Note: Fanfiction. Not mine. Thanks to all who reviewed!

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The next morning dawned very crisp and bright, and despite it nearing spring a late frost had fallen during the night. The smooth grass of the gardens was pale in the weak morning sunlight, and in the distance the snow over the peaks of the Misty Mountains was stained pink. It was still far before breakfast time, and with a hard morning’s walk ahead of them, Gil-galad and Elrond would have been peckish had they not first stopped by the kitchens.

The room had been near empty, so early was the hour, but all it had taken was a kindly elf-maiden, a heavy frying pan and the run of the pantries for them to head on their way with some warm bread rolls stuffed with buttery scrambled egg and apples in their pockets. Despite all expectations to the contrary, the High King was a surprisingly good cook.

“I did not expect this,” Elrond took a juicy bite of his roll and licked egg from around his mouth. “It does not seem a High-Kingly task.”

Whilst all those who marched to battle were able to cook themselves simple, nourishing fare, the High King himself usually had more pressing matters to deal with than toiling over a hot fire. Indeed had Elrond known how adept his King was with a spatula, he would have insisted that he had taken a turn with the cooking before now. Managing an army was but a simple task compared with conjuring something edible out of salt meat and soggy waybread.

Gil-galad smirked and took a bite from his apple. “I can do many things, Elrond Peredhil, not all of them High-Kingly.”

“Círdan did not teach you?” Elrond queried doubtfully. Whilst still a small child, Gil-galad had been sent to Círdan at the Havens for safekeeping, and it was obvious that his mother could not be the source of the King’s culinary prowess. Nevertheless, he had reservations about whether the Shipwright could be credited with this development. Círdan was a singularly anti-social elf, speaking few words and showing little pleasure in anyone’s company save the High King. It was easier imagining him wielding a rolling pin to ward off an inquisitive child than inviting him to join a lesson.

Gil-galad almost choked on his apple as he laughed. “Círdan? Nay, Elrond, you know him as well as I!”

Grinning himself, Elrond swallowed the last of his roll and reached into his pocket for an apple. “But it could not have been your Naneth?”

“And why not? Naneth taught me many things. Do you not remember the pig?” The High King’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “But no, I had learned how to cook before my Naneth joined me.”

Still chuckling at the memory of a very young King wielding an over-sharpened carving knife against a whole roast hog and the subsequent disastrous consequences, Elrond shot Gil-galad a questioning look. “Then who?”

“Círdan had a housekeeper in the Havens, Thatharien was her name. I was missing my Naneth very badly and often she would allow me into the kitchens to help.” Gil-galad smiled ruefully in memory. “I must have been a nuisance, for I insisted on doing everything, even that which I could not manage.”

“And she taught you?”

“All I know.” Gil-galad confirmed. “Most especially the manufacture of gingerbread sailors. She was very kind.”

“She was not with us on the Balar, though.” Elrond’s brow furrowed in thought. “I believe that Elros and I must have known all those in the kitchens.”

“I believe that they were warned against you!” Gil-galad grinned, although his smile did not reach his eyes. “No, she was not with us then.”

Elrond gave his King a puzzled look and Gil-galad sighed. This story was seldom told, and was a painful one.

“When the Havens fell there were not enough boats to carry all to safety. She chose to give up her place.” Gil-galad caught Elrond’s expression and explained gently. “She wished to be with her family.”

“Her family were in the Havens?” Elrond sounded appalled, “Could Círdan not…”

“No.” Gil-galad shook his head and smiled sadly. “They were with Mandos.”

Both fell silent for a while, walking side by side along an avenue of tall ash trees. The first crocuses of spring were beginning to emerge – clenched white and purple buds wrapped in deep green leaves. Eventually as they passed over the small humped bridge, and looked down at the busy torrent swollen by melt-water, Gil-galad spoke again.

“But that is not what has brought us out of our beds at this hour. I meant to speak to you about Celebrían.”

Elrond turned puce and swallowed half his apple in a single bite.

“She is a pleasant young lady.” His voice came out high-pitched and uneven, and the Lord of Imladris coughed several times before continuing. “And she is…”

“A good ambassador for her people?” Gil-galad asked with only a hint of amusement.

“Well… yes!” Elrond said in exasperation. “She is a fine maiden, and does her mother credit.”

“But not her father?” Gil-galad chuckled quietly to himself. He had only just reached his Herald in time the previous evening, and it had taken several hours to soothe the fuming Lord of Lorien.

“She has inherited great strength of character.” Elrond spoke grudgingly. “And an impressive conviction in her beliefs.”

“Elrond.” Gil-galad spoke sternly, suddenly adopting a voice and expression sufficiently High Kingly to cause even the most wicked of elflings to confess their sins.

