Of Stars and Kings by Kimberleighe

Prologue

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Prologue

Year 457 of the First Age

“You must leave.”

The words were spoken only loud enough to cross the room.  The dark haired woman did not turn to address the speaker or give any indication she had heard his words.  Instead, she waited.  His steps were light and quick to her side. 

            “Please, my love,” he continued.  “I do not want to beg.”

She continued to silently gaze North at the gathering darkness just beyond the mountaintops.  He waited patiently beside her, eyes unconsciously drawn to the same view.  The scent of rain was thick in the air.  Thunder rumbled overhead after a flash of lightening.  Pit, pit, pat.  Slowly the raindrops increased their tempo, until they were battering out a long crescendo.

            “Findékano,” the whisper brought his attention back to his lady.  “Would you be accompanying us?”

            The High-King of the Noldor did not meet her gaze.  Candlelight glinted off the simple crown he had only recently inherited.  Tonight, more than ever, he felt its weight.  There were no easy decisions left to be made here in Arda.  The she-Elf smiled sadly, taking his silence as proof of an answer.  She had foolishly hoped he might respond differently.

            “You know that I would,” he began slowly, taking her hands and turning her to face him.  “However, I cannot leave my people here, alone, so close to Morgoth after the loss of my father.”

            “Yet you would send your wife and son far from you.  To accomplish what, Findékano?”  Her words cut to the heart of the problem.

            “Melaurë,” he drew her in closer, “I could not bear for any harm to come to you.  Or to Araninyo.  In this time of continuous war, I must think of his safety.  What would you have me do, wife?”

Her forehead rested against his as she struggled to find an answer.  However, there was no easy solution.  He was right.  It was logical to seek a safe place for their son, the heir.  With a sigh, she acquiesced, knowing that only by leaving Eithel Sirion could they be certain of Araninyo’s survival.

            “I would gladly follow you into battle.”

            Her strength never ceased to amaze him.  It had been but one of many qualities he had found so attractive.

            “I know, I know, but my path is not yours.  My way will not be my son’s.  I will not allow him to share in my father’s fate.”

She initiated the embrace, cherishing this quiet moment.  Since the crown had come to her husband, these times had become so few.  Findékano held tight to her, his cheek resting against her soft hair.  Time stretched and passed, raindrops ticking out the minutes.  Neither was willing to break from the embrace.

            The increasing sound of running footfalls down the adjacent hall gave cause for both to gaze at the door.  A dark haired boy of about ten slid into the room, just ahead of his tutor.  Melaurë’s face lit with a smile as she welcomed her son into her arms for a brief hug.  She silently dismissed the tutor as the child launched into a story involving said tutor, a rabbit and prickly bush.  It, of course, artfully left out how he attained the large rip in the hem of his shirt and bruise on his cheek.  Findékano could only watch with amusement, tucking away this moment for some far-off lonely day.  Melaurë smiled up at her husband, sensing his thoughts.

            “Araninyo, your father and I were just discussing a trip,” Melaurë began.

            “A trip?  Oh, Amil, Atar, to where would we go?”

Melaurë turned a questioning gaze to her husband. 

            “To the Sea, to Eglarest,” Findékano answered.  “Would that please you, son?”

            “Atar, I have only heard of the Sea in tales,” Araninyo exclaimed, “You will be come as well, Atar?”

            “We shall see, my son,” was the only response Findékano could utter.

Melaurë took that opening to whisk their son of towards his room to bed.

            Findékano walked the halls slowly back to his study.  While it pained him to send his son so far away, he could only think of the reports covering his desk.  Each letter brought only more ill tidings from his people.  Fell creatures in the east burnt forests and settlements with pleasure.  Ungoliant’s children wove tricky webs in the mountains.  Travelers that dared to enter those passes were never seen again.  It was not safe to travel within Beleriand.  Yet, Findékano knew that if he tarried in sending his family to safety, more treacherous dangers might await them. 

I feel the darkness draw nigh.  I must send them away from this ere it is too late.

