The Curious Case of the Paternity of Ereinion Gil-galad by elvntari

The question wasn’t exactly one that he was unused to—of course, the topic had always been of some debate—but he always found that he hesitated, and struggled to answer. Which version of the story would he tell today? Which rumour would he feed, and which would he cast doubt upon? There were a million ways to spin it, and a million more to feel about each tapestry he wove with his retelling.

“So,” the elfling asked, grinning as if she had just found the secret stash of silver coins her mother had told her didn’t exist, “Who is your father?”

And the safe answer, as always, was: “Orodreth.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed and, sure, he felt bad, but there were adults and officials around, and he didn’t want to cause a stir by feeding her some scandal just for the sake of cheering her up. That would be irresponsible. Fun. So very much more fun than the answer he had to give, but the wrong kind of fun—the ‘you could lose all of your alliances and respect’ kind of fun.

“I know it’s not that interesting,” he apologised, crouching down to her level and lowering his voice, “but, if you want, you can make something much more fun up, and I’ll tell if that’s the real truth or not.”

The kid grinned again and nodded. And, he couldn’t lie—he was curious about what her tiny mind was formulating within its walls.

The theories for his parentage had been numerous over the years, with heroes, and political scandals, and affairs (both official and unofficial). And then with more dangerous political scandals, murder, and star-crossed lovers from different worlds. So, so many about star-crossed lovers from different worlds. It was a popular motif, he noted, and made for some of the more entertaining reads when people sent him letters containing their proposed theory, and asking if they were correct. However, the most popular—in part due to its convenience, and part due to his advisors pushing it relentlessly—was a rebuttal—the same one he had given that child (albeit his version was kinder) a stern, “Don’t be silly, we all know his father is Orodreth, and that’s that.”

And that was that, and he didn’t ever refute that, even if occasionally he liked to go down to local pubs and tell the drunken that he was the secret lovechild of so and so, and so and so. So, Orodreth’s son he was, and that was final, because Orodreth wasn’t around to argue back. And, oh, he’d have argued back.

—

Orodreth hadn’t been sure what to think when he received upon his metaphorical doorstep a boy and a hastily thrown together letter from his distant, elder cousin.

He’s a sweet kid. I promise he won’t cause you any trouble. Hope Finduilas is well—she was only a babe when I last saw her. Give your wife my salutations!

—Fingon

“What’s your name?” He had asked the child.

“Ereinion?” The child had phrased his answer as a question, and Orodreth had sighed, then ushered him in.

“You don’t know your name?” He had said, sitting him down with a mug of nettle tea—the boy looked exhausted; what had Fingon been thinking sending him on such a long journey without instructing him in advance to send anyone to greet him?

“I don’t know what name I’m supposed to give you.”

That had piqued his interest. What child had to choose which name to give people when he greeted them? He considered writing to Fingon, but then remembered that he was still meant to be upset with him, and decided to ask ‘Ereinion’ himself what he meant.

“Well, my parents call me Ereinion,” he said, fiddling with his hands, “But they always introduce me to people as Gil-galad.”

“Your parents?”

“Not parents!” He had added, covering his mouth. “Caretakers.”

“I see.” He decided not to press.

From that day onwards, Ereinion Gil-galad was his honoured guest, and he would let him follow him around Nargothrond, assisting him with his royal duties. It gave the boy something to do, and he had been in severe need of entertainment; the second day he was there, he had caught him in the forges with Celebrimbor, trying a soft, delicate hand at metalworking, and then burning said soft, delicate hand badly enough that he had to keep it in salve and bandages for weeks after, and couldn’t write properly for a month. He would’ve told him off for being so reckless, but really the incident was Celebrimbor’s fault, and he got the feeling that Ereinion was already remorseful enough.

He learned quickly and he was an efficient worker: he read and wrote well, and his manners were impeccable; he would’ve made the perfect heir, and he would've been tempted to appoint him as such if he wasn’t certain Fingon had similar plans of his own for the boy.   Ereinion, Scion of Kings. It seemed that the poor dear was some sort of political plaything to his caretakers (of whose identities he had a suspicion); perhaps he had been bred and raised specifically for politics, educated in all of the obscure arts that only a king would realise one needed education in. Gil-galad, it seemed, was a pawn in the game of Finwëan family power-grabs, and Orodreth couldn’t help but pity him.

