Scion of Kings by janeways

Chapter 1

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