Chapter Text
[Day 3]
This was the third new seneschal in as many days.
Gil-Galad stared at the elf before him - a capable enough officer, steady and competent, yet utterly terrified of the role he had just inherited - and could already feel the headache forming behind his eyes.
The first replacement had resigned in terror when Elrond had returned to Lindon and the officer had realized the appointment was not merely temporary but intended to be long-term. He had babbled apologies about “never meaning to overstep” and fled the post before Gil-Galad could even issue instructions.
The second had managed two full days before quietly tendering his resignation, citing “unsuitability for the demands of the office.” Gil-Galad hadn’t even argued.
This one would likely not last the week.
He dismissed the officer with curt instructions, watching the young elf practically trip over himself in his haste to bow and retreat. As soon as the door shut, Gil-Galad let out a low, sharp breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was the price of removing Elrond. He had known it would be, but knowing did not make it less infuriating. No one else could hold the threads of Lindon’s governance the way Elrond could. No one else could manage the endless petitions, coordinate the guard, balance the accounts, oversee the staff, soothe every minor crisis before it reached the throne.
No one else could be trusted, not really.
And yet, now, neither could Elrond.
Gil-Galad had stripped him of the office, because he had to. Because Elrond had jeopardized the realm, because he had lied and defied orders and made decisions that had nearly dragged Lindon into war.
Gil-Galad clenched his jaw.
He could already feel the chaos creeping into every corner of the court. Missed messages, delayed supply orders, guards redeployed without proper notice. It was like watching cracks spider through glass, slow but inexorable.
And still he would not relent.
Already he was fielding complaints about missed appointments, guard rotations that had inexplicably doubled up in some sectors and left others unpatrolled, and merchants furious about tax discrepancies no one seemed able to explain. Petitions piled on his desk faster than he could read them. The steward who oversaw provisioning for the garrison had practically wept this morning over misplaced requisitions, and Gil-Galad had heard three separate rumors of staff nearly coming to blows over scheduling disputes.
He had thought it would take weeks for Elrond’s absence to be felt. It had taken days.
And that made him angrier still.
He should not have to rely so completely on one man. It was a dangerous weakness, and one Gil-Galad had never tolerated in himself. Yet here was the proof, staring him in the face: the threads of Lindon’s governance unraveling because Elrond had been the one holding them together.
Gil-Galad ground the heel of his hand against his temple. He wanted, needed, to storm into the villa where Elrond was kept, stand at the foot of his bed, and demand if he was satisfied now, if he understood the chaos he had left behind.
But he would not permit himself to give into that weakness.
So instead, he sat in the echoing silence of his office and signed another petition, each stroke of his pen as sharp and angry as the thoughts turning in his head. The nib tore through the parchment more than once.
By midafternoon he could not stand the four walls any longer and rose to walk the palace corridors, hoping the movement would settle the simmering energy in his chest. It did not.
He had barely turned down the first hallway when raised voices carried to his ears. Gil-Galad slowed, frowning.
“…told you last week that I will not share a shift with her!”
“That was before the schedule was changed—”
“I do not care if it was before or after! She knows exactly what she did in Nargothrond and I will not—”
Gil-Galad rounded the corner and found two stewards squared off in the middle of the passage, faces flushed, snarling at one another like half-feral cats. One clutched a sheaf of duty rosters in her hand as if she might use them as a weapon; the other’s hands were balled into fists.
The moment they saw him, they froze.
“My king,” one managed, stiff-backed, as though sheer formality could disguise the venom in her eyes.
Gil-Galad stared at them. He recognized them both, one was assigned to treasury accounts, the other to the armory, and could vaguely recall that Elrond had once mentioned they “did not get on.” He had assumed that meant the kind of polite distance typical of old Noldorin grudges.
Clearly, he had underestimated.
“Is there a reason,” Gil-Galad asked, “that you are shouting in my halls?”
The steward with the duty rosters straightened as if to speak, but the other cut in with a rush: “She scheduled me for a double shift with her. She knows exactly why that is unacceptable.”
This was the sort of thing Elrond handled before it ever reached him. He would have quietly reassigned duties, spoken soothing words, and the whole matter would have been resolved without incident. Now, without that soft voice and steady hand, these minor squabbles were finding their way to the very heart of the court.
Gil-Galad fixed each of them with a level look, and said, “You will exchange your shifts with someone else immediately. If I hear of this argument again, neither of you will be assigned to any duty for a month. Am I understood?”
“Yes, my lord,” they said in unison, faces pale.
He left them to their muttering, striding on down the hall.
How many more fires would he have to stamp out before the day was over?
23.
24.
Several minutes passed.
25.
26.
More minutes. Maybe half an hour. A gust of wind.
