Scion of Kings by janeways

Chapter 1

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To my lord, the right worthy Prince M—

A pause, then a long hard scratch of quill against parchment. The sound of paper crumpling; a drawer opening. A new sheet of parchment laid atop the desk, smoothed flat by a nervous hand.

To his lordship Prince Mae—

Another pause, a sigh, a desk drawer opening again. New parchment. The scrape of a quill on an inkwell. A flourish for confidence.

To the right high and mighty P—

An internal, knee-jerk ‘no’ from somewhere in the depths of Gil-Galad’s soul, followed by frantic scribbling.

Rolling his neck, Gil-Galad considered his options. Risk sounding too formal and seem stuffy. Risk sounding too familiar and seem presumptuous.  And—worst of all—risk sounding too invested, and seem desperate.

“How does one even begin a letter like this?” he asked to no one in particular. “‘Hello Maedhros, glad to hear you’re not dead anymore; things are good over here, I’m still High King of the Noldor, oh and by the way, I’ve been wondering, is there any chance you’re my father?’” Leaning back in his chair, he gazed up at the ceiling, as if hoping to find his answer there. Whatever the ceiling thought, it kept its secrets to itself.

He had to write this tonight. Tomorrow morning, at first light, his messenger would leave for the Havens, and with her, the letters from those in Middle-Earth to their loved ones in Aman.  Círdan would bear them with him across the Sundering Seas, to the calm, glass-still waters where this world met the next.  Forbidden those lands, yes, but the waters just on the cusp of their borders?  Tides and currents were a tricky thing, after all; and if Círdan happened to stray a bit off course, and so too did one of the white ships of the Teleri of Tol Eressëa, well, who was the Lord of Waters to mention it to Námo?

Thus had missives passed from East to West and back for centuries, an open secret among all the Eldar. And now, Gil-Galad had learned, Maedhros was re-embodied, returned from the Halls of Mandos. Gil-Galad had in fact learned this quite accidentally, stumbling—literally—as he had upon his young herald Elrond, who had sat down in the middle of the hallway to read the message from his long-lost foster-father.

There had been no letter for him. Gil-Galad turned, studying his face in the mirror on the adjacent wall. Strong features—‘princely,’ he had heard them called—framed by long, thick waves of silver hair like moonlight on water.  The visage of a king, crowned in the weight of unknowing and garbed in robes of state too heavy, too early.

His had not been an unhappy childhood, but it had been neither stable nor long, and ever had he wondered after the fate of his parents. He remembered little from early childhood, little before the gray halls of Círdan beside the sea and the words “Scion of Kings” in his mouth.  Little but the echo of memories—glittering halls, damp woods, a face that must surely have been a reflection of his own but yet was not—

No one gave a damn about who his parents were.  He knew this. The people needed a king, and that was good enough for him.  And yet—and yet—the mystery was always there.  And that silver hair, so rare among the Noldor. Rare enough, in fact, that his histories—which he had most certainly not scoured for answers—named the only one of his people to share it notable enough to be recorded: Miriel.

The wife of Finwë. The mother of Fëanor. This left seven options, but only two had ever been kings, and he was sure he would not bear the epessë he did had he been sired by one of the younger five. Maglor, he thought, would not have left him, tender as he was with his foster-son—and anyway, he had only been King Regent. Thus, Maedhros. 

In truth, it was not the most solid deductive reasoning Gil-Galad had ever seen, but it was something he had decided—known? wished for?—since he was a boy.  And it had been safe then, this secret fantasy, “Gil-Galad Maedhrosion,” his maybe-father dead and a world away.  But now Maedhros was reborn, and he had received no letter, and the once-comfortable not knowing had in a moment transformed into an all-consuming dread.

And so, the letter.

From Gil-Galad, Erenion, by the will of the people and Eru Illúvatar High King of the Noldor in Middle Earth—

He twisted his quill between his fingers, considering.

