Dying on the Vine by Ilye

Chapter 1

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The nights had a way of creeping up on you in these parts. One moment it could be a lovely hazy evening with the fat sun low in the sky, and the next thing there’d be a fog around your throat whilst the daylight disappeared like consciousness at the hands of an assassin. Gil-galad wasn’t sure if it was the season or because the dust had yet to settle after the changing of the world, but it unsettled him in an exciting kind of way.

His mother was waiting for him outside his tent, contemplating the evening. Most nights since the end of the Great Battle had been filled with lords and diplomats and soldiers, Elves and Men and Dwarves, but tonight the Host of Valinor was making its final preparations and with it were those from Middle-earth who had heeded Eonwë’s summons.

Aeglariel smiled at him as he drew close. “Rounds complete? Everything in order?”

He nodded and placed a hand between her shoulder blades to guide her inside the tent. “There’s a tension about the place tonight,” he said, following her through the entrance flap held open by the guard. “Something’s changing.”

“It’s bound to feel that way. This is a volatile new country and its people are leaving it.” She turned to him as she spoke, met his eyes and lifted her chin. Her regal posture bordered on defiance.

Gil-galad felt his heart sink a little, but he lifted his own chin and mirrored her pose. “You haven’t changed your mind, then? This is to be your last night East of the Sea?”

“Yes. I don’t recognise the place anymore. Everything’s changed; so many I knew and loved, gone.”

“I suppose at least in Valinor you may see them again, in time − when Námo deems it right.”

“Some of them, yes. But there are some, who raised blades in Alqualondë, who may never be released − like your father.”

She looked sadder than he had expected her to. Gil-galad held her eyes for a moment until she glanced away with some veiled regret on her face. He took a step closer to her, reaching for her shoulder.

“It galls me that he did not return your love in equal measure, you know.”

“Whatever makes you say that?” Aeglariel’s face held genuine interest as she looked up at him in surprise.

Caught off-guard, Gil-galad shrugged. He could sense his words failing him. “It was just an impression I got,” he said at last. “It was an arranged marriage after all…”

“Ereinion.” His mother’s voice still had the power to make him stand up tall and straighten his expression. “Just because our marriage was one of diplomacy, doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other.”

“But you didn’t marry for love, did you?” He wasn't sure it was a sensible question, but his self-preservation seemed to be three sheets to the wind.Would knowing really help me understand anyway? How two people not in love could marry and give life to a child because it was simply something society demanded of them?

She looked wary; this was not something they had ever discussed before and he guessed she was gauging how much to reveal to him.

“Marrying was just something that he had to do − as will you, in time. He was Findekáno, the Noldor’s crown prince, and he needed an heir. We were dear friends before we married; I was his captain and we often fought side-by-side. I suppose it was a warrior's arrangement, if you will."

She turned and took a seat at the table. It angled her away from Gil-galad until he seated himself opposite her, unwilling to lose his grip on the conversation because he could not see her face.

She glanced at him and continued, "Despite all that, your father played his role of husband as admirably as he did everything else in his life, and it didn't stop him from loving me as best he could." Her eyes drifted away. "We were dear friends," she repeated, her voice now sad and quiet as it followed her gaze into that space only memory can reach.

Bitterness reared up and answered for him before he could wrestle it back. “I can see how that would have made it easier to bring a child that neither of you really wanted into the world.”

The steely glitter in Aeglariel’s eyes brought him up short as her head snapped around. “That is not fair. Ours may have been a time of necessity, Ereinion, but you were not unwanted.”

"A necessity, then," he said with a curl of his lip. She reached out and touched his hand gently. He forced himself not to recoil and looked at her, smarting, in accusation.

"Yes, my darling," she said calmly, "you were. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you with all my heart. And although we married for duty, I did love your father − I always will − not least because he gave me you: my wonderful, beloved necessity."