27. 28. 29.30. 31. 32. 33. 34.35. 36. 37–
The door opened, and Elrond lost count of the leaves drifting past his window, turning to peer through the dimly lit room at the intruder.
The healer bowed.
“Time for the dressings to be changed,” she said softly, closing the door behind her with a click.
Elrond did not protest. He lay still on his stomach, arms crossed beneath his head, his cheek pressed against the pillow. His forehead stuck faintly to the pillowcase; his skin feeling both too hot and too cold.
He could not have risen even if he’d wanted to; the thought of trying to put weight on his back made his stomach twist.
The healer crossed to the bed with quiet steps, setting her tray down on the table beside him. He felt the air chill when she peeled back the blanket that covered him to the waist.
“This will sting,” she warned.
He nodded, jaw tight, and turned his face into the pillow as the first touch of damp cloth met the angry, raw lines of his back, dampening the bandages to separate them from the scabs.
He did not cry out.
She hummed as she worked, infusing Song magic into her fingers, pressing gently into the tender skin of his back. When she pressed near the worst of the injuries, a faint nausea rose in his throat.
At last, she said, “It is healing as it should. Slowly, but cleanly.”
Elrond managed a quiet hum of acknowledgment, though the room swam faintly at the edges of his vision.
“I will bring you water,” the healer said, her voice as careful as her hands. “Try to rest.”
He nodded again, his arms curling tighter beneath his head as he listened to the soft retreat of her footsteps, the door closing behind her.
Then he was alone once more, staring at the faint light slanting through the shuttered window and counting the leaves as they drifted down outside, anything to keep from remembering the pain.
Soon, he was asleep again, and the leaves drifted by uncounted.
Gil-Galad’s patience was already fraying by the time the last councilor arrived and took his seat.
“We will begin,” Gil-Galad said, voice flat.
The murmurs died away. A few sets of eyes flicked to the empty chair at his right hand, the one that had belonged to Elrond for centuries, but no one spoke of it.
“The matter of the colony has been resolved,” he said, letting the words fall like stones into still water. “Númenor’s account is that the rebels had turned to open violence against the settlers, and…” He paused deliberately. “The destruction of the settlement was, in their view, unavoidable.”
There was a ripple of muted conversation, though it was more curiosity than concern. One of the older councilors frowned faintly. “Which colony was this?”
Gil-Galad named it, and was met with a collective shrug.
“Ah,” someone said. “That one.”
Another waved a dismissive hand. “We told Númenor not to push their luck in that region decades ago. Mortals are ever restless. They should not be surprised when their… efforts… breed resentment.”
There was a low hum of agreement around the table.
“That may be so,” he said sharply, and the room went still again. “But Númenor has made their position clear. They will tolerate no interference. And we will honor that.”
Just as he’d expected, one argued. The affairs of mortal kingdoms rarely interested his council unless they threatened elven lives directly.
But even as his councilors bickered over tariffs and troop rotations, he felt the absence at his right hand keenly.
Gil-Galad reminded himself, again, that he had done what was necessary.
And still, his hands would not unclench.
The council chamber slowly emptied. Gil-Galad remained seated until the last of them had gone. He rose only when the scrape of footsteps approached from behind.
“My lord?”
He turned. Lindis stood a pace back from the table, her hands folded at her waist, her expression careful. She was younger than most of the council, sharp-eyed and soft-voiced, the sort who asked questions others did not think to ask.
Gil-Galad inclined his head slightly. “Councilor Lindis.”
She hesitated, then said quietly, “I wished to ask about Lord Elrond. Might I be permitted to visit him?”
For a moment, Gil-Galad was too taken aback to speak. No one had asked, not directly. They had inquired after Elrond’s condition in the abstract, but none had pressed closer.
“You may not,” he said at last, keeping his tone even.
Lindis’s brows drew together. “May I ask why? He has been a friend to many of us. We are concerned.”
He could feel the weight of her gaze, steady and searching. He schooled his face to stillness.
“No,” said the king curtly, “You may not.”
Something flickered in her eyes, doubt, perhaps, or simple curiosity. But she bowed her head and said, “Of course, my king.”
Gil-Galad inclined his own head in return, a polite dismissal.
“Rethil!”
“Rethil!”
Something clattered against the wood from inside, a dull thump followed by a rolling scrape across the floor.
“Rethil.”
He glanced at the guard beside him.
“I don’t hear anything,” she muttered, gaze fixed on the opposite wall. “And I won’t see anything either.”
Rethil exhaled softly. He checked the courtyard, empty, silent, then eased the door open just enough to slip through.
Inside, the room was dim. Elrond lay exactly where the healers had left him: prone on the bed, one cheek pressed against the pillow, arms tucked beneath his head. His dark curls had slipped loose, clinging faintly to his temple with sweat. The bandages on the whip marks were already damp with blood and pus, although they’d been changed only a few hours before.