To Prince Maedhros, Lord of Himring— no, this still wasn’t right, how does a scion of kings address another, a wished-for sire?—

The crumpling of parchment, the flick-and-swish of a new sheet being taken off the stack and set upon the desk with conviction.

To Maedhros, from Gil-Galad.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Salutations inspired by these historical examples: http://www.dragonbear.com/letters.html

Chapter 2

Thank you all for your kind comments and for encouraging me to keep writing this!

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To Maedhros, from Gil-galad.

‘Well, that’s something!’ Gil-galad thought. ‘Four whole words. Now I just need…several hundred more.’ Quill in hand, tip poised and at the ready, Gil stared hopefully at the parchment, as if by sheer force of will and a determined gaze, the paper might produce the right words out of ether. The page, having failed to be adequately intimidated, remained blank.

After a few moments, having failed to adequately intimidate the paper through sheer force of will into producing the right words out of ether, Gil-galad let out a deep-seated sigh. Slumping his shoulders back against his chair, he took his face in his hands and rubbed gently, considering his options. He was a king, for Eru’s sake, and by all reports not too shabby of one; he had negotiated countless treaties and council meetings. He had fought battles against enemies far more intimidating than an empty sheet of parchment.

“But the parchment isn’t really the enemy here, is it?” he asked himself.

The shadows had grown long as night fell over Lindon. Nightingales chirped in the low-hanging branches outside his window, the leaves softening the glow of the Fëanorian lamps that had slowly begun to light the dusk.  Rising to light a candle, Gil-galad resolved to return to the task at hand and begin writing this time, really, because he could not afford to pull another all-nighter this month, not at his age, and anyways, surely the pleasantries couldn’t be so difficult. Yes, start with those, have a sort of warm-up before the difficult content.

My lord,

It pleases me greatly to hear of your recent reembodiment from your foster-son, Elrond. As you doubtless know, he is my herald, chief among my privy council—and more than that, he is my closest friend. He has often recounted to me pleasant memories of his youth and the childhood he and Elros spent in your and your brother’s care. I was gratified to learn—

‘What?’ he thought. ‘That you hadn’t really kidnapped them and kept them as hostages? That the lie I told myself, the lie I needed to understand what you’d done, what you’d become, why you kept them and not me—

That at least one of us got to spend a happy childhood with you?’

—that you and Prince Maglor were such dutiful and attentive foster-fathers, and to learn of the great love the twins bore you both.

Restless tapping, a quill nib on paper.

“Well, Eru Almighty, I can’t just say, ‘What the hell was so special about them that you didn’t see in me?’ can I?” Gil-galad muttered in frustration. Logistically, he understood it; as a king, he understood it; but as a child who wanted the love of his mother and father, at the strongest, most intimate and primordial level of his being, beyond all the abstract and intellectual rationalizations, he did not understand how Maedhros could have abandoned him, how he could have sacked Doriath and burned Sirion. And perhaps Gil never would, despite the long and difficult conversations with Maglor and the forgiveness Gil had eventually found in his heart. Perhaps Maedhros wasn’t even his father—

It was a fool’s hope, really, but it was all he had. Once, he could have lived a perfectly happy and productive life without ever having an answer, and in all honestly, he more than likely still could. But now the not-knowing had grown uncomfortable, a weight rather than a buoy, and since the opportunity had at last presented itself…Then again, maybe the direct route wasn’t such a bad idea—perhaps not that exact choice of words—but by Elrond’s account, Maedhros had been a no-nonsense sort of person, even in his more diplomatic moments. He might, Gil reasoned, appreciate a similar approach.

My lord, I confess I write to you with more than felicitations and warm wishes. You know that my parentage is, shall we say, murky. I have long endeavored to determine the identities of my parents—but not, as you might suspect, to solidify any claim to the throne. On the contrary, I have always believed in my heart it is the abilities and characteristics of a person that qualify them to rule, rather than whom their parents happened to have been. The people have placed their trust me, and gladly do I accept it.