“I… I… uh… Gil?” Elrond stumbled across his words, then as Gil-galad turned on him with a look worthy of the strongest and most powerful of the High Kings of the Noldor, burst out the truth. “I admire her greatly. She is the most beautiful maiden that I have ever seen.”

Gil-galad made a small encouraging grunt and found need to examine his apple in great detail, allowing Elrond to continue without interruption.

“She is happy and kind, and merry company. She is quite perfect.” Elrond caught Gil-galad’s eye and added somewhat grudgingly. “I admit that at times she is somewhat lacking in sense…”

Gil-galad grinned and for a High King came dangerously close to giggling.

“It was a regrettable incident.”

“Indeed.” Elrond’s mouth twitched. “I had not thought that…”

“I doubt that any had.” Gil-galad chewed the corner of his lip to restrain himself from outright laughter, “I believe that your Celebrían has been gifted with a creativity quite beyond the scope of any normal elf.”

Elrond’s cheeks flamed. “She is not my Celebrían.”

“Not yet.” Gil-galad’s eyes twinkled, and Elrond suddenly grew suspicious. “But I should imagine it would help your cause if you were to spend time with her.”

“But, I cannot! Surely you can see that, Gil.” Elrond turned a miserable shade of vermilion and crumpled a corner of his tunic up in his fist. “What if she refuses my company? What if she has no wish to speak to me?”

Gil-galad observed his apple thoughtfully, took one last bite and threw the core into the bushes.

“One day Elrond, you will have to leap where you have not looked. Do not lose her through your own fear.”

- - -

“Celebrían.” Celeborn greeted his daughter with a curt nod and a somewhat strained smile as she tentatively entered the breakfast room. Whilst he did not hold Celebrían in any way responsible for the unfortunate incident of the night before, he had no intention of it being repeated. “I trust that these are yours?”

Celebrían bit her lip as two delicately embroidered handkerchiefs – one decorated with daisies and the other with apple blossom floated down lightly onto the breadbasket. Indeed, they looked remarkably familiar.

“I… believe that they are mine, Adar.” Cheeks pink, Celebrían hastily stowed the scraps of linen into the depths of her gown. “I must have dropped them.”

Celeborn gave her a particularly searching look, and seeing that her daughter was about to break down and speak of the full extent of her misdeeds, Galadriel hastily intervened. Whilst she herself was fully aware of all that had happened, she saw no need for her husband to share that knowledge. It would not be good for anyone’s blood pressure.

“You must be more careful, Celebrían.” Galadriel gave her daughter a deeply significant look, warning her to remain quiet. “It is only due to Gil-galad’s kindness that they have been returned to you.”

“Gil-galad returned them to me?” Celebrían’s face lit up with pleasure and relief - perhaps a little unwisely considering how closely she was being observed. Unseen, her mother and father exchanged quick and surprised glances.

“Yes, and Celebrían, a High King has no time for such trifles.” Galadriel continued briskly, happily ignoring her husband’s look of appalled and dawning comprehension. “Do not be so careless again.”

“I will not. I am sorry, Ammë.”

Slightly flushed, Celebrían bent over her breakfast, still smiling a little. Happily unaware of the anxious looks that were being passed over her head, she busied herself with her porridge and cream with a sigh of satisfaction. She had worried about those missing handkerchiefs, but it seemed that Elrond, at least, had heard no further of her humiliation.

- - -

It was decided that Celebrían should spend the rest of the day entertaining the marchwarden whilst quietly contemplating her sins. Although the small room in which the patient had been bidden to stay was dark, there was candlelight aplenty and Celebrían found herself quite able to continue with her embroidery.

“Lord Elrond says that you are improving.” Celebrían said brightly, threading a needle with a fine piece of silk thread. “It will not be long before you are back on your feet!”

Whilst the lump on Haldir’s head had gone down at last – no doubt thanks to Elrond’s healing hands – the bruising had yet to fade, and a painful looking bluish-purple blotch disfigured his fair face.

Haldir kept providently silent, but any elf that cared to listen closely might have heard the rough sound of grinding teeth.

“Elrond says that you will have to keep quiet for a little while, even once you are back on your feet.” Celebrían warmed to her subject, eyes firmly on the tiny eagles she was embroidering. “Elrond thinks that dancing and parties may be a little much for you.”

Haldir made a grunt that could, at a pinch, be interpreted as polite.

“Elrond believes that it is only the dark that has saved you from most unpleasant headaches.” Celebrían smiled fondly at the wall that separated the cupboard from the main ward. “Elrond said that he was sorry that he could not give you anything for the pain, but he was afraid that it might deepen your concussion.”

Haldir forced a toothy smile as Celebrían tied off a silver thread and resumed stitching in brown.