Then word came of the battle.

It came in installations. The first was a report of the beginning, the second was a report of how badly things were going wrong, and the third was a list of the names of the people who had died and, at the very top, His Majesty, High King of the Noldor, Fingon Nolofinwion. Then there was a fourth notice—the coronation of His Majesty, High King of the Noldor, Turgon Nolofinwion —and a fifth: For the eyes of Gil-galad alone. Orodreth did not recognise the hand in which it had been written in, but the boy had locked himself in his room for the past week and he didn’t think it would be a good idea to interrogate him. Instead, he handed him the letter and left him to his grief.

He was back to work the next day. Still teary, and his hands and breath still seemed to shake as he reached for quills to write with, and words to speak with, but he was awake, and alive, and working nonetheless. He had found it curious—Gil-galad had not been Fingon’s heir, else he would have been coronated in Turgon’s place, so who was he? How did he fit into all of this? He had spent hours in the record room, searching for any acknowledgement of the existence of an Ereinion, and then of a Gil-galad; all there was a were a few brief references in the births of children in Hithlum, but no parents were listed, and all he had was a mother-name.

“Gil-galad,” He had asked one evening—the night after Celebrimbor had left for Gondolin (the topic of fatherhood had been playing on his mind)—as the boy had been clearing up his work, “Is Ereinion your father-name?”

“I don’t know my father-name.”

“How?”

“I just don’t,” he had sighed, “Either I was never told, or I never had one.” He was clearly trying to play it off as if he didn’t mind, but it bothered the child. He had an idea.

“How about Artanáro? Rodnor?” The translation was almost shamefully quick in his head. No matter how many times he stubbornly told himself he found his native Quenya far easier, it was never true.

“You’re giving me a father-name?”

“You need one.” And it was true. He did need one, and he also needed some sort of royal tie that was a little more substantial than being born in the same place that the king had ruled. That was, if he wanted to pursue the clear interest he was developing in politics.

“Won’t that make you my de-facto father?” The child had grinned, and Orodreth had seen that distinctly Fingon-esque spark of mischief in his eyes for the first time since they had met.

“Absolutely not.” But his mouth quirked.

Ereinion Gil-galad was not his son, but perhaps he was some nephew that he happened to be dearly fond of, and should he ever want to make a bid for the throne, he would back him wholeheartedly.

—

Gil-galad was not fond of such formal affairs; dinners where every attendee seemed to secretly want each other dead, but couldn’t afford to accept any level of insecurity from that great evil that seemingly lurked around every corner. Usually, he would ask Celebrimbor to come with him and to put on his ‘reformed Feanorian’ act—it tended to take the attention away from Gil-galad’s parentage, if only for until he finished his grand speech, by which time he would’ve run through all of the details of the usual story. I was born in Nargothrond to King Orodreth, I am the younger brother of Princess Finduilas, and I lived there until it fell and I escaped. My childhood was very happy and there was nothing scandalous about it at all, please stop asking. Occasionally, someone would ask why he was recorded as being born in Hithlum, and why plenty of people had seen him with Fingon, to which he would respond that he had been born on a visit and then sent there periodically to be educated.

It was boring, and there were discrepancies, but it served its purpose: he was the son of Orodreth, only remaining heir to the house of Finwe, and well-prepared for his role. Who would possibly dispute his claim? Elrond had never wanted to be a king, and Celebrimbor’s family had long been struck from the succession. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t like the idea of being Orodreth’s son; he had been kind enough. Cold, sometimes, but kind nonetheless—he had even allowed Gil-galad the honour of acting as his scribe when his hand had healed.

Unfortunately, however, Celebrimbor was away, getting distracted by his work, and he had been left to face the interrogation alone.

“Well, hopefully, you have more sense than your father,” one of the eastern dignitaries raised his glass, smiling, and he felt that twinge of anger that he had long since learned to conceal. Instead of scowling, he smiled back. Ah, the fall of Nargothrond; that was where people found their interest in Gil-galad, son of Orodreth.