But as one might imagine, the question of my parents has long troubled me. As a king, I feel it makes no difference as regards my ability to govern, but as a person like any other, I desire to know—to love and honor—my mother and father. Yet their names remain a mystery, even to many whose memories are long.

You may have now guessed my intention in writing to you. I am called Ereinion, Scion of Kings, sent to the house of Círdan—some say by you yourself—marked by nothing but a note and the silver of my hair. They say your grandmother, Miriel, had silver hair, too.

There are not so many kings of the Noldor of whom I might be scion who might have granted me that rarity. And I have often wondered if—if I am to be honest, my lord, I have often wished that—it was you.

I hope you are not shocked by what must seem to you my great impertinence, and I am well aware that, to many, this would seem not a little strange, considering our history.

‘Considering Sirion,’ he thought. ‘Considering the War of Wrath. Considering so many things.’

—Nonetheless I write to you with the desire of determining if you are my father. The desire, if I may be so bold, that you should be my father. I am told by Elrond that you valued forthrightness, and endeavored always to instill that value in him.  I hope, at least, that I do not disappoint you in that matter.

Please respond at your earliest convenience. And please know that, no matter your response, I wish you every happiness. I truly do.

It seems wrong, somehow, to sign this officially, as “High King of the Noldor,” for you yourself bore that title. And so I will leave you, just

 

Gil-galad

As Berlin points out, one reason the story has likely remained so popular today is the high level of identification Diaspora readers feel with Esther and the Jews of Persia: “American Jews read this diaspora story as diaspora Jews…they see themselves in it…” (“Commentary” 9).  This has in some part to do with Jewish understandings of time and memory.  Richardson explains that the rabbis understood both the Biblical past and the (Messianic) future as bracketed from, but deeply and intimately entwined with, “the vast present that is the real objective of rabbinic practice” (53).  The Book of Esther resonates with Jews today and throughout history because it links us—not only to the Biblical past, but one generation to another.

 

Chapter 3

Special thanks to Fionn (ecthvlion) and Ioann (struckinarda) for beta reading, and thanks also to you readers! Your support keeps me going, so please - let me know what you think!

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Dappled sunlight played across Maedhros’s right hand, patterns of color and shadow filtering through a canopy of leaves in the shade of his mother’s garden. Bumblebees and dragonflies hummed through the air around him, alighting on flowers as bright as any gem his father ever wrought. Such a lovely, warm spring day—well, Maedhros mentally corrected himself, it was always springtime in Valinor. Always vibrant, always alive. It was strange, how a few centuries in Himring (and, alright, more than a few in the Halls of Mandos) had made him forget this, the simple luxury of a comfortable wicker chair, a gentle breeze, and the warmth of the sun on his skin.

But then, even as a boy in Tirion, Maedhros had never been one much for excessive luxury, and so he had brought the latest batch of letters from Beleriand—Middle Earth, he corrected himself again—to read while he whiled away the afternoon. It crossed his mind that he whiled away too many afternoons.

‘Finno would probably have laughed at that,’ he thought. It was true, he had never been one for pure relaxation, preferring instead to find his enjoyment in the expansion and exercise of the mind. When he read for pleasure, he read non-fiction as much as stories or poems or plays, and even when he did choose literature, he always availed himself of an accompanying commentary to read afterwards, so that he might compare it with his own analysis.

And so whereas his cousins and brothers treated letters from friends and relations in the East mostly as personal matter—or at least as personal as such things could be when you were born of a large and noble family, and your letters were thus semipublic affairs—Maedhros read them the way one might read a newspaper. (Indeed, Tirion’s local journal was known to have gleaned an item or two of interest from letters to the younger House of Finwë). Turgon was the only other cousin he knew of who treated these letters as much like formal missives as friendly notes. Maedhros was not necessarily comforted by this knowledge.