“I knocked over the water,” he croaked, the words clearly costing him a great deal of effort.
On the floor before the low bedside table lay a wooden cup, water pooling in a thin crescent around it. A spoon rested by the door, no doubt the object he had thrown for attention.
Rethil stepped quietly across the floor. He crouched, collected the cup, and refilled it from the waiting pitcher. When he knelt at the bedside and held it out, Elrond’s hand lifted, slow, trembling, the fingers unsteady. He couldn’t quite curl them around the wood.
Without a word, Rethil steadied the cup and tipped it toward his lord’s lips. Elrond drank in small, careful sips. His eyes were heavy-lidded, their usual sharpness dulled. His breath once between swallows as if the simple act of drinking cost him effort.
When he turned his head faintly away, Rethil withdrew the cup and set it back within reach. He gathered the fallen spoon, wiped up the spill with a corner of the cloth on the table, and restored everything to its place.
“Thank you,” Elrond murmured, voice rough as dry stone.
Rethil inclined his head. He paused by the door, studying the figure on the bed, too pale, too still, a commander reduced to quiet, helpless endurance.
“Next time, just call,” he said softly. “We’ll come.”
Elrond’s eyes slid shut. He didn’t answer, and Rethil doubted he had the strength.
The captain slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him. The other guard straightened, but she didn’t ask, and he didn’t explain. The villa settled back into silence, broken only by the wind stirring the leaves beyond the shuttered window.
Gil-Galad stood at the window, arms folded, as the healer finished her report.
“He is resting,” she said. “The fever eased during the night, but returned in the afternoon. He still sleeps, but the wounds are healing cleanly.”
Gil-Galad’s jaw flexed. “And his strength?”
“Improving slowly, my lord. He—”
“I want specifics,” Gil-Galad cut in. “How much is he eating? Can he drink on his own? Did he sleep through the night, or was he in pain?”
The healer hesitated. “He does not eat, only takes broth—“
“How much?”
“Half a cup this morning, and a bit more at midday.”
“None this evening?”
“He refuses to eat with the night draught.”
“Feed him earlier tomorrow.”
“Yes my king,” she said. Then she continued, “He wakes often. He doesn’t call for us when he does, but he is often awake when we enter.”
“How often?”
“Every two hours in the day, every four hours under the moon.”
Gil-Galad turned away from the window, expression unreadable. “Make sure he’s given more broth. If he won’t eat solid food, he will at least have that. When are the dressings changed?”
“My king, we change them after each sleep cycle. Once at dawn, again at noon, and again before nightfall. If the dressings soil sooner, we change them at once.”
“You will report to me at sunrise and again at dusk,” Gil-Galad said, voice like flint. “Every detail. I do not want to hear the words ‘he is resting’ ever again. Am I understood?”
The healer bowed her head. “Yes, my king.”
Gil-Galad dismissed her with a flick of his hand, waiting until the door had closed before he let out the long, slow breath he’d been holding.
He still would not visit. He could not, not while his anger sat so sharp and untempered in his chest. But he would know everything.
As the healer left, the door nearly closed, then opened again, and the captain of the king’s personal guard entered.
“My lord,” Rethil said, bowing his head.
“Report.”
Rethil clasped his hands behind his back. “The guard rotation remains unchanged. No incidents. The healers entered on schedule. He remained in his rooms throughout. He did not attempt to leave.”
Gil-Galad set down his quill. “And?”
Rethil blinked. “And… nothing, my lord. He rested. The courtyard was quiet.”
Gil-Galad’s jaw tightened. “How quiet?”
“Quiet,” Rethil said after a beat. “If you would like me to account for the number of sparrows nesting in the ivy, I can, but I do not believe that was the purpose of my watch.”
Gil-Galad shot him a look.
“No, my lord,” he amended, not the least bit contrite. “Nothing else to report.”
Gil-Galad leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Very well. Dismissed.”
Rethil bowed again, but as he turned to go, Gil-Galad added, “I expect the same detail tomorrow morning. Do not make me ask for it.”
“Understood,” Rethil said, his voice tight. He left with the crisp efficiency of someone who had not dared to point out, aloud, that he had just spent a full report confirming that nothing had happened. Or that guarding a wounded prisoner was beneath the king’s guard.
The door closed behind Rethil with a quiet click, leaving the office in thick silence once more.
Gil-Galad sat perfectly still for several heartbeats, staring at the stack of parchments on his desk as though they might shift of their own accord.
Nothing happened.
It was the same report every time, quiet courtyard, no incidents, Elrond had not left the room, the healer had come and gone. Nothing happened.
It should have been reassuring.
It was not.
He could not decide which weighed on him more: the relief that Elrond was too weak to attempt anything foolish, or the bitter frustration that there was nothing, nothing he could do with this restless fury except sit and wait for another healer’s report.