“I hope so, too.”

He had still been young and unfamiliar with the land, even after so many years of living peacefully within its relative safety. He had certainly not been expecting an attack, and never one by a creature like that. People told stories of how bravely he fought, how he nearly gave his life to defend his beloved father, how many enemies he managed to take down, how many lives he saved, and how he had to be dragged away after being wounded to keep him from continuing to fight. Or at least, that’s how they told it.   

Really, it was more that complete chaos had erupted sometime in the middle of the night or the early morning, and he had barely had time to arm himself before the attack came, and then it kept coming, and then he was standing alone amongst the bodies of the people who had once been his companions, and staring down a beast of whose likes he had only heard about in reports on the Nírnaeth Arnoediad—reports which he had never listened until the end of, mind you. He had tried to stay cool, but there had been tears on his cheeks, and a tightness in his throat, and his hands shook so hard he was afraid he would drop his sword. He was not brave; he would’ve run if his feet hadn’t been stuck in their footprints. He had rushed forward to defend his king, just as he had been taught, and his king had ended up defending him. Orodreth had been kind.

Orodreth had felt guilty. It had been clear; he never seemed to show any emotions other than annoyance and boredom, but as he was dying he looked guilty. He apologised, over and over, and told him that he needed to go somewhere secure—that he was important—that his father would want him safe. Gil-galad had shaken his head: “You’re more of a father to me, now.” Then Orodreth had smiled, stabbed him in the sword-arm, and told him to run as far and as fast as he could. It was only years later that he had realised that the wound was so that if the enemy caught him, he would be killed instead of enslaved.

He ran a hand over the mark on his forearm as he listened to the idle chatter (trade agreements and alliances—oh, the bore of politics), and wondered for the thirtieth time that week if he blamed Orodreth for that. If it wasn’t Orodreth, it was Mormegil, and if it wasn’t Mormegil, it was Finduilas, for falling in love with him, and then Orodreth, for caving to his daughter’s whims, and then Mormegil again, for being the cause of them. It was Mormegil. He blamed Mormegil. He had been hot-headed and impatient and like every negative human trait amplified into one gruesome epitome of everything wrong with humanity. And yet, Gil-galad held no grudge.

The only scar he kept from Nargothrond was the one on his arm.

Fingon Nolofinwion was somewhat of a curiosity amongst the line of high kings. He had come after one of the longest reigns in the first age, only to be the shortest. He had none of the formality, and none of the maturity of his father, and yet still commanded more respect than any man could hope to earn in a lifetime. He was mischievous, and fun, and interesting. It was a tragedy that he could not be known as his son, but that would cast doubt on him, because every son has a mother. Or, at least, that’s how his advisors phrased it, before they inevitably told him that it would not do for a bastard child to hold the throne. And, by the way they looked at him, they clearly thought he was. Perhaps they were right—it wasn’t as if Fingon was around to ask.

No one seemed to doubt that they were related—he had once stood next to a portrait of the former high king and demanded that Elrond tell him if they shared a resemblance, and Elrond had joked that he had thought it was just another portrait of him. Then again, he had asked Elrond instead of Celebrimbor or Galadriel for a reason. Sure, he could stand in front of mirror for hours, counting up every single trait he shared in common—his dark hair, brown skin, blue eyes, the way he hands were built, and the way he smiled—but it wouldn’t mean anything; if he wanted to find signs he was related to Thingol, he probably could.

Maybe he should call for Celebrimbor. An honest opinion would be helpful, perhaps—but, of course, Celebrimbor would be busy with his work (and with that tricky guest of his, but thinking about Annatar tended to give Gil-Galad a headache, so he avoided it). Then Galadriel? But he hated to bother her when she had her own business to run.

At least there was no doubt that, biological or not, Fingon was undeniably his father—enough so that Pengolodh had mistakenly penned it as such, and refused to change his account, even when Gil-Galad had advised him that officially he was Orodreth’s. The politics of fatherhood were too complex for him to risk an inconsistency, and yet he found that he didn’t really mind that particular one.