Thus, he found himself reclining in his favorite chair, on a sunny afternoon, with what could have easily been mistaken for paperwork on his lap. He had just finished Elrond’s letter—again. That boy had always been a little reserved, Maedhros felt, able to speak forthrightly and yet not always openly, his frankness revealing little of his heart. For this, Maedhros supposed, he may have had himself to blame. Regardless, the result was that, in order to determine much of what Elrond actually felt on a matter—be it his love life or the state of politics in Lindon—Maedhros was required to do a fair amount of reading between the Tengwar, as it were. Having gleaned as much as he could from Elrond’s letter, Maedhros turned his attention to a short letter, just below Elrond’s in the small pile addressed to him (or sent his way, at least, letters like these often being passed around in a family like his). It bore a seal he did not recognize: blue wax and a lion’s head. Curious, he turned it over.

To Maedhros, from Gil-galad.

And in a moment, the world stilled and caught its breath.

*

He noticed the penmanship, before anything else. Strong, assured, but a little prim, like there was something roiling just below the surface and threatening to burst through at any moment. Hardly noticeable, to the untrained eye—to someone unused to such strict control themselves. (Maedhros was used to it.)

He skimmed the first few lines. In a letter like this, the first paragraph was always skimmable, a fact he knew from long centuries of princely duties and even longer letters from Turgon. As he neared the end, he slowed, beginning to read quickly through the rest, mentally trawling for anything of import.

Ah, there it was. I confess I write to you with more than felicitations and warm wishes. Something about Sauron, or war, or how to best interpret the Black Speech, or “Would you please apologize just one more time for that Kinslaying business,” or—quickly, Maedhros’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “His parents?” Maedhros asked himself aloud. “Why in Eru’s name should he ask me of all people about…”

Oh.

Ohhhh.

Oh, shit.

*

“Ohhh, another one?” Fingon visibly lit up as he snatched the letter from Maedhros’s hands to see for himself. The gold of his tight braids glittered as they swung, catching the candlelight that illuminated the dark bedroom. “Does this mean I get to sign his begetting-day cards like I do Elrond’s? Oh, when is his begetting-day? Do you think it’s soon? Do you think we ought to go buy a present, just in case?”

“Eru Almighty,” Maedhros muttered.

Not noticing, or at least pretending not to, Fingon continued, “Do you think he’ll want to call you ‘Ada?’” A thought struck Fingon as he looked up at Maedhros, the epiphany breaking over his face like a sunrise. “Do you think he’ll want to call me ‘Ada,’ too?”

“You do know I’m not actually the boy’s father, don’t you?” asked Maedhros with the quirk of an eyebrow.

“Of course I know that! But you’ve never let little details like that get in the way before!” Fingon retorted matter-of-factly. In a gentler voice, but no less earnestly, he asked, “But you will tell him, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” Maedhros replied automatically, wondering how on Arda he would ever do it.

Chapter 4

Well, this is it! The last chapter (for now...I don't think I'll be able to put away this Gil for good). I know this is a quick turnaround, but I knew what I wanted to write and the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone (and I wanted to finish the story before going on vacation). Special thanks to ecthvlion on Tumblr for betareading.

Lastly, my very talented friend Ian was kind enough to take a commission of my Gil! I think he looks very handsome - check it out and give it a reblog: http://bettycrockerssketchbook.tumblr.com/post/174555502669/his-sword-was-long-his-lance-was-keen-his

Thank you all for joining me on this journey! This was my first ever fic, and it's been so wonderful to read all your comments and get your support. You guys make this worth doing :)

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Maedhros sat at his old desk, made for him when he reached the age of ascension and became, according to the laws and customs of the Eldar, an adult. He had always been tall, and even then, when he still had a few inches left to grow, the desk had been a little short for him. But like all things of one’s youth, it had become part of the fabric of life, the slight stoop it forced him into as natural a part of writing as breathing.