“Elrond is quite sure…”

Unable to take any more pearls of wisdom quoted direct from the Lord of Imladris, Haldir sat up – a difficult task considering how tightly he had been tucked into his blankets – and gulped down half a glass of water.

“So, tell me, how is your father?”

- - -

“Gil-galad, we call for your aid!” Glorfindel strode into the study, his boots heavy on the wooden floor, and sat down on the desk at which the High King was working.

“Glorfindel, will you get…” Gil-galad prodded the Balrog-slayer’s rear end somewhat peevishly with his quill. It was a difficult enough task interpreting these ancient maps without having someone sit squarely on top of Mount Doom.

“My utmost apologies!” Glorfindel exclaimed insincerely, rising to his feet and upsetting a bottle of ink into the High King’s lap. “But I fear that I must disturb you…”

“Fear not. You already have.” Gil-galad spoke darkly, leaping to his feet and attempting to mop up the ink with the tail of Glorfindel’s cloak.

Looking surprisingly unconcerned, Glorfindel shook back his hair and shrugged off his cloak to allow Gil-galad to tidy himself more effectively. It would not do to delay the matter whilst the High King changed.

“Come.” Glorfindel grabbed his King’s shoulder and dragged him down the winding corridors of Imladris to the infirmary. “It is a matter most urgent.”

“Glor…” Gil-galad began sternly, giving up the attempt to struggle against the Balrog-slayer’s iron grasp. “If I may have a minute…”

“Oh shush! Nobody shall notice.” Glorfindel brushed aside the High King’s complaints with a nonchalant wave of the hand. “It is not as if your leggings were not black anyway.”

Gil-galad fell quiet and gave the door in front of which they had halted a particularly hateful look. It was familiar from the day before. “What would you have me do?”

“She is in there!” Glorfindel hissed. “With him.”

“With Elrond?” Gil-galad asked hopefully. Although this was the broom cupboard inside which the marchwarden of Lorien was incarcerated, miracles could still happen.

“Eru, no!” Glorfindel said impatiently, despairing of the High King’s dullness. “Come, distract them!”

Gil-galad narrowed his eyes at the Balrog-slayer.

“Do you wish to have it returned to you or not?” Glorfindel asked with a smirk, putting his hands on his hips and standing just out of reach.

Swallowing, Gil-galad reached for the door handle. “I am warning you, Glorfindel. If it is not returned to me unspoiled…”

The blond-elf chose to ignore this and rolled his eyes as he kicked open the door with one booted foot, being careful to keep out of the line of sight.

Gil-galad stood tall and mighty in the doorway, his figure silhouetted against the soft light of the hallway before an almighty shove sent him staggering across the room to land bodily on the already bruised marchwarden.

Gasping in surprise, Celebrían gave the door a suspicious look as it clapped shut rather too smartly for a day without wind.

“My apologies,” Gil-galad rose from the groaning elf and gave Celebrían a rather too wide smile as he fumbled for an explanation. “I found myself so enamoured of your company that I was unable to restrain myself.”

- - -

The evening sunlight shone in through the arched window, surrounding the Lady of Lorien with golden light.

“Perhaps,” Galadriel pondered, winding one golden curl around her finger as she pursed her lips appraisingly, “perhaps it is not such ill chance after all.”

Her husband shot her such a dark look that it became immediately obvious where he ranked High Kings in relation to lowly yet local marchwardens in his list of potential suitors.

With the ease of one long practised in such arts, Galadriel breezed over a glare that would have left her masculine counterparts quaking in their boots, and continued unperturbed, “For I do not think that it is our honourable border guard that our daughter admires.”

The High King would not make a bad son-in-law. He was tall, of good blood, and – she suspected – in sole charge of a couple of trinkets that would make a good addition to the heirlooms of the family. And if he should accidentally be slain before his time as was customary to those of his bloodline, it was only natural that they should pass to her. They would be in good hands…

Celeborn’s eyebrows lowered, and his lips curled into something suspiciously similar to a pout. “I will never allow such a match.”

“He is the High King.” Galadriel said sternly, eyes gleaming as she thought of quite another type of ring.

“Nevertheless, I shall not allow it.” Celeborn snapped, and as his wife turned to him with an expression of annoyance elaborated, “Gil-galad comes from a long line of Kings…”

“Very honourable Kings, who have served our people well.”

“Kings…” Celeborn took a deep breath, “Who have all died singularly horrible deaths in facing foes who are beyond them. They have been hewn in two and beaten into the dust. Chopped, incinerated, spliced and diced! Only Eru may know what gruesome fate awaits Ereinion Gil-galad, but I will not have my daughter any part of it.”

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I hope you enjoyed reading! If you have time please leave a review!

(The next updates relating to this story – unless I start scribbling madly - will likely be a Midwinter Story set the following winter, whilst Elrond and Glorfindel are guests of Gil-galad in Lindon.)