His memories of Fingon were his earliest and, with the corruption of hindsight, his most painful. He had lived in Hithlum from birth until he was seventeen, and all of his formative years had been spent at his side, sitting on his knee, or at his feet at the base of his throne, listening to him trying to rule as he played with his braids, or the tassels at the foot of his robes. He had a hazy memory of a discussion in which a rather exasperated Maedhros Feanorion offered to babysit him while Fingon was conducting his affairs, to which Fingon had responded that “Everyone loves a baby, Russo; if anything it makes them more likely to side with me.”   The subject had not been brought up again, and Ereinion was only ever separated from his father once.

He stared at the page in front of him—while he’d been lost in thought, the ink at the tip of his quill had bled over into the line above.

Fingon had taught him to write, too. Or, rather, tried to teach him to write (Maedhros had been the one who succeeded). Being so small and so new to the realm of words on paper, he had found it difficult, and the ghost of Fingon’s hands guiding his across the page was a hard one to shake, especially in the darkness of a night clouded with memory. He sighed. He wasn’t going to be able to finish writing if he kept getting so lost in the past. Perhaps it really was too late for him to be working.

---

At least he knew the baby’s lungs were healthy. 

Fingon told himself that over, and over as some sleep-deprived mantra that that was what was important. But surely no baby screamed like that? He looked over at his writing desk, feeling the sure pull of the idea of writing a letter to Maedhros— another letter to Maedhros. Because the four he’d already sent that evening weren’t enough. Logically, he knew that none of them would arrive for days, and he wouldn’t get a reply back for some time after that, but logic didn’t really factor into the chaos of trying to keep the infant from screaming himself to death. 

“Hey—hey, I know you’re sad, okay? I’m sad too. I know what it’s like to miss your mother,” he said, peering over into the makeshift cot he’d had created from an ornate fruit bowl and the softest cloak he had left over from the Helcaraxë. “We’ve just gotta rely on each, other, okay? Alright?” 

The baby was quiet for a moment, staring up at him with wide, blue eyes—the colour of the morning sky just before the sun rose. He remembered marvelling at the shade the first time he saw it, but whenever he’d tried to recreate in paint it to show Maedhros he’d fallen flat. The baby scrunched up his face, and Fingon sighed, bracing himself for the next, inevitable scream, when the door swung open, drawing both of their attention. 

“What’s the baby’s name?” 

Fingon breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his father, dressed down and finally done with whatever kingly duties he had been attending to. “His mother called him Gil-Galad .” 

Fingolfin eased himself down onto the floor next to him. “And what do you call him?” 

“I don’t know. He cries so much, maybe I’ll just call him Bruinaeg ,” He groaned. 

“You wouldn’t be that cruel, son.” He caught a smile playing on his father’s lips and, if he wasn’t such a model heir, he would’ve stuck his tongue out at him for finding this situation funny. “Besides, he seems quiet now.” 

“Wait.” Said Fingon, giving the baby a hard stare. “You’ll learn.”

They sat in silence for a minute, waiting, but the infant seemed to be fixated on his father, reaching out a tiny hand to grasp at his fingers. Fingon shook his head—this was not happening. “Maybe you should take him instead,” he sighed.

“I’ve no need for another heir,” Fingolfin gave him a wry smile, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “I have you.”

Fingon leant into the hug—no matter how old he got (or how mature he convinced himself he was), he was still a child in his father’s arms. When they watched the ships burn, when they were crossing the ice, when they’d buried Argon, when he’d gotten back from Angband, covered in blood and dust and tears—he’d always been able to find some small comfort in his father’s arms. There was safety there. Or maybe his dad was just really good at giving hugs. One of the two.

Gil-Galad began to sniffle.

“Oh, Eru have mercy.” Fingon pulled himself free of the hug and reached down into the fruit-bowl, picking up the baby and holding him close against his chest. It hadn’t worked when he’d done it before, but he didn’t want to look incompetent in front of his father for not trying. “Hush, it’s ok; Finno’s got you.”

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow.