 

The day chosen for the lady and her son to leave was a somber one.  It seemed that Anar did not shine so bright and the trees were strangely quiet.  Many of the Noldor of Barad Eithel had gathered to see the traveling party depart.  Findékano had wanted complete secrecy regarding the trip, but Melaurë refused.  She had responded that dangers waited despite his best-laid plans.  He conceded this decision.  Araninyo ran ahead of his parents to the horses, excitedly conversing with one of the accompanying guards.  Findékano and Melaurë followed silently, arm-in-arm.  They had said their goodbyes already, far from the public eye.  Their steps came to a stop before the horse.  She was the first to release his arm, facing her husband.

            “Be safe, my King,” she tried to smile.  “Until we meet again.”

            “I will,” he reassured, pushing a piece of her unbraided hair from her face to behind her ear.  “May the time be short until I behold your beauty again.”

            “Silver-tongued as always,” she could not help her laugh.

He helped her mount her horse, holding her hand much longer than necessary. 

            “Atar, are you sure you cannot come?”  Araninyo stood beside his own horse, waiting for his father’s attention.

Findékano crossed the space between them, kneeling to offer his son an embrace.  The boy wrapped his arms tightly around his father.

            “I will miss you, Araninyo.”

            “And I, you, Atar,” Araninyo responded.

Findékano watched his son pull himself up on the horse. 

            “I will join you when I am able,” Findékano promised, raising his hand in a farewell.

Both the King and his wife knew that there never would be such a time.    Findékano watched the traveling party until they disappeared into the trees.  A silent prayer he sent to the Valar.

Please guide their travels, Elbereth.

 

Thankfully, the journey to Eglarest was uneventful.  It was a clear and starry night when they approached the settlement.  A few Elves milled about a courtyard to receive the traveling party.  Melaurë lifted her sleeping son down to one of her guard.  A hand was offered as she moved to dismount herself.  The silver haired and bearded Elf offered her a welcoming smile, bowing low once she was firmly standing.

            “Welcome, lady Melaurë.  We are humbled to have you and your son here.  I am Círdan, lord of these Havens.  I shall show you and your son to your residence.  You have had a long journey.”

            “Thank you for this generous hospitality,” Melaurë paused, taking her son from the guard.  “And the rest of my companions?  The high-king wishes for them to return to Eithel Sirion with haste, but they will need rest first.”

            “There are rooms prepared for them no less than your own,” Círdan assured.

Again, she could only thank the Elf. 

            “I assume that my husband alerted you to my arrival and the number that would accompany me?”

            Círdan nodded, leading the way through the small city.  Each building was more beautiful than the last, glimmering white under Ithil’s light.  The sound of the sea was soft and reminded her of the longing she’d hidden for so long.  The gentle music called to her, called her to return home.

            “The high-king requested a private residence for his family.  He indicated that your stay might be permanent.”

            “Yes, Ereinion and I will remain in Eglarest until my husband joins us.”

            Both Melaurë and Ereinion found the Sea to their liking.  The young prince flourished, growing tall and strong.  He excelled in his studies and was a force with a blade in hand.  However, his mother knew that his schooling needed to be tailored.  Melaurë and the shipwright spoke at great length of the training necessary.

            “If the King’s fate is the same as his father’s, the crown will be Ereinion’s,” Melaurë spoke openly, “He must learn how to handle that responsibility when it comes.”

            “I will do what I can,” Círdan responded, “But I am no politician, lady.”

            “While you list that as a weakness, I find it a strength,” Melaurë looked to the North.  “It will not matter your position.  If the crown does come, Ereinion will need to be surrounded by those he trusts.  You can offer support.”

And so Círdan took the Prince under his wing, tutoring him and offering responsibilities similar to an advisor.  Ereinion became a fixture at Círdan’s side.

 

Year 472 of the First Age

            Ereinion was glad to be done with his duties for the day.  Círdan had left to accept a message and so the Prince took the opportunity to seek out his mother.  He entered the residence he shared with his mother, setting his books and sword on the table. 

            “Amil, are you here?” he called absently, picking up an apple from a nearby bowl. 

            “Ereinion?” her soft voice beckoned him to her rooms.

The apple was left forgotten on the table.  There was something wrong; he could hear it in her voice. 

