*coughs* Back at it again with my Turgon/Galdor agenda.
“I would protect you and I would love you until my dying breath.”
A good agenda to be on.
From this prompt list.
1 - “I would protect you and I would love you until my dying breath.”
No-one had seen the king in three days, not since he had returned from the outer mountains after being summoned their by one of Thorondor’s servants.
After another meeting where they had all been left shuffling their papers as Turukáno’s absence remained, the lords had assembled together and come to the conclusion that something had to be done.
“Lómion and I have both tried,” Itarillë said, her face betraying her concern. “But there was no answer. I know his meals are being eaten and a few of the servants have seen him but I’m really beginning to get concerned.”
Lómion, as ever, hangs in Itarillë’s shadow and nods his head in agreement.
Galdor was almost unanimously voted in as the next person to try for virtue of having known Turukáno for so long and he had never been able to say no to Itarillë when she made that face.
So that was how he ended up picking the lock to the bedroom of his greatest friend in the world, a cooling tray of dinner for the both of them on the floor beside him.
His hairpin - a begetting day present from Itarillë a few years ago - snaps in the lock and the two broken pieces fall into his open palm.
He swears and clambers to his feet in a huff. “You’re impossible,” he says very loudly so that he knows Turukáno will hear him. “I can’t believe you proofed your lock against being picked.”
There is no answer.
“Come on Turvo, please let me in. The food will taste fine even if it is a bit cold.”
When Turukáno doesn’t answer that, Galdor accepts his defeat.
With a sigh he bends down to pick up the tray. “I’m going now. I’ll send someone up with your food. Please come out soon - we’re all worrying about you.” He pauses before admitting quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
He hovers there a moment before turning away, already planning his own evening plans.
Behind him, the door opens a crack. “Gal?”
Galdor turns so fast he nearly spills lukewarm tea over the very nice carpets laid out on the floor.
Turukáno hasn’t seemingly got dressed today and from how rumpled his nightshirt and hair is, Galdor thinks that he hasn’t changed since he first locked himself away.
The rest of him doesn’t look much better: his hair is in disarray, his shoulders slumped and his eyes are rimmed in black and red from a lack of sleep and what Galdor can only suppose is crying.
“Oh Turvo,” he says and slips past him into the room to put the tray down on the table. Turvo follows his movement with tired eyes, hugging the doorpost seemingly for support and only moving when Galdor comes right up and gently coaxes him to sit on the edge of the bed.
He shuts the door and takes a seat beside him. He lays a hand on the bedcovers so Turukáno has some support should he choose to take it.
“What’s wrong?” Galdor asks quietly and waits in the silence for Turukáno to answer.
He eventually says, in a hoarse voice, “Atto is dead.”
Galdor feels all his insides go cold. “Dead?” He repeats softly.
“He went to face Morgoth alone.” Turukáno’s face twists momentarily into disgust and hatred before it settles back into impassivity. “Thorondor says he…he managed to maim him but he was defeated, ultimately. I…umm…I had to send a letter to Finno.”
Turukáno’s hand creeps over to rest on Galdor’s as he speaks.
“I hate that I’m the one who has to tell him. Finno is going to…hate being high king.” He doesn’t mention that telling your only remaining brother your father just died is a task nigh on impossible to do at all well.
Turukáno falls silent then, squeezing Galdor’s hand and staring at the opposite wall.
“People leave,” he says softly, just as Galdor thinks that he has finished speaking, “and they stay gone.”
“I won’t. I’m staying here.” Galdor turns around and takes Turukáno’s hand more firmly in his. “I swore myself into your service and I would protect you and love you until my dying breath.”
“No,” Turukáno says sharply, looking up to meet Galdor’s gaze, the edges of kingship coming back into his stature, “you can do anything but die. You do not leave me too.”
“I…” Galdor starts, then trails off at the intensity of emotion he can see in Turukáno’s eyes.
“Swear it. Swear you will not die for me.”
They stare at each other, eyes locked together, for a long moment.
“That would go against my oath of lordship,” Galdor says eventually.
But if it will make you happy, he adds silently as finally all façade of being ok slips off like an ill-fitting cloak and Turukáno pitches forward to son into Galdor’s shoulder, I would go against that oath a thousand times over.
