The Trinity 1

By Claudio


The gallery corridor, echoing the scarcely noticeable sounds of its own vast and lonely emptiness, was lit by a few dim wall-mounted lamps and one strikingly white sunbeam which had snaked its way through an intricate maze of mirrors.  These had been built into the roof five hundred years earlier but still served their purpose well to flaunt luminance over the far wall. Upon this, the west wall, had been painted three connected scenes depicting an ambush, a battle, and a parting. The sunbeam coaxed bright twinkles from silver flashes of swords and dark sways of hair, and warmed cold stone faces to life with a crystal glow. The paintings, now five hundred years old themselves, just as the mirrors, were generally known as the Trinity of Celebrían.

Elrond stood several steps back and to the side, careful not to cross in front of the sunbeam and cause his shadow to mar the Trinity. He spoke to himself, his faint voice scarcely above a whisper. It was the only living sound in the gallery. "I should have been there for you."

Celebrían’s alarmed face screamed back at him from the first scene. Her eyes glittered, so pleading and lifelike, as orcs tore at her body and pulled her from her horse. Her likeness both begged Elrond for help and accused him of leaving her prone to attack, until he could no longer stand her presence; he shut his eyes to her torment and turned away. Though the image was burned too firmly in his memory, so that even without the aid of his eyes he could still see her. "I should have been there..."

It was their sons, Elladan and Elrohir, who found Celebrían, captive to the orcs, tortured and near death. In the second painting she lay collapsed in the arms of Elrohir while Elladan bravely fought off the orcs. Elrond knew without looking; he had memorised every detail of the Trinity over the years.  So small and faint she looked in that painting, just as she had looked when their sons carried her back to Imladris.

"I should have fought with them, stood beside them as I stood beside Gil-galad-" he paused for a moment at the mention of this name "-in the alliance against Sauron. If we had reached you sooner... Five hundred and nine years ago. When they brought you back to Imladris I worked for eight days to heal your body. The sight of you lying there, cold and failing, gave me such strength as I didn’t know I possessed, and in eight days I had erased all of your pain, healed the wounds, and banished the scars." He opened his eyes, now a weary and dull grey from too many hard recollections, and stared at the third painting. "At least I thought I had, perhaps because I too much wanted you to be healed. Though I suppose mental torments are much harder to undo. I couldn’t physically see such things to heal, especially when you tried so hard to hide your torment from me, our children, and everyone else. Why did you choose to go on like that, silent and distant? We could have helped you; I could have. But you chose instead to leave."

The third painting of the Trinity showed Celebrían as she was before she left. She appeared detached, expressionless, indifferent to the others in the scene. Painted likenesses of the citizenry of Imladris, joined by Celeborn and Galadriel journeyed from Lothlórien to bid farewell to their daughter, stood solemnly by as Celebrían and her escort prepared to ride away to the Grey Havens to set sail west for Aman.

"I suppose you are happier there," Elrond continued, "as many of us would be now that such troubling times have come once again to Middle-earth. I don’t believe it will be long before I join you."

He stood there, silent, for a moment longer, looking at the Trinity which appeared so cruelly lifelike in the bright sunlight beam. Then he turned and walked quickly from the gallery, footsteps clashing in echoes against the high vaulted walls. He walked without having to think where he was going; he had taken this route innumerable times, long ago, shortly after the Trinity had first been painted. At that time he had gone to see the image of Celebrían every morning, though over the years that had stretched into every week, and over the centuries into every year or even more infrequently.

This had been the first day in nearly a decade that Elrond had been to the gallery. But still he followed the familiar route, the only one that seemed right, which led from the gallery corridor, through the house, to a balcony that overlooked the road leading west out of the valley, the same road Celebrían took when she left for the Grey Havens. He remembered clearly standing on that balcony over five hundred years ago, watching her form grow smaller and smaller with distance until she disappeared from sight entirely, obscured by trees. Now he could only look to the west and remember her, and wonder if she remembered him as she looked to the east.

"Are you expecting more guests?"

"No," replied Elrond. "Are you?"

"No." Legolas stepped out onto the balcony and closed the doors quickly behind him. "Your house is overrun by Dwarves. This is the only place I can escape them; they tend to avoid the open outdoors."

"What about the gardens?"

"Full of Noldor."

He should have reprimanded Legolas for his prejudices, but instead Elrond smiled. Though this brief innocent joy faded into heavy silence once Elrond turned back to look at the west.