But how does one pick up the threads of an old life, its pattern no longer familiar to the fingertips? In Himring, Maedhros had commissioned a new desk, more suited to his height and station in life. It was the desk of a king, a warrior, fit for sealing and stamping and making the fate of the world, not of a boy-prince composing treatises on rhetoric in the warmth of his mother’s house. He no longer knew the stoop he had forced his shoulders into, sitting at his old desk in a life he no longer recognized.

No muscle memory to weave this new world, then.

Maedhros sighed. He rolled his shoulders in discomfort, and organized all he would need: several sheaves of paper, an inkwell, a quill, a nib sharpener. Laying them all out in a neat grid before him, he considered his options. He had to tell the lad, of course—he laughed at himself, then, breaking his own train of thought. “‘Lad’ indeed,” he said to himself. “He’s High King and here I am calling him a lad.”

The last time Maedhros had seen him, of course, he really had still been a lad, small and cold and frightened. But even then, there had a been a strength in the boy’s eyes, a steady burning—not of hatred, or even judgment, but of the will to live. (Secretly in his heart of hearts Maedhros had envied that fire even then.)

He had held the boy close, wrapped him in his cloak and rubbed feeling back into his limbs. An unexpected surge of affection had coursed through him, then, the memory of many brothers and cousins who as children long ages ago had cried in his arms. Briefly, he had considered taking the child with him. But how could he have damned a child to such a life as that? How could he have been so selfish as to risk more violence—a last retribution against the heir of Dior from his fallen brothers’ followers?

So Maedhros had let him go—called him Starlight after the fire in his eyes and sent him to the last place in Beleriand the boy might be safe. He had thought of Gil-galad often, especially after the twins had come into his life, wondered what sort of man he was growing into, what sort of education he was receiving. If he was happy.

It all fell into place, then. Maedhros had never been one for over-deliberation; once the path cleared before him, he followed it with as little to-do as possible. The words already laying themselves out in his mind’s eye, he set pen to paper.

To Gil-Galad, from Maedhros.

Greetings, my lord. I thank you kindly for your letter, and am glad to learn of Elrond’s success in court, and in friendship. You seem like a good sort of person, and he speaks very fondly of you. In another life, I think, had had things been different, I would have been very fond of you as well.

It does me great honor to know that you hold me in such regard. I am not sure what I have done to deserve it—

‘No,’ Maedhros firmly reminded himself. No self-pity, no guilt. These were, as his mother often reminded him, unhelpful emotions. And he knew this; he remembered the cocoon of loathing he had once tangled himself in. In a fit of exasperation, Fingon had once yelled at him, “It’s not good enough to just stand there and say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m terrible;’ you have to do something about it! You have to stop being terrible and actually start making amends!” He had been right, Maedhros supposed, although it was a feat easier said than done. But what was this strange second life if not a chance to rid oneself of the easy familiarity we all have with the more unpleasant parts of ourselves?

“Here’s to mending,” Maedhros murmured, lifting his quill in a mock salute.

—but it is welcome nonetheless. There is no delicate way to put this, and so I shall say it right out: being your father would bring me no end of pride, but the honor is not mine.

You doubtless wish to know the story, and although I have debated with myself over the potential harm telling you may do, you seem a man of steady constitution, and I believe it is your right to know. I will try to relate the matter as factually as I can, but I beg of you to forgive whatever bias remains.

You were born Eluréd. Dior was your father and Nimloth was your mother and Doriath was your home. You had a twin brother, Elurín, and a sister, Elwing. You know what became of her. And so Elrond your dear friend is also your nephew and your heir, a fact which I hope may bring you some measure of peace. Of you and your brother I shall now relate.

When my brothers and I sent word asking for—well, I suppose demanding is really the correct word—the return of the Silmaril and heard nothing in return, I hoped that Dior would at least expect an attack and evacuate Menegroth. This was not to be, and when Dior slew my brother Celegorm, a few of his followers, blinded by hate and rage, retaliated in the cruelest way they knew how. They took you and your brother—Elwing they could not find—and left you in the woods. Your intended fate you can imagine.