            He turned the corner into her sitting room and stopped at the door.  Like always, the doors that the led to the Sea were open wide, allowing a warm breeze to waft through.  Melaurë was not alone.  An Elf stood beside Círdan; Ereinion deduced the Elf must be the messenger.  His focus returned to his mother.  She could not hide the sadness in her visage.  Melaurë extended a hand out to him.  He crossed the room quickly, taking hold and sinking to one knee beside her chair.

            “What is it, Amil?” He could not bear to see his mother in such pain.  “Share with me what troubles you.”

She could not even muster a smile as she beheld her young son.  Círdan dismissed the messenger from the room. 

My strong son.  You have not even reached a half-century and we ask so much from you.  I cannot bear to think of what else we will request in the coming years.

            “Ill tidings, Ereinion,” she finally answered.  “Word from the North.”

            “And this takes away your joy?”

She squeezed his hand, looking to Círdan to finish for her. 

            “There is an army coming,” Círdan said slowly.  “Our scouts estimate that they should be here within the next coming days.”

            “Will the wall hold?” Ereinion asked, his grip tightening around his mother’s hand.

            “It should, but I suspect we shall need to prepare for the possibility of a breach.” Círdan searched for the words to say.  “Ereinion, if Morgoth’s army has fought this far South, then it is likely that Eithel Sirion is no more.”

            Ereinion now realized his mother’s sorrow.  A great war had been rumored to occur in the North, but no messengers had come to bring tidings or beckon more soldiers to join. 

            “There is no word from my father?”

Melaurë looked to the Sea, tears bright in her eyes.

            “I would not hold out hope, my son.”

Círdan cleared his throat.

            “There will be many preparations, Ereinion.  You will need to alert Brithombar and ask that they travel here for a council,” The shipwright beckoned the Prince.  “I will return him to you later, lady Melaurë.”

For both Círdan and Melaurë knew that there would be plenty of opportunity to mourn.

            The army of Morgoth was larger than had been reported.  The residents of Eglarest could see the fires across the river Nenning.  Brithombar had fallen swiftly.  Círdan watched the approach from the top of Eglarest’s wall with a heavy heart. 

            “What do we do?” Ereinion stood beside him, staring out over the same scene.

Is this only a fraction of what you faced, Atar?

Círdan placed a hand on the young Elf’s shoulder.

            “We await their first move.  Though you should not be up here,” Círdan steered Ereinion towards the stairs despite the Prince’s protests.  “Your mother has made it clear that you are not to be a part of this fight unless-“

Círdan left the words unsaid.  Ereinion would fight only if the enemy came inside the walls.

            “My mother is worried for no reason,” Ereinion argued.  “I can fight.”

            “And you will,” Círdan reassured.  “This is not the time.  I need you to only be concerned with going to the ships if needed.  Promise me, Ereinion.”

            “I will do as you ask,” came the disappointed murmur.

            Círdan ran through the smoldering city.  The evil host had launched balls of fire that destroyed the beautiful buildings and works of the settlement.  Three weeks had the host laid siege, systematically devastating the city.  Now, they had broken through the gates.  There was screaming all around, bodies everywhere.  The fell creatures were not far behind Círdan.  He had been the last to forsake his place, to leave his home.  He could see Ereinion ahead at the docks, yelling and beckoning for Círdan to hurry.  Círdan screamed that they go, that Ereinion get on board.  He slid to a stop, forced to defend his body with his sword.  It took only that millisecond for the orcs to descend.  He knew then that he would not make it to the ships.  An axe nicked his shoulder and his grip loosened on his weapon in surprise.  There was another blow coming. 

Let it be swift.

            Círdan closed his eyes, awaiting the end.  Instead, there was the clank of metal screeching against metal.  His eyes flew open to the sight of Ereinion beside him, sword parrying the blow.  The young Elf met the orc’s blade fearlessly, and for a moment, Círdan was looking far into the future.  He saw an older Ereinion standing on a black field, the image of a grim king of war, spear shining in hand.  As soon as the vision came, it disappeared and Círdan moved into action, slaying the fell beasts with Ereinion.  The younger Elf would have gladly faced the next onslaught, already looking towards the burning city.

            “To the ships,” Círdan reminded.

Ereinion smiled faintly, following the shipwright quickly towards the last waiting boat.  They cast off from the dock, leaving Eglarest to burn.