"You’re thinking of Celebrían," Legolas said.

Elrond flashed a quick glance back over toward him, but didn’t reply.

"I saw you leave the gallery a few minutes ago," Legolas explained, "and by your demeanor I guessed what you had been doing in there. I saw the Trinity earlier this morning, with Elrohir, and he related to me the entire story. I’m sorry for your loss."

"I suppose it was to be expected. Her spirit was injured beyond the healing power of this land, and she wanted to take her place in the bliss of Aman."

"Why did you not go with her?"

Elrond frowned.  "I swore an oath. To Gil-galad-" he paused again at the name of the Noldorin King "-before the war on Sauron, when Imladris was founded. At that time he trusted Vilya, the Ring of Air, into my care, and I promised to keep it safe until the time that the One Ring of Sauron is destroyed. And as that time has not yet come to pass, I am bound here still by my oath."

* * * * *

"It should stay here," Gil-galad said. He held Vilya on his palm, watching slivers of candlelight catch the ring’s bright sapphire. "This place is one of the few havens left untainted by the darkness of Mordor, and I fear the ring would come under the influence of evil if we were to chance keeping it anywhere else."

Elrond, as he lay beside Gil-galad, asked, "You can’t keep it with you?"

"No." He placed the ring in its carven box on the table beside the bed, then turned over to face Elrond and graze the tips of his fingers over Elrond’s hairline. "If I were to fall in battle and Vilya become lost to the Enemy, the damage to our cause and our race would be fatal. The ring has great power over all Elvenkind; that power wielded by the hand of Sauron would be impossible to overcome."

Leaning closer, he wrapped his arm about Elrond’s bare shoulders. He could see the radiant devotion in Elrond’s eyes, but also confusion and worry. He wondered if his own eyes betrayed similar thoughts. Weariness, grief, hope, affection, love- these dominated his mind, though he tried to silence them as he spoke of more urgent matters. "I must go myself to wage war on He who would destroy us; therefore I now pass the task of keeping Vilya on to you. I trust that you will keep it safe here in Imladris, out of reach of the Enemy. And if I do fall in the inevitable battle, you must not waste precious time mourning my death, but return here at once to ensure the safety of the ring and with it our kin. The ring is your duty above all else. Can you swear to me that you will follow my words?"

"I swear this to you," said Elrond, "and I will uphold the oath until my death."

A shadow passed over Gil-galad’s face. "We should hope that this eventuality does not develop. Better that you uphold the oath until the destruction of Sauron and his One Ring; at that time Vilya will be safe from further corruption."

"Until the end of the One Ring, then." And Elrond kissed the noble lips of Gil-galad, not daring to believe that a time could ever come when his king would struck down by the terrible power of Sauron.

* * * * *

The ring was still in its carven box in a drawer in the table beside Elrond’s bed, exactly where Gil-galad had left it nearly five thousand years earlier. There were certainly better places for it to be kept, and safer places as well, but Elrond never thought of moving the it. Gil-galad had indirectly dictated this keeping-place, and it seemed to Elrond, his usual wisdom overcome by the irrationality of emotion, that to move the ring would be disrespect or even insult to the king’s choice. Others thought it foolish not to keep Vilya under heavier guard, and wondered whether Gil-galad would be outraged or merely shocked if he were alive to learn of the ring’s surprising lack of protection.

Legolas was merely shocked. "You keep it here?" He studied the plain bedside table, wondering what in the world could have made it worthy of holding one of the Rings of Power.

"It is where Gil-galad left the ring; he put Vilya there for me to keep. A mere drawer in a table, true, but it has served its purpose thus far."

"To be honest, I’d imagined something grander." The ring deserved more, he sensed. It deserved admiration in the light of day.

"Grandeur and unnecessary concerns draw dangerous attention to things that are better kept secret."

"I suppose..." His hand was drawn to the table. "But still I think it would be better off-" As he spoke, Legolas leaned over to pull open the drawer.

But Elrond was quick, grabbing Legolas by the wrist before his fingers could reach the ancient silver handle. "What are you doing?!"

"I... I don’t know. I suppose I just wanted to see it..."

"Don’t be a fool!" Elrond hissed. "The power of Vilya lies dormant, sleeping as it has since before the fall of Gil-galad. But it needs little help to reawaken! And I dare not take any chances with Rings of Power, especially now that the Enemy is rising again in the south! These rings are a terrible burden and a danger to us all; they bring fear, sorrow, and death, and I wish no more of that!"