When I heard what they had done, I slew them and went searching for you. It was the dead of winter, and the woods were treacherous with snow and ice and things that are not spoken of in the Blessed Realm. When I found you, you were huddled in the hollow of a dead tree, barely alive and crying for your brother. He lay at the bottom of a nearby ravine with his neck at an angle. He was surely dead, and you would have soon joined him had I not found you then. I warmed you, garbed you in my own cloak, and sent you to the one place I hoped would remain safe. I told no one but the messenger I sent you with, a woman long in my service and whom I had trusted with my own life more than once. She died at Sirion, and thus with me our secret passed beyond knowledge into the West.

Maedhros paused there, releasing a deep breath he felt he’d been holding for thousands of years. So now he had explained that facts. But how could he ever explain? How could he justify the panic that had gripped him, covered in his little brothers’ blood, as Gil-galad’s tiny, half-frozen body curled in tight against his own? In that moment he had been pierced by the distinct feeling, as cold and clear as the winter sun above, that seeing this child to safety was the only important thing in the whole of Arda. What other justification was there, besides—“I did what any father would have done”?

Forgive me for what I did. You have, it seems, forgiven me for Sirion, but if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me for Doriath, at least forgive me for concealing your identity. I feared for your life if my brothers’ followers learned that you lived. I feared they would try to complete what their compatriots had started, either before you reached Círdan or when you reached manhood. I feared, I suppose, that if they knew, if you were found out, you would be running all your life. I sometimes wondered if I made the right decision.

But when Gondolin fell, and the mantle of High King passed to you, I knew there was no going back. I could not risk open rebellion while your reign was still young and fragile. Then—

Then the Oath had awoken again, and Sirion was burning before Maedhros knew what he was doing. In Elrond and Elros, despite his initial reticence to keep them, he had recognized the chance to start over, to do things right this time. To repair a little of the damage he had done. But all too soon came war like even Maedhros had never known before, and the Oath clawed at him, shredding him apart until it was there was nothing left of himself and the Oath was all that remained. Of the end he remembered little but a pain so strong it numbed and a gaping maw in the earth to match what he felt in his heart.

—it was too late. But I do not think there is any harm done by a small reinterpretation of the truth that heals instead of harms. Perhaps it was fate, a little tweak in the fabric of history, or perhaps Námo really does have a sense of humor. You were born to be king, after all. And as it so happened, we Noldor had need of one. It seems you have done a good job of it. Were I your sire, I could not be prouder.

Here Maedhros stopped again, making to sign the letter. But it still felt incomplete. He turned Fingon’s old words over in his mind anew—it’s not enough to say you’re sorry. You have to make amends. Maedhros thought of the little boy he had once cradled in his arms. It had been the first time he’d held a child in centuries. What choice would he make now, if he had to do it all over again, knowing what he knew?

I have been told that guilt without action is a selfish emotion. That it turns our thoughts inwards, rather than out towards the world we must seek to repair. I think, when I found you, for a brief moment I was able to transcend that guilt. I saw clearly that the duty of your protection fell to me, and me alone. I felt then what I felt for my own foster-sons when I sent them to stay with Círdan—I wanted to spare you the doom we had wrought for ourselves. Perhaps it is a strange sentiment, but not, it seems, unwelcome by you.      I was good with children, you know, what with so many little brothers and cousins to look after. I think I was not so bad with my own sons. You are grown now, but I think perhaps there is still a chance to do right by you, as I did by them.

Besides, there are not so many kings of the Noldor from whom you could have inherited that silver hair.

I wish you every happiness to be found in Middle-Earth—would that I could have known your new world, and shared those joys with you. If you will have me, it would be my honor to be called

Your father,

Maedhros