A King by Any Other Name by Tehta

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Chapter 1

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There was no denying it: the young man sitting before Círdan did look like a Finwian. Though he was slighter than the average Noldo, and though his eyes held no light, there was something about him… his upswept eyebrows, perhaps, or the jut of his chin. Or perhaps it was the way he had walked into the room, with an exaggerated masculine swagger, like a bad actor impersonating a delinquent.

Ulmo’s beard, but the Noldor were annoying. Well, at least this particular one had been invited here, officially and explicitly.

“I am deeply gratified,” Círdan said, “that you decided to accept my invitation. I have heard a great deal about you.”

“About…” The boy cleared his throat, then continued in deeper tones. “About the work I have been doing with my people?”

“Yes, about your leadership of the Noldorin refugees, certainly.” Surprisingly sensible leadership, if Círdan’s advisors were to be believed. “But also about you yourself -- although there, much of what I have been told is contradictory, or simply confusing. Let us start with your name: Ereinion. The scion of kings. That is quite a bold claim for a name to make.”

“Perhaps.” Ereinion sat up from his youthful slouch, his head high. “And yet it is quite accurate, I assure you.”

“Yes, the stories all agree that you are a descendant of Finwë. Beyond that, however… I confess I have heard several theories concerning your father. Many would name you a descendant of High King Fingon--”

“High King Fingon? I do number many of his followers among my people, but…” Ereinion looked genuinely confused. “He was-- He never wed. Where would he have obtained a son?”

Well, the rumours had provided several conflicting explanations, most of them as amusingly scandalous as they were unconvincing, but this was not the time to share them. “King Finrod, then? I have heard people suggest him, and you do have his hair.”

“No, not King Finrod, although I knew him well, of course.” Ereinion smiled wistfully. “I am afraid my father cannot be not counted among the kings mentioned in my name, which refers more to Finwë and Finarfin, and also to Olwë… For, you see, my father was Orodreth. Finrod’s brother.”

Orodreth… Círdan remembered him only vaguely, as the only Finwian who never made any memorable impression. Not that this was a bad thing, by any means. As for the truth of this not-so-bold claim of parentage, however…

“Ah, Orodreth,” he said. “I met him a few times. Rather fond of ale, was he not?”

The flash of annoyance in Ereinion’s eyes showed that he grasped the purpose of the question. “I never saw my father drink anything but wine. He favoured light reds.”

“You know, I do believe you are right.” Clearly, Círdan would have to try something harder. “But then, I obviously did not know him very well. I did not even know he had a son -- although I seem to recall that his daughter’s birth was announced far and wide. I even remember sending an appropriate gift of some sort… Now, what could it have been?”

“A cradle,” replied Ereinion at once. “Shaped like a boat.”

“Hmm, yes.” Círdan inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My condolences, by the way: I was saddened by the reports of her death. Which was, of course…” Círdan had been going to say, “rather convenient for you”, but the haunted expression on Ereinion’s face stopped him. No matter who this boy was by birth, he was still a refugee -- and likely of Nargothrond, given his knowledge of its lord. So, Círdan said, instead, “Which was a great pity. A well-liked princess could have done much to unite the refugees.”

“She could have done what I have been doing, true. But not a great deal more; the Noldor are not used to accepting female rulers.”

“That is an odd custom of yours, I agree. Though the lady Galadriel seems to be doing well enough, in her own way… You know, I had been thinking of inviting her to visit.”

“I would, of course, welcome an opportunity to see my aunt again, and benefit from her counsel. I am confident that she would approve of what I am trying to accomplish.”

The boy certainly sounded confident; and he looked it, too. If he was bluffing, then… Well, he might make a very interesting addition to the weekly card game. Círdan made a mental note to invite him along, regardless of how this interview turned out. For now, however, a change of tack seemed advisable.

“Of what you are trying to accomplish...” he said. “But what is that, exactly?”

“Is it not obvious?” Ereinion frowned. “I seek to help my people--the Noldorin refugees, I mean--regroup and recover from recent losses.”

“But to what end, if I might ask?”

Ereinion’s frown deepened.  “Surely recovery is a valid end in itself?”

“It is a worthy one, certainly. But your people came here with a different, more ambitious purpose.”

“Oh, I see what you mean.” Now that he had abandoned his posturing, Ereinion’s voice had a high, clear timbre, almost childlike. But there was nothing childlike about the thoughtful, weary expression on his face. “I am quite aware that the Enemy is a great evil, and his destruction is a noble cause, so that all who even attempt it are cloaked in glory. Nor am I immune to the longing for revenge, or to fear for those of my people who now live in captivity. But these are… personal concerns. Selfish concerns. My duty is to those who remain, and most of those are not soldiers.”

He sounded as if he meant it. “That is a very sensible view, for one so Noldorin and so young,” said Círdan. “Though I suppose Orodreth was not one for heroics, either.”

Ereinion smiled ruefully. “Is that another of your tests? If so, I must reply that Father, in spite of his quiet ways, was hardly immune to the lure of heroism. Neither was I, once, for that matter. But now…” He shrugged, then rubbed at his left shoulder. “I find myself preoccupied with other matters. There are many fine craftsmen among my people: smiths, masons, hairdressers. We will not be a burden, not once we have established ourselves properly. And that would happen much faster if--”

“If I were to offer aid? Very well.” Círdan made up his mind. After all, what was the harm in going along with such reasonable plans? “I will make you a deal. I will assist you, but on one condition.”

“What condition? Fealty?” Ereinion took a deep breath. “I am not sure that my peo--”

“No, not fealty. The truth about your origins.”

For a moment, Ereinion sat in silence. “I have not lied about my origins,” he said at last.

“Nevertheless--”

“Nevertheless, you are right to suspect that I have skirted the truth. But if we are to work together… and considering what you have said...” He sat forward. “Tell me: how much do you know about the death of Finduilas?”

Círdan frowned, suddenly aware that he had been expecting something quite different: a tale of scandal, not of grief. “Not much,” he said. “The widely accepted story is that she was killed by her Orcish captors during an attempted rescue. Out of pure malice, one supposes.”

“Yes. That is the story.” Ereinion’s voice had grown deeper again. Or, at least, hoarser. “The Orcs were leading a group captives away from… from the fallen city, when a band of Men fell upon them. The battle was chaotic. When it was over, the Men found a beautifully-dressed woman pinned to a tree. Her wounds were mortal, but she had strength enough to speak; to say, ‘Tell him Finduilas is here.’”

“Him?”

“She meant a hero who had failed her--but he is no longer important. What matters more is… Well, her phrasing.”

“Her phrasing? You mean, her use of the third person to refer to herself?”

“Yes: the formal third person. It is a common affectation among the Noldorin aristocracy. Another one of the captives--one whose shoulder-wound, while serious, was not mortal--explained this to them, once the woman had died. So, they buried the Princess with all due honours.”

Ereinion’s eyes met Círdan’s, questioning, vulnerable--and undeniably older than the boy had seemed. And then, suddenly, it all made sense: the slight frame, the voice… the well-bred, confident manner. Even the reasonable ideas.

Círdan found he rather wanted to laugh.

“Tell me,” he said, instead. “This second captive… Was her name-- Was his name Ereinion?”

“Not at the time. But, yes, that is the name he prefers, these days.”

“I can see why.” Círdan permitted himself to smile. “You know, I cannot help admiring your...

your skillful use of the formal third person. But then, I suppose one should expect nothing less from a scion of kings.”