"I meant no harm..."

"But harm will come if the Ring is treated so lightly!"

Legolas could say nothing, and do nothing but look to the floor with shame.

"It was a mistake for me to have shown you its keeping-place."

Without word or action in his own defense, Legolas turned and hurried from the room. Elrond was left alone, slowly sinking to a seated position on the edge of the bed, near the table. He sat still and expressionless for a long while, just thinking, before he laid his head on the pillow and wrapped a tangle of blankets tightly about his shoulders. Then he spoke one name, "Celebrían," and closed his eyes as he allowed all the memories resurrected earlier that morning to return and flood his body with the familiar passion of longing and loss. Though the very presence of the Ring, and Elrond’s heightened awareness of it, caused the figure of Celebrían in his mind to evolve into something else- another memory from much earlier days, from before even the founding of Imladris. And then a new name became prominent and realised by Elrond’s voice. "Gil-galad."

* * * * *

From where he stood, Elrond could see little, though he heard far too much. The natural dark of night was worsened by a thick cover of cloud, stinging smoke, and the manufactured blackness of Mordor. All that was visible was a line of tents in silhouette against the hellish fires of Mount Doom. But the crushing darkness couldn’t stop the sounds of war. These came violently into Elrond’s ears and passed through his mind and body as a loathsome feeling of sickness. Elves, Men, Dwarves, and any number of terrible things screamed in pain as they were cut down, and their cries rose above the loud clashing of swords to create a vile noise that would continue to ring in memory long after the battle ended. Elrond wondered about the names of those who cried out, whether they were good or evil, if they had families somewhere. He wondered if Gil-galad was one of them.

He strained his eyes trying to catch any glimpse of the battlefield, but the dark was too severe and he was too far. So he went into his tent and tied the entrance firmly shut, as if the fabric would block some of the sickening noise. It was too much to bear: the constant screaming, day and night, the restless inactivity of staying in the tent, and the unceasing worry over the well-being of Gil-galad. Since the Alliance passed through the Black Gates of Mordor, Elrond had been relieved of his position as banner bearer, because Gil-galad wanted him safe, most likely, away from the actual battle. And although Elrond would have rather remained beside his lover in the very centre of the carnage, he obeyed his king’s command and kept to his tent. There he took up a new position, using his great powers of healing on the wounded.

But Far too few were brought to the tent be healed by Elrond’s power. The vast majority of those struck in battle died quickly on the field, and even the ones who were found still alive by their comrades were frequently gone by the time they were carried back to the camp. And Elrond wondered if he would rather have more patients, hear more groans of anguish and see the flowing blood of those he knew, rather than stay idle in the tent knowing that so many were dying each day. Would it be any worse to see the horror than to imagine it?

When Gil-galad finally returned, earlier than expected, he was clutching his shoulder with bloodied fingers. He staggered as he walked into the tent.

"You’ve been wounded," said Elrond. His stomach twisted at the sight of Gil-galad’s blood, and the sickness brought on by the battle’s noises doubled in intensity as it washed over him and renewed its hold.

"Wounded," replied Gil-galad, "but at least not dead." He smiled to try to offer Elrond a bit of calming reassurance, but the pain was too terribly evident on his face.

"Undress, and hurry. The sooner I get to work, the better the chance I have of healing you."

The blade of an enemy weapon had forced its way through Gil-galad’s armour at the vulnerable shoulder joint. The wound was deep and severe, but not life-threatening; it was neither poisoned nor infected by the foulness of Mordor, for which Elrond was thankful. He needed only a few hours to close the wound and quicken the natural healing process with medicine and prayers. But this was all he could do in such short time, and it would be days before the effects of his treatment were complete. "Try moving it," he said.

Gil-galad lifted his arm. "It’s sore, but not unusable."

"More of the pain should be gone by morning. Now you need to rest, and let your body concentrate its energy on repairing itself." He paused before asking, "What was it that injured you?"

"A Man," Gil-galad replied, "under Sauron’s control." He stretched out on his bed, which was little more than a thin mat on the hard ground, and Elrond sat beside him. "There were two of them that came upon me at once from opposite sides, and as I speared one the other swung at me with his sword. I managed to dodge his attack, but the sword was held only in his right hand, and in his left was a knife. This second weapon met its mark." He was quiet for several seconds, and then continued softly. "He was one of Elendil’s kin, wearing the armour of our Alliance, though his helmet was gone and his face was streaked with blood. Corrupted by the Ring, I suppose; within Mordor its power is unendurable for those who have even the slightest weakness in their souls. As if it weren’t enough to have so many of our allies struck down and killed, now we must also face losing them to the allure of the Ring and having them turn against us..."