            Melaurë gave a cry of thanks when she saw her son.  Ereinion could see the apparent relief and anger as she rushed to him.

            “I cannot-“

Círdan stepped in, a gentle hand to Melaurë’s arm.  The lady looked surprised, her attention placed on the shipwright for the moment.

            “Please do not be harsh in your rebuke, lady,” he murmured, “If it was not for your son, I would not be standing here before you.”

Ereinion only wiped his sword clean on the edge of his tunic, looking away. 

            “Ereinion,” Melaurë’s tone was gentle, “is this so?”

            “Amil, he was close enough to the ships,” Ereinion paused, struggling for words.  “I could not--would not have seen Master Círdan lost when it was within my grasp to prevent such.”

            “And you have my thanks,” Cirdan replied, “Now come.  There are wounded to be seen to and a ship to sail.”

            They sailed south for days until they reached the Island of Balar.  It saddened Círdan to see their number so few; so many had been lost to Morgoth’s host. 

            “We will build here,” the ship-maker announced, “and no host of Morgoth will assail us here in the sea.”

Yet slow were the Elves to forsake the shore of Beleriand and a settlement sprang up on the banks of the river Sirion.  Círdan crafted many ships and those were hid in the reeds and shadows of the river in case the need ever arose.  Ereinion was lax to leave Círdan’s side and so remained, growing into a strong and fair leader among those who sought refuge on Balar.

            Ereinion brought up his sword to parry the blow aimed at his chest.  Quick on his feet, he was focused only on outmaneuvering his opponent.  A juvenile disagreement over whose skills with the sword were better had led to this encounter. 

            “I am better,” Galdor, a childhood friend, gritted his teeth, called in jest, an attempt to distract the Prince.

            “We shall see,” Ereinion replied.

            “Must you fight?” the dark haired she-Elf seemed bored, looking off towards the sea.  “Perhaps we should leave them to this, Anárion.  I am not willing to waste my afternoon again.”

Her light-haired male companion nodded.

            “I agree, Êlenrana.  Unless they can come to some agreement-“

            “There is no agreement to be made!” Galdor interrupted.

            It was Anárion who noticed Círdan and Melaurë approaching.  He nudged Êlenrana who called out to the pair.

            “Master Círdan, Lady Melaurë, greetings.”

Both Ereinion and Galdor were quick to put aside their weapons.  Ereinion approached his mother quickly, a kiss pressed to her cheek.

            “It is a rare day that you come and find me,” he remarked.

            “It is an equally rare day that finds fighting among friends,” Melaurë countered, a knowing look on her face.

            “We did tell them it was foolish,” Êlenrana replied.

            “Foolish, yes,” Cirdan’s attention turned to the Prince.  “Your duties require your attention, if you can bear to end your feud.”

            Ereinion easily parted from his friends, walking with his mother.  She slipped an arm around his waist, needing this last moment with her son.  She knew what duties awaited his attention.

He is so young, so joyful to be given this responsibility. 

            “Is something amiss, Amil?” Ereinion noted the tense silence surrounding his mother and Círdan.

            “We shall speak of it in private,” Círdan responded.

            They entered the largest haven that housed many offices and the residences of both Círdan and Ereinion.  Cirdan led the way through the familiar halls into his own private office.  Ereinion paused, clearly surprised at the small gathering of familiar and unfamiliar Elves.  He immediately felt the scrutiny and parted from his mother’s grasp, standing tall and alone beside Círdan. 

            “Ereinion, your cousin, Idril, has come a long way with a message for you.”

            Ereinion focused his attention on the lovely golden haired she-Elf.  He took her hand with a murmured blessing.

            “It is good to meet you, Araninyo,” her voice was soft, her eyes sad.  “I wish I brought better tidings to you.”

            “I would hear whatever news you bring of Gondolin, of the High-King,” Ereinion replied.

            “I come today to tell you of its fall,” her voice changed and wove a sorrowful tale of betrayal and loss.

            Melaurë’s gaze was intent on her son’s face.  Ereinion listened to Idril’s tale carefully, not yet completely sure of his part in this gathering, of the reason this message was brought to him.  From her place, she could see the simple crown in Tuor’s hands, a replica of the simple circlet her husband had worn. 

