have seen him but a handful of times, and spoken to him none. Still, once or twice, he has caught my eye, and broken into that smile, bright as Eärendil on a moonless night.