“I feel weird calling myself his dad.” He winced. “I’m too young.”

“You’re older than I was.”

“Then I’m too used to being a brother, or an uncle.”

His father shook his head, moving swiftly on. “You did notify Maedhros—” They froze as the baby let out what was officially his first scream in the presence of the High King of the Noldor.

“Of course,” he said, carefully neglecting to mention the exact number of times he sent such a notification.

They paused again as Gil-Galad continued to cry.

“He’s got great lungs,” Fingon added, trying to keep a straight face.

“Indeed, he has.”

---

Again he found himself wanting to send for Celebrimbor, Annatar be damned. He wasn’t sure why he’d been so cautious to interrupt their work in the first place—he didn’t exactly value those experiments they were always doing, and he had always much preferred Narvi being around anyway. Still, he found himself deciding against that particular endeavour, yet again afraid of the results that it make yield, but he still wanted to find some reason to get Celebrimbor away from the forges. No matter how many times Annatar ‘proved’ himself trustworthy, he couldn’t allow himself to let down his guard. Not when it came to one of his oldest friends.

He leant forwards against the cool stone of the balcony wall, looking out over the city as the sun rose above the horizon, making its way lazily through the summer sky. That early in the day the air was still cool, and the feel of the breeze against his skin was refreshing, rather than oppressive—he knew that it wouldn’t last. Best to make the most of it.

The summers in Lindon ranged from pleasantly warm to, at their height, scorching, and he had never gotten used to them—he used to joke that he was a cold-climate kind of person on account of being from Hithlum until he remembered that he wasn’t actually officially from there.

The most refreshing kinds of people to talk to were those who believed he was Fingon’s bastard, and who blatantly didn’t care. It was perceived as somewhat of an ‘open secret’ among scholars and few of them cared to muse on any other possible theories: it was the simplest explanation so, naturally, it had to be true. The High King Fingon had, in a passion, conceived a son (possibly with a human woman, but that was hotly debated) and raised him best he could to make up for his scandalous creation. Gil-galad wasn’t sure if he liked that version of events, but it was the first he’d come into contact with—he’d overheard a maid gossiping about it with her friends during his first night in Círdan’s household. It had been the first time he’d any inkling that there might not be the utmost clarity surrounding his parentage.

He remembered demanding that Círdan tell him if he, too, believed that, and Círdan had asked him if it mattered. Gil-galad hadn’t been sure of the answer. He still wasn’t.

---

The following days offered very little sleep, but did gift him two welcome riders entering Hithlum from Himring. The first being a messenger carrying a letter back from Maedhros that could, essentially, be simplified down into ‘ very funny, Finno, but you’ll have to try harder to trick me’ and the second being Maedhros himself, who greeted him with a grand speech that could be reduced to ‘ oh, Eru, you’re serious’. It was, Fingon ‘regretted’ to admit, rather entertaining. Or, at the very least, his lover’s expression was—the situation itself could be aptly summed up as ‘unideal’ and perhaps even ‘concerning’.

After eight days, it was pretty clear that there was something wrong with little Bruinaeg. More so as even Fingolfin appeared to warm up to the name with each passing day.

Fingon had led Russo straight to his chambers, kept pitch black in the hope that it would help little Gil (as he had taken to calling him in lieu of any real name) sleep. It had not helped him sleep.

Maedhros had at first been apprehensive at the idea that Fingon had somehow acquired a baby, but he hadn’t asked questions and had tolerated Gil’s tiny hands grabbing at his hair. He lifted him gently from the makeshift crib (and even managed to restrain himself to only one comment at how inappropriate a place it was for a baby to sleep— ”A fruit bowl?”, to which Fingon had responded, “Because he’s the apple of my eye.”Maedhros had just sighed). And he had managed to get him to stop crying for a full hour by finding distraction after distraction to keep him occupied; Maedhros was probably a thousand times better at handling babies than he was, but he managed to keep himself from asking if he would take him instead—possibly because the question he’d rather ask was if Russo could finally give up the ghost and hand Himring over to Maglor’s people so that he could come and live in Hithlum permanently. He bit that one back, too.