“But you still sent me away." A fresh ache bloomed. It would almost have been easier if I knew you hadn't wanted me in the first place. “And now he is dead and I have come to the job I was bred, you are leaving for the West."

He regretted that almost as soon as he had said it, but it was too late. She closed her eyes briefly to cover the − What, pain? Remorse? − he could see in them. Then she turned to him, stony-faced.

“I am sorry it hurts you so much. Pesky things, these emotions. Best off without them.”

Fine, close yourself off too. I'm used to it anyway. He gritted his teeth at that thought and said, “Yes, well, Father managed that one well enough when it came to me.”

Aeglariel looked saddened, but not surprised. "Your father had the biggest heart of any person I've known. He loved you too, in his own way."

Gil-galad sighed and grappled to pull the edges of his flayed reason back together. "I’m sorry. Perhaps he did," he conceded. “He may have been distant at times, but I suppose that's to be expected.”

She touched her fingertips to his cheek. “And Círdan was good to you, no?”

Gil-galad shrugged; nodded. “Undeniably so, though also not what I’d expect from a true father. Yet after tonight’s conversation, I still feel like I know him far better than either of my parents.”

Aeglariel looked at him sharply and he wondered if he had finally gone too far. He started to apologise with a wince, but she closed her eyes and waved it away.

“Do not apologise for the truth. It should be me apologising to you, because the sad fact is: you are right.” In the pause that followed Gil-galad anticipated that apology, but she said instead, “You know that it was Maedhros’ idea to place you in Círdan’s care, don’t you?”

That should not have surprised him as it did. She let him process the information, waiting in that unshakable way of hers that lent itself so well to commanding armies, whilst he fought to keep himself still instead of pacing out the confusion and resentment he couldn’t express in words.

“He was wise there,” she continued eventually. “Both Russandol and your father had portents of doom. They wanted to distance you from all their mistakes, give you a fresh start. It was the right decision, Ereinion. After the Dagor Bragollach everything became suddenly unstable, and you were too young, too precious to us. You still were when the fifth battle came around, too − by the stars, I am glad you did not have to see that. A war’s machinations are not for a child’s eyes, nor its aftermath.” She tailed off, glassy-eyed.

The terrible fight. Gil-galad remembered warriors riding out amongst the Orcs that plagued Beleriand and The Falas after the Union of Maedhros was defeated, and a constant stream of harangued messengers with skinny, exhausted horses and bad news. None had ridden to the help of Hithlum; with its king dead and so few left to defend it, Barad Eithel had not held for long against the enemy.

Unexpected sorrow billowed through him like smoke from a flare. He could no longer suppress his instinct for motion and stood up to allow his pacing feet free rein. Aeglariel continued staring into history whilst he went to the small travel trunk at the tent’s perimeter. Here the draw of the small wartime luxury secreted within was too strong: a bottle of alcohol, given to him by Finarfin and kept for a special occasion. The thought made him laugh to himself as he broke the seal, poured two measures and sat at the table, facing her.

Her eyes came alive again when he slid a glass towards her, then took a mouthful from his own. The drink turned out to be poor quality brandy that made him pull a face and he shot a baleful glare into the glass.

“Filthy drink − burnt wine, nothing more. Always did prefer whisky, myself."

Aeglariel gave him a knowing look that he did not wish to decipher. Just to make a point he drank again, then settled for swirling the remainder around the glass and watching as the amber clung to its sides. It wasn’t until she reached out and smoothed the creases out of his brow that he realised he was frowning.

“I used to have to warn Findekáno to guard his features, too,” she murmured as she slid her hand down to cup his cheek. Her eyes studied his face like a map of great importance. “You are your father’s son.”

Gil-galad let his eyes glint dangerously, but he nipped at his tongue before he replied. “That was rather the object of the exercise, wasn’t it? Though I would like to think I can also boast my own... qualities.” His smirk held no humour.

"But of course − you are a joy to me all of your own." He knew from the light in her eyes that she meant it and relaxed a little. Her lips twitched as she gestured to his glass. "Brandy, for example, was your father's favourite drink."

