Rating: PG
Pairings: Elrond/Gil-galad implied
Summary: Gil-galad spoke without turning...
Gil-galad spoke without turning, his eyes still fixed on the warriors sparring in the sunlit field. "I know you are there, Maglor," he said calmly, "just as I felt your presence when we found them, so many years ago." A pause. "And so many times since."
A cloak-wrapped figure moved closer, grey eyes gleaming in the hood-shadowed face. "I mean him no harm, Ereinion," a lyrical voice answered quietly.
"If I did not know that true, you would have died before today," the High King retorted, but his face was kind as he turned to look at his unexpected visitor. "Will you not speak with him? Immortality has little meaning in these dark days, Feanorion. We have no promise of tomorrow."
"It would only bring pain to us both."
"Perhaps," Gil-galad allowed, his eyes straying back to the field and Elrond´s deceptively lithe frame.
Muscles honed by centuries of practice with both sword and bow flexed and bunched as the Peredhel countered his opponent's offense effortlessly. As the aggressor faltered, a single heavy braid, raven-dark and gleaming in the sun, flew like a whip in the speed of Elrond's attack and suddenly his unfortunate sparring partner was face down in the soft grass, the blunt tip of the practice sword pressing into the nape of his neck.
Gil-galad smiled broadly, his pride in the performance palpable.
"You love him."
"Of course."
"You mistake my meaning, young one. You are in love with him."
Gil-galad turned his head sharply, defensive words at the ready, only to find understanding in the least likely of places.
"Tell him," Maglor counseled, a sad smile curving his lips as he reached up to press his scarred palm to Gil-galad's cheek. "As you have said, there is no promise of tomorrow." Turning to go, he paused and looked back at the High King.
"For any of us," the second son of Feanor whispered, and then he vanished among the trees.
The End
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