Maedhros was standing across from him, pacing in circles around the room, trying to soothe Gil into falling asleep, humming the same tunes he used to hum for Ambarussar when he had been stuck babysitting them. Back then neither of them had ever considered that their positions in the royal household were anything but for show—no one died in Aman. In Aman, everyone was safe. Still, they had joked that someday, if Finwë ever decided to abdicate, and if Fëanor pulled some stunt that would inevitably skip him from the succession, they would get married and co-rule, and everything would be great. In some twisted way, that pleasant daydream had almost become reality.

Fingon bit his lip. This was not how it was meant to be, and he was not the person he’d imagined that he would be.

Gil would be silent in Maedhros’ arms, content to simply be carried around and spoken to, which made sense: Maedhros had been old enough to get roped into child-rearing duties when his first brother was born, and then he’d dealt with five more after that (plus a couple of Fingon’s younger siblings once Fingolfin had realised how hopeless he was at the whole ‘being a responsible elder sibling’ thing). He wasn’t the kind of person who could soothe a child to sleep just like that; he was the kind of person who would lead the same child into doing stupid things, and who’d let them eat too many sweets because he remembered how much he had wanted to when he was young.

Maedhros lowered the now-sleeping child back into the fruit bowl and yawned. “He’s crying because he’s in pain, you know,” He said, easing himself into the seat next to Fingon’s.

“I guessed as much, but I don’t know what to do about it—I don’t know what to do about him, Russo. He’s so small and helpless and I’m a disaster: I can’t raise a child. It’s so hard.”

“Yeah, and I’m willing to bet the skin condition isn’t helping.” Maedhros cocked an eyebrow, with that insufferable little half-smile that said, ‘I am about to tell you something I could’ve told you hours ago, but waited for dramatic effect, and am also going to pretend that I thought you knew the whole time’. Maedhros liked to pretend he wasn’t like the other Fëanorians. That is what he liked to pretend.

Fingon sighed, playing along, “skin condition?”

“Uncommon among our kind, but Caranthir had it, and Gil-galad clearly has it—I know it’s possible to make a salve to deal with it because I’ve seen humans doing it for their kids.”

Fingon wasn’t sure whether to punch him in the arm or kiss him. Instead, he settled for burying his forehead in Maedhros’ shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Possibly because I thought you’d notice the fact that your baby has rashes covering his face. You and your father are both useless.”

“I know—I—” Fingon hesitated as he realised that he was crying. He covered his mouth—half in surprise, and half to muffle any sobs, but by the way Maedhros wrapped an arm around him, he was pretty sure he could tell.

“You don’t have to—”

“No, no, I said—I promised her that I—” he shook his head, remembering the look on her face—the way she had, bleeding, thrown herself at his feet, pleading with blue eyes wide open. He pulled himself away, petty thought interrupting his break-down. “Did you see his eyes?”

“His…eyes?”

“They’re the exact shade as before the sun first rose.”

Maedhros laughed. “Really?”

“Would I lie about that? And—” he noticed the way Maedhros’ eyes, too, shone powder-blue in the low light of the chamber (how had he never noticed that before?)— “I think I know what to call him.” He held his gaze, thinking back to afternoons spent in the warmth of the trees, laying about in open fields and talking about a future they never considered could be theirs. “Ereinion.”

He saw the change in Russo’s expression—the way the switch flipped from happiness to worry. “You—we can’t.”

And he was right, of course, but that had never stopped Fingon before.

---

When had he first been hailed Ereinion? It was by Círdan’s people, crying the name over and over on the day of his coronation—cheering for the new king. He had never been quite sure who had started the chant, but he had his suspicions. However, before he was hailed Ereinion, he was called it in gentle voices in the privacy of rooms with closed doors. Fingon had called him by that name whenever he could. It was a close-kept secret—only for those select few who were truly in the know about the nature of his origin. Fingolfin, Lalwen, Maedhros, and, perhaps Orodreth (he had never been sure whether he knew or not: the man gave little away). Of course, all of those people were dead.