Elrond was quiet, with is eyes harshly closed and his lips thinned in seemingly helpless anger and grief. The years of unending war and killing had left their unmistakable stain on hiss mind, which would now be forever altered with the oppressive knowledge of terror, hatred, betrayal, and loss. This Gil-galad could clearly see, and such a sight to him was as unbearable as anything he had yet encountered on the battlefield. He pulled Elrond down to lie with him on the bed-mat, offering a concerned kiss, though this appeared to have little effect.

"Oropher is dead," said Elrond, "along with most of his army. You have been injured, and I have seen the bodies of countless Elves, dead and dying, carried back to this camp. Now you say the army of Elendil is falling under the control of Sauron! What next?"

"I don’t know." Gil-galad could give no comfort through words, as there were no comforting words left to be said. The very thing that Elrond feared, that the Alliance was nearing defeat with each passing day, Gil-galad knew to be true. The army of Sauron still had the advantage of being backed by the power of the One Ring. So Gil-galad pulled Elrond closer, until Elrond’s cheek rested on his uninjured shoulder, and hoped that the both of them could find some sanctuary in the simple being of each other, the feel and scent of familiar skin and hair, a small shining essence of home in the foreign blackness of Mordor.

* * * * *

"He left the Hall of Fire early," said Elladan, "long before the singing was through, which I found strange. And when I afterward came to his room to see why, I found him asleep. I thought it best not to wake him. He has been very strained these past few days, both with news from all the scouts and by decisions concerning the Ring. It worries me."

"I understand," said Legolas. The two turned a corner and descended three steps into a long starlit corridor.

"Then you know you must not stay long to speak with him. And if he sleeps still, I trust you will use your best judgment in deciding whether or not it is truly necessary to wake him."

"It is. I must speak with him now."

"Then please remember my words," said Elladan, "and do not keep him any longer than you must. My father is indeed great and powerful, but even he needs his rest." He stopped, motioning toward the end of the corridor. "His bedroom is through that door."

Legolas caught himself wanting to say, "I know," but instead said, "Thank you," and then kept silent as he watched Elladan retreat.

Beyond the door, Elrond was asleep, still wearing his formal clothing. Legolas stood just inside the room with the door closed behind him for a long while, without further action. Whether this was because he was afraid to wake Elrond and risk angering him further after their unfriendly parting earlier that day, or because he was unexpectedly intrigued by the way in which the great Peredhel seemed so innocent and small while asleep, or perhaps because of some combination of the both, he wasn’t certain. But several long minutes passed before Legolas found the courage to approach Elrond and gingerly place a hand upon his shoulder.

The touch didn’t appear to wake him, though he moved slightly. His expression, which had before had been more worried than anything else, shifted to peaceful. He murmured something too soft for Legolas to hear.

"What?" Legolas knelt beside the bed and moved his hand from Elrond’s shoulder to his wrist.

"I thought he killed you," Elrond repeated, eyes unopened, still half dreaming.

"Killed?"

"On the field, I though I saw you dead, from the fire..."

"...I don’t understand..."

"Or perhaps it was merely a very long dream..."

"A dream?"

"Yes. Hmm... A very long dream, so like eternity, as if all the cruel centuries of time had played themselves out since I last saw you."

"But... I was here just this morning." Legolas felt Elrond’s hand move beneath his own, and soon their fingers became intertwined.

"I know." Elrond smiled within his dreamworld. "But it seems so terribly long... since you last kissed me..."

"Kissed... you?" Legolas whispered.

"Yes..." Elrond’s free hand reached up and brushed against Legolas’ face, then slid through his hair around to grasp the back of his neck, pulling him closer until their lips met.

Though the kiss was unexpected and strange, Legolas didn’t think it unpleasant. And after the initial second of shock had passed, he found himself acting as an eager participant, returning all of Elrond’s offerings. The slick sweet taste of Elrond’s mouth and the sensation of violently hot electricity flashing though his body filled his mind so entirely that he could think only of the very fraction of a second in which he was living, nothing before, and nothing that might come afterward. He scarcely noticed Elrond’s hand moving from his neck to his shoulder, then down his back to his hip, coaxing him onto the bed; the entire sequence to him was a segue of one heated passion into the next and then another so that the physical specifics of each was immediately forgotten, while the emotional effects remained and grew stronger by the minute.