He snorted. "That fits.”

She laughed and toasted him. He responded in kind, though he did not drink.

“I do mean it, though.” Her voice was serious again. “You remind me of him in many ways, but you are not your father, Ereinion. Do not feel as though you are living in his shadow. He had his own... hmm, quirks − just as you have yours. You are your own person to make your own decisions, mistakes and triumphs.”

He was saved from articulating a response by the sudden raising of voices outside the tent. Instinct pitched him to his feet just as a guard’s shout announced a visitor.

“Enter!”

The messenger wore Valinor’s colours, together with a cloak of fatigue and nervousness. He was a pale young thing, too thin in Gil-galad’s opinion, with a look of the Sindar about him. Gil-galad gazed at him expectantly.

“Well? What news now?”

The boy’s bow was practically a spinal reflex. “Sire, word from the Host of Valinor. Maedhros is dead and Maglor is lost. The Silmarils are gone. They sent me to tell you that it is over.”

“Maedhros is dead?”

“Yes, my lord. They staged a theft and took the jewels. Maedhros threw himself into fire and took one with him. Both are no more. Maglor sent his to Ulmo and fled along the coast.”

Gil-galad nodded dumbly. He would have commented that no Fëanorion would ever flee, but its preceding statement had left him feeling physically winded.

Behind him, his mother got to her feet. “At least neither was killed in a final, pointless fight,” she said quietly. Gil-galad glanced at her over his shoulder and nodded again.

“Small mercies,” he agreed. He turned back to the messenger. “Thank you − you may go.”

Aeglariel waited for the guards to close the tent flaps behind him before she laid her hand on Gil-galad’s shoulder. It did nothing to fill shock’s void, but he covered it with his own anyway.

“Last of the legends, gone,” she said quietly. Her grip tightened enough to bruise. “And just like that, politics becomes history.”

Gil-galad glanced back at her. She looked as blindsided as he felt. He insinuated his fingers between hers to loosen her hold on his shoulder and they stood for a moment, hand-in-hand.

“It was Maedhros who first brought me the news of Father’s death,” Gil-galad said at length. A smirk touched his lips as he stared into the middle-distance. “I remember he flew into the court unannounced − really put the wind up Círdan’s courtiers. And he wasn’t even exiled at the time.”

His mother exhaled shakily; he didn’t know if it was a laugh or a sigh without seeing her face, but he was certain it wasn’t a sob.

“That sounds like him. Never overly fond of protocol that stood in the way of practicality." She paused, then continued thoughtfully, "You know, I think you and he would have rubbed along well together, had either of you existed in a different time.”

He turned stiffly around to face her. “I am not sure whether to be more offended by the suggestion that I see no value in life, or that I am of questionable moral worth."

Aeglariel folded her arms crossly. "Don't be ridiculous, Ereinion," she commanded. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

"What, then?" The thunk of his fist on the table sounded loudly as the two impacted rather harder than he intended. He could feel his temper rising; he needed space. His restless feet took him closer to the tent's entrance flap, then he spun back to her with his hands braced on his hips.

"Are you associating me with a kinslayer? Or did you mean like he and Father 'rubbed along together', as you put it?”

The scrutiny of his mother’s eyes scraped across his face. He tilted his head knowingly, and she sighed in concession.

“Clearly you worked it out for yourself long ago. It was an ill-kept secret that they were lovers − great, tragic lovers, long before I was even so much as a notion.”

Gil-galad felt his expression open in astonishment. "So the rumours are true. You mean you knew? And you still married him?”

“Come on now, sweetheart. I never met a man who could keep such a secret from his wife and least of all your father. Of course I knew, long before we even became betrothed − in fact it was I who proposed in the first place.”

"And then what, knowing Father would never love you like he loved him?"