Now everyone called him by that name, regardless of what they believed was the truth about his parentage. It felt half like a relief, and half like the invasion of something private, that was only ever meant to be for him and his family.

“Ereinion?” Of course, he didn’t mind Elrond invading that space. Maybe it was because they were almost family.

“Hm?”

“You have a letter—this little kid came up and handed it to me; said you’d know who it was from.”

Gil-galad smiled as Elrond shot him a quizzical look. “Let’s see what she came up with.”

He was the product of an illicit affair—a forbidden romance between two leaders of their people, a child born of love and despite all of the risk, sent away for his own safety, and raised by his mother’s kin.

They’d fallen for each other when they met at the Mereth Aderthad, or was it even before then? Either way, they had met, and their connection had been instant. Some joked that it was pure, raw physical attraction—those were usually humans. It was more likely the spark of two like-minds meeting and falling into step with each other.

At first, they repressed their connection, keeping quiet and saying nothing, but as time drew on in its slow march, they found themselves inevitably drawn together. And then they found themselves falling in love in such a way that may only happen once and never again—in such a way that it burns through all semblance of resolve and poisons the very root of feeling: the heart. He was the product of such a love. Born with the distinct understanding that his real lineage could never be known—not even to him.

Well, that was the gist of it. Of course, she meant Lalwen and Círdan—which was reasonable: he couldn't think of any way he could actually dispute that theory. He looked Finwëan—there was no denying that—so why not move the generation he had been born in up a little? He’d seen portraits of Lalwen, too (albeit fewer than her more notorious relatives), and if he looked like Fingon, he looked like her.

She had been tall and beautiful, with long, graceful limbs and elegant hands that could throw a mean punch. The first time he saw her he wasn’t sure how he managed to look away; she was something else, from somewhere else. It was the first time he truly understood the difference between the Moriquendi and the Calaquendi. It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed it before but seeing her standing next to Círdan was like seeing a diamond next to a white rose. Epitomes of their people; both beautiful, yet so very, very different. She smiled kindly, and offered him her hand, bidding that he follow her so that she could show him to his room. All he'd been able to do was nod.

It never occurred to him to ask why they had a room ready for him.

In hindsight, he probably should’ve asked—he doubted that they would’ve kept that a secret from him and, if they did, then he’d have his answer, in a way.

Elrond snorted: he showed some level of disdain for that particular theory (Gil-galad was fairly sure that that was because he preferred certain other ones that had them more clearly related—he didn’t mind: he saw him as a little brother either way).

He raised his eyebrows.

“It’s just so…” Elrond leant back against the wall, waving his hand around— “cliché! It’s so cliché; nothing in real life is that cliché.”

“Nothing in real life is that cliché? Who am I talking to right now?”

Elrond sighed, which, undeniably, meant that Gil had won. He smiled.

“Want to get to business?”

“Actually, that was why I was on my way here—”

“I thought you just enjoyed my company.”

“You wish , old man—I believe I found a good place to set up shop if you’d be willing to help…”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“Nothing! I just think it would be a good idea to have a back-up, and I think you know that, too.”

And Elrond was right, of course: the number of times he’d had to flee his home for somewhere else were beyond the point of counting. He turned back to look over the city; he could see the havens from the balcony if he squinted. Maybe he should ask. Just to see. Círdan had always been fond of him.

---

“Lalwen?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Círdan looked over at the table, where the boy was distracted by a servant. “Alone.”

Lalwen grinned, as she was often wont to do in such scenarios. They excused themselves from the dining table and shuffled off into a side-room—it must’ve been an old pantry, but he’d been there so long that he’d forgotten all of the layout changes that had occurred in his home. After a certain point, keeping track began to seem pointless.

Lalwen had to duck slightly to get through the doorway (she often teased that his people were far too short to be real elves, but he thought she was just annoyed that she hit her head on one of the doors when she first arrived—her kind really weren’t used to things not being designed for them). She closed the door behind her, letting it swing into place with a dull thud and then sliding the blot across. All of the doors had locks, it was basic safety at that point, and Gil-galad’s case proved it: having things all open plan was just an invitation for attack, and left you no time to escape through a window (never mind that Nargothrond was mostly underground).

