Remembrance Is All by Agelast

all the flesh inherits

This began life as a response to this poetry meme. Also hat tip to Tehta, who once suggested: The Wuthering-Heights-like one where Maedhros, denied his True Love, takes up with Gil-Galad Fingonion, in Ye Olde List of Fingon/Maedhros Ideas, but it didn't quiiiiite go that way.

Young Gil-galad thinks often of his father, who some called the valiant. Was he good-humored? Was he kind? Yes, they tell him, his mother and Círdan, both of whom are worried about him. Gil-galad listens to their stories, but feels that there is something missing, something not said.

He did not mean to run away -- in his mind, he hasn’t, only taken a longer route to the Havens -- when he is overtaken by a ragged band of Elves, Noldorin-looking, who ask him many impertinent questions before he is taken to see their leader.

“We are kin,” Gil-galad tells the leader, who is sprawled on the floor of his tent, eyes half-shut with drink.

“Indeed,” said Maedhros, for who else could it be? The excessive height, the hair (red-as-blood, and chopped close to his skull -- his ears are clipped as any escaped thrall’s would be), and the stump, which he makes no effort to hide. He glares just like a dragon, but Gil-galad stands fast and is not afraid.

Maedhros drawls, bored and needling, “Which one are you again? Not Írissë’s brat, surely? No? Perhaps --” he directed his question over Gil-galad’s head, “did Angamaitë have a grand-child, after all?”

“None of those,” Gil-galad said proudly. He wonders that his father could have seen anything in this wretch to be worth saving. “My father was Fingon, and I am the scion of the House of Fingolfin.”

Maedhros looks far from drunk now. He sits up and hisses, “Little imposter, I don't believe you.”

“Believe what you like,” Gil-galad says, and he think it will come blows, when a strong pair of hands pulls him back, and a voice like a bell says into his ear, "Ignore my brother, he is overwrought. I see the resemblance."

Another Elf meets Gil-galad's startled gaze and grins. He is dark and he is handsome. He looks much like Gil-galad, but that is hardly worth mentioning -- most grey-eyed, dark haired Noldos do. He does not let go of Gil-galad's shoulders until Maedhros snorts, loudly, and says, "We cannot keep this one either, Makalaurë."

*

They are an odd pair, the two surviving sons of Fëanor. Then Gil-galad remembers, half in alarm, there is another one. Half-wild, half-ghost. He gives a surreptitious look to the dark woods beyond the encampment. He feels as if he is being watched, at all sides. And he is, and there is no helping it, so he looks forward and remembers his own princely dignity.

What of Maedhros and Maglor's princely dignity? They talk like they hate each other, but neither can bear to have the other out of their sight. Maedhros catches his eye and gives him a smile that is more like a snarl. Maglor has pulled a harp from nowhere and plucks at it diffidently, before he tells Gil-galad to try the roast.

Gil-galad declines the roast, but asks about his father. His question is greeted with a long silence, before Maglor begins to play, his eyes closed. Gil-galad is beginning to feel ignored when, before his eyes, he sees his father, exactly as he imagined him. Tall and strong, his dark hair bond by golden thread that Gil-galad's mother still keeps. Fingon lifts a bow, prepares to shoot. Gil-galad looks at the vision hungrily, his heart tight with love. This is his father, and the stories are true.

"Enough," Maedhros says sharply, and the vision wavers, disappears.

"No," Gil-galad says, blinking back tears, "bring him back. Please."

Maglor puts down his harp and looks sad. "I am sorry."

*

Because they are his kinsmen, he is free to go.

(He goes because they are his kinsmen.)

*

Many, many years later, Gil-galad looks upon another kinsman, Elrond, and wonders what he can say, how he can explain. "Forgive me," he says at last, "I did not come in time, and they would not accept the ransom I raised for you and your brother."

Elrond looks at him with clear grey eyes, so familiar. "There is nothing to forgive."

Chapter End Notes

Title from Dylan Thomas, All That I Owe The Fellows Of The Grave, which is Maedhros/Fingon-y to an absurd amount.