"There are many different types of love, Ereinion, but very few people in this world ever have what they had." Aeglariel took her glass between her palms and rolled it absently. "At least your father and I had each other for companionship. Russa had the rawest end of the deal."

The use of Maedhros' nickname stung almost as much as the confirmation that Fingon's heart had belonged to his cousin and not his wife, but something in Aeglariel’s voice made him bite his tongue.

He shook his head, fighting to mask his narrow-eyed frown, and silence fell, leaving him space to drift back to a seaside court, a hundred years ago, seen through the eyes of a child.

Maedhros was before him. He could list any number of the Fëanorion’s characteristics that had mesmerised him that day: his height, made all the more improbable by lean muscle and prominent bones; the bright hair loose like a fiery halo; a face scarred and sombre but still prepossessing; his missing right hand...

Círdan’s courtiers had behaved like a baby dragon was in their midst and Gil-galad had expected to see fire in Maedhros’ eyes. Instead they held a stillness and patience like that of the deepest frozen lake, the kind with monsters lurking on its bed. All around him was an air of pain and sharp edges, though it seemed to Gil-galad that Maedhros had turned that sharpness in on himself instead of inflicting it on others. It was an introspection verging on hibernation. He had been wildly beautiful, despite the imperfections, despite the damage wrought to body and spirit over centuries. It was a sad, transient beauty that reminded Gil-galad of Autumn: russet, still, and waiting to die.

“Thinking about it now, it was clear when he came to see me then that he’d already started dying on the vine without Father. I was too young to see it at the time, of course.”

“Yes, and he did not visit often by that point, even before…” She hesitated. “Before those events. I would be amazed if you remembered much of him at all.”

“There are certain things. I was in the next-door room once when he lost his temper. I think it was at Father’s coronation. I didn’t understand − they were talking in the old tongue − but it sounded savage. I thought they were going to come through the wall.” He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, then opened them again when her hand touched his arm. “It would have been a lovers’ tiff,” he finished with a grimace. “I know that now.”

Aeglariel exhaled, deep and slow. “Ah, they could fight like wolves at times. But you should have seen them together, Ereinion.” Nostalgia stole her expression.

"You can imagine they always tried to guard themselves in public, but your father was never the best at hiding what he felt and he felt everything for Russandol. They were beautiful together − they just fitted, like imprints. Their togetherness was the most natural thing in the world − and they knew one another like nobody else. Their love for each other was all-encompassing.”

“You say you loved Father, but... really you loved them both, didn’t you? I can tell from the way you talk now.”

“In the end I did, yes. Russa would only let himself be loved from a distance by anyone except Findekáno, of course. Too much damage to let anyone else in. But he accepted me, in his own strange way, and I’m very grateful for that because it made things far easier between your father and me.”

Gil-galad pursed his lips pointedly. “I can’t comprehend how you can speak so fondly of your husband’s true beloved, and yet...” Knowing what he did, in Doriath, and Sirion? he wanted to add, but finished instead, “And yet you don’t seem the slightest bit distressed by his death.”

“Can you imagine taking your own life, Ereinion? Can you imagine being so devoid of hope?” The sorrow in her voice intimated that she had imagined such things. “Findekáno’s death eviscerated Russa. He had nothing left but that terrible, ridiculous oath. In the end, his was a spirit damaged beyond all comfort except that which only Námo can offer. And even then − well, he was always master of his own will, that man; a true Fëanorion right up to the last. It saddens me more than you can believe, but I think we have seen the best end to an insoluble problem. I wish beyond anything that he can finally be at peace.”

“I’ll wager the harpers will not commemorate his death in song like they did Father’s.”

A vocal tremor belied Aeglariel’s shrug. “Perhaps it is better they do not. Few understood him well enough to commemorate him as tragic instead of a soulless savage. Besides...”

She tailed off. Gil-galad thought she would not finish her sentence, but she said eventually, “Naturally Makalaurë had the best of it:

‘Of Findekáno Elves do sing:
Captain of Armies, Noldor king,
Who fell at last in flame of swords
With his white banners and his lords.’”