“What is it?”

“Who is he?”

“My nephew’s son, didn’t you hear him?”

Círdan shook his head, but she was unreadable. “And you’ve been expecting him?”

She laughed —a sound like the clinking of heavy jewelry—and nodded, “ever since I had word of his birth; there was always the possibility that he would come here for safety.”

“For safety.”

Her eyes drifted away from him, across to the window, and he followed her gaze; she was looking out over the harbour again. Every once in a while, she would, and her eyes would mist over. He didn’t say anything, just watched the stars reflect on the water.

There were some nights when she would leave the bounds of the city and walk as far as she could along the shore, watching the waves, waiting for something. A signal, perhaps. Some sign that someone on the other side was looking out for her, was calling her home again. But their kind couldn’t afford to cultivate homesickness; too many of their places had been torn down and left to ruin —they had no home, and they could not rely on the favour of a family left long behind over a glimmering sea.

“There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

She sighed. “You’re right, but some secrets just will not do to be told.”

He thought back to her long visits to Hithlum, travelling so often between the various colonies of her far-spread relatives that she barely spent any time in the city she called home at all. The number of things that could happen over the course of year-long stretches like that were beyond the point of counting, but he would not ask. He had once heard a traveller from Himring tell him ‘ There is no use negotiating with a Fëanorian whose mind is set,’ but Círdan would argue that advice could be applied to anyone of Finwëan descent.

“My brother is dead,” she said, at last, “as are the vast majority of my nephews and nieces. This boy, whoever he may be, is the only real family I have left to keep close, so keep him close I will.” The resignation and the determination in her voice wove their dance together; for all the sadness and the pain, she still clung onto the hope of a better future. Perhaps he did, too. After all, what other choice did they have?

---

At the height of the summer, Gil-galad left and spent a week in the havens, dressed in peasants clothes and sitting at the end of the docks, letting the water lap at his toes.

If he were to sail west, would he find a home? Surely he'd find people he knew and who no doubt cared about him, and he'd probably, by pure chance, find someone at least distantly related to him, but would he belong? Could he ever belong anywhere? He knew that Elrond was plagued by the same questions; his birthplace was long lost, and the matter of his family, while transparent, was far from simple.

No, leaving was not an option, and they both knew that, while the other stayed, so would they. They had for themselves an eternal stalemate.

Círdan sat next to him.

“What's on your mind, son?”

“Good question.” He internally noted the particular term of endearment. “Do you know who I am?”

He shook his head. “Lalwen did.”

“But she disappeared centuries ago, so I can't ask her .”

“I suppose you can't.”

“Is there anyone I can ask?”

“Is it that important that you know? You know who you really are, beneath everything else. The best you can do is what you believe in, and your family don't have to influence that in any way, if you don't want them to.” He squeezed his shoulder.

“ Who do I ask, gramps?”

Círdan laughed. “It was worth a try. You know who.”

“I'll never find him.”

“Maybe not, but I’m still not entirely convinced that you want to.”

Gil-galad furrowed his brow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Círdan didn’t really understand why his parentage was such an issue —it wasn’t some desperate desire to ‘know who he really was’ or to find out where he fit into the universe—not when he gave it any degree of thought—it was the desire to know if he was allowed to be comfortable with where he was and with the feelings he harboured.

It was a desire to know that it was okay to care for the ones who raised him, rather than the ones who created him.

---

The first summer was long and hot and the boy wasn’t any help lying about in his room or the library, flipping through old records and scouring the archives for something—anything—that might offer some entertainment. He was frustrated living stagnant like that, Círdan could tell, but there was very little to be done about it. Perhaps boredom was the price that had to be paid for safety.

But, and he thought this while watching the adolescent add another line to the drawing he was doing of the wood-grain in the window frame, this was beginning to get depressing to watch.

Gil-galad seemed to think himself useless. He was a writer and a soldier in a community of oral poetry and peace, as far as Círdan understood his plight. At first the solution had been simple; ask Lalwen to spar with him. The downside to this, of course, was that Lalwen, despite having no family left to