            “My father, the High-King, did not leave his realm,” Idril turned, taking the crown into her hands and presenting it to Ereinion’s view.  “I bring the crown of the High-King of the Noldor to you, Ereinion, son of Findékano, heir of Nolofinwë.  May Elbereth bless your reign.”

            The room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the young Prince’s response.  Ereinion finally knelt before her, allowing her to place the circlet upon his head.  She drew him back to his feet, kissing each cheek.

            “A great king you will be, Araninyo,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

He spared her a brief smile, holding onto her hand for a brief moment longer than necessary.  Other words of blessing were spoken, as custom would have it, but Ereinion did not hear them, lost already in a swirl of thoughts and disbelief.  Elves surrounded him, expressions of celebration and encouragement easily given.  Ereinion managed to return the platitudes gracefully, grateful when Círdan finally began to clear the room.

            Ereinion fell back into a chair once only Cirdan and his mother remained.  He removed the crown, holding it between his fingers, tracing the pattern.  No doubt word was spreading through Balar at the speed of thought and a celebration would ensue.

I am not ready for this.  This is too much; this is complete madness.  Idril should have taken this.

            “Araninyo?” his mother spoke first.

            She gazed at him in the chair, an image of his father.  It wasn’t until the crown had been placed upon her son’s head that Melaurë admitted to herself the resemblance.  However, she could not remember a time, even in Valinor, that Findékano had ever looked so young. 

            “Tell us your thoughts, Araninyo,” Círdan bade from his place standing guard at the door.

            “I am not sure of my thoughts,” the King answered honestly. 

            “When you are ready,” Melaurë took a seat beside him.

Ereinion placed the crown on his mother’s knee, rubbing his face, collecting his thoughts.

            “Amil,” he began, looking to her for guidance, “what if I should not have this?”

Melaurë was silent, meeting her son’s gaze.  She took the crown into her hands, placing it on his brow.

            “Son, you should not have this, yet it has come to you,” inwardly, she cursed her decision to leave the bliss of Aman.  “It is your choice what you will make of it.”

            “Ereinion, you will not bear this weight alone” Círdan felt it important to speak.  “There are many that would support you and supply guidance when necessary.  I would suggest that you bring closer those that you trust.”

            “You would be one of those to guide me?”

Círdan nodded. 

“I would not forsake you now.”

            A great feast on Balar brought together the Elves of the coast, of Doriath and of Gondolin.  Melaurë sat with Círdan, both content to watch the activities.  Círdan clinked his wine glass to hers, offering her a small smile.

            “To your son.”

Melaurë only nodded.

            “I worry, Círdan,” she finally admitted.  “I worry that he will walk the same path as the Kings before him.”

The shipwright placed a hand over hers.

            “Do not worry so much about the future that you lose sight of the present,” he murmured.  “Tomorrow will come and with it, all of its challenges.” 

Melaurë then raised her own glass.

            “I will drink to that.”

Ereinion found himself on the outskirts, trying his best to remain in the shadows for a moment of solitude. 

            “Your majesty!”  The laughing voice behind him caused Ereinion to turn quickly.  Galdor offered him a glass of wine.  “Should I bow?”

Ereinion took it gladly, shaking his head.

            “Please do not.  I will not bear it if you begin to treat me differently.”

The two stood in silence, watching the dancing and laughter carry on under the stars. 

            “I do have a request to make of you,” Ereinion finally broke the silence.

            “You ask a request now that I am unable to reject it?”  Galdor sent an easy smile the King’s way.

            “Círdan has advised me to set up my own circle of counsel.  I would have you named in that group.”

            “I assume you will ask the same of Anárion and Êlenrana?”

            “Of course.  Each of you have your own areas of expertise,” Ereinion took a long drink of wine. 

            “Then it shall be as you request.”

            “Shouldn’t you be out there?” Êlenrana swept up to the Elves, extending a hand.  “Come and dance!”

Galdor glanced at Ereinion.

            “You are the better dancer,” Galdor conceded.

Ereinion narrowed his eyes, but took the lady’s hand to rejoin the celebration.  So began the reign of Ereinion, high-king of the Noldor, with laughter and celebration under Elbereth’s stars.