There was such longing, Legolas found, hidden behind the façade of lust. All the desperate needs cultivated by too many years of neglect were actualised in every movement of Elrond’s lips, tongue, and fingertips. And Legolas’ body became saturated with the sensation of being so needed as he in turn begged for more, and closer, contact. Every small glancing touch caused his skin to shiver; every pass of Elrond’s tongue over his own pulled him into deeper desire- for the kiss, for further affection, and for Elrond, who had never before entered his thoughts in such a way but now promised to be bound there forever.

When he finally pulled away to take a breath, his head was spinning and his arms shook, barely able to support the weight of his body as he leaned over the bed. Elrond opened his eyes, pure and sleepy. Legolas chanced a small innocent smile, but this disappeared as the look in Elrond’s eyes abruptly shifted.

"You!" Elrond said. He sat up, moving away from Legolas.

"Yes, me. ...Who did you think it was?"

Elrond didn’t answer. He looked down to the spot where he had lain seconds earlier, then to the bedside table, then out the window at the stars.

Legolas stepped slowly off the bed, being careful to keep his flushed face hidden from Elrond. He stood near the centre of the room, not speaking for several awkward minutes, until he could no longer bear the silence. "I’m sorry," he said with a small shaky voice. "...I mean, I’m sorry about earlier... this morning. With the ring. I wanted to say so... I came to apologise. That is, I’m here to apologise... When I arrived you were asleep, and I didn’t know how to wake you, and then... I just... I wanted to apologise. I WANT to apologise. For being foolish. This morning. That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry. About the ring."

"It’s not your fault," said Elrond. His voice was flat and expressionless. "All Rings of Power have a certain allure, and if one does not make an effort to resist it, one can easily be overwhelmed. Now that you know to be wary, it will not happen again."

"I am sorry."

"I know. Now please leave."

"I’m also sorry about... what just-"

"Please leave," Elrond interrupted. He had closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, as if trying to ward off emotions and memories that were proving difficult to avoid.

"My lord Elrond..."

"I asked you to leave."

"Who was killed?"

After a moment of silence, Elrond said, "No-one." He was looking at the table.

"It was Gil-galad, wasn’t it?" Legolas asked, and Elrond chose once again not to answer. Legolas moved back toward the bed, and sat on the side. "Tell me about Gil-galad."

Another moment of silence fell between the Elves. "Ereinion Gil-galad," Elrond said finally, and a bitter smile passed briefly across his lips. "He ruled as High King of the Noldor for thirty-five hundred years- all of the Second Age. I lived with him in Lindon before we declared war on Sauron, and before Rivendell was founded. He fell in battle the very day Isildur ended the war by cutting the Ring from Sauron’s hand, and I was there to watch... Just that morning he and I had been arguing over whether or not I should remain at the camp. He wanted me to stay in our tent, safe and out of the way, but it seemed to me at that time that I should be on the field with him, carrying the blue and silver banner, as I had done in earlier years of the war. It was maddening staying in that tent. All I could think about was Gil-galad, whether he was dead or yet living, and every time I heard footsteps outside I would rush to the tent’s door and look out, hoping to see him standing there but at the same time dreading that what I’d find instead was a procession of mourners carrying his lifeless body back to me... I was spared that image, at least, though I think that given the true outcome, I would have preferred to have a body to properly bury."

Elrond’s voice was faltering. "Instead, all that was left was ash and charred armour. All Sauron had to do was touch him. Touch him! And he was killed instantly by the fire, reduced to nothing but ash. Until that moment I had believed that if I were there, standing by him, he could never fall. As long as he was within my sight he would be invincible; my presence would protect him. It was when he and I were apart that he would surely die, since I was so certain that nothing so terrible could happen while I watched. Not even the evil of Mordor could be that cruel to me. So I thought, foolishly... Then to have him die right there, so near..."

The silence returned, heavy and thick, as Elrond’s voice faded. He was still staring at the bedside table, as Legolas was staring at him. Every few seconds a shadow of memory would show itself on Elrond’s face, and he let slip tiny hints of past smiles and frowns.

On mere impulse, Legolas leaned over and kissed Elrond, softly, as he smiled.


Continued in Part 2

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