She shrugged. Pain had sharpened her voice and brightened her eyes. “And since Makalaurë is lost now, too…”

"Maglor wrote that one? That seems a little... crass of him."

"Knowing Russandol, he wouldn't have had it any other way. I believe it was an outcome of his self-flagellating trip to bring you the awful news after the Fifth Battle."

"That was why he came instead of you? And you let him?"

“No, Ereinion. I would have come if I could − please tell me you know that?"

The flash of desperation across her face compelled a nod from him, though before then he hadn't been so sure.

She continued, "Fin− your father and his best commanders were all dead and Morgoth’s Orcs were coming after us. I was trying to stop the castle from being overrun. And Russandol − poor Russa − he took responsibility for the whole affair. He had commanders left alive to look after his realm and he felt it was his duty − or perhaps his punishment − both for orchestrating the union and being misled by the traitor. I wondered if it might help him handle the loss."

"Did it?"

“I honestly could not tell you.”

Gil-galad considered Maedhros, at his end. His heart cremated on a battlefield years before through his own doing. His family, all but gone and their oath void. Exhausted from living expectant of his doom. Still damned.

And he understood.

Gil-galad found he did not have the energy to contemplate the Noldor’s ill-fated history any further tonight. It must have shown on his face, for when Aeglariel next looked at him her expression softened and she reached to him.

“Enough gloom. Come with me.” Her hand tugged on his, then let go. She rose from the table and walked towards the tent’s entrance.

Mechanically Gil-galad followed her out of his tent and through the labyrinth of smaller shelters that made up their camp. With squared shoulders and determined gait she still seemed the second-in-command of High King Fingon’s army that he remembered from his childhood; yet when she glanced over her shoulder at him, the tiredness in her eyes weighed down his heart like a stone thrown into a lake.

“Look, Ereinion. What do you see?”

They had stopped at the top of the low hill on which their camp was situated. The sea lay behind them, carving out a shoreline fresh for the new age. Mountains loomed against the dark sky: the Ered Luin, broken and reshaped. The vague presence of a guard behind him, just out of earshot, warned of the uncertainty in this unfamiliar landscape.

Gil-galad looked through the night and thrilled. All was changed. The stars clustered brightly around the crescent moon and illuminated everything: clean and fresh and ready. He took a deep, consecrating breath, and felt joy.

“I see a new land, a new hope, a new adventure. A new world.”

She nodded. “You still see Arda's promise, don't you?”

With difficulty he pulled away from the gravity of the landscape and turned to her. “Do you not?”

“No, sweetheart. I see only what was before; what is broken, and lost. You were born into a time that was not for you.” She swept her arm across the horizon.

“This is what you were born for, Ereinion. This is your time now; your world. It is all yours.”

“But not yours. And that is why you are leaving.”

Aeglariel turned away from the landscape, back to him. “If I have no choice but to live in a different world, then I would rather one that does not remind me of lost loves. The place where I was born, filled with heroes and myth, doesn’t exist any more. All I see now is sorrow and death. So I am trusting the Herald and following him West in the hope that another land, less tragic and differently beautiful, can show me again the joy of life that I can see in you now.”

She sighed. “Come, sweetheart. You’ve chased enough ghosts for tonight.”

Like that, their conversation was over. Suddenly the warrior queen with whom he had started their conversation was gone, replaced with a tired, grey widow. A wave of sorrowful love for her overcame him, making him catch her in his arms so he could clutch her close and press his cheek to the top of her head. She seemed smaller now, more fragile, and utterly weary.

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” he whispered into her hair. But that was wishful thinking, for he knew that she already had.

---

Chapter End Notes

The verse of Fingon’s lament is adapted from The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian, lines 1654–1657:

'The song of Fingon Elves yet sing,
Captain of armies, Gnomish king,
Who fell at last in flame of swords
With his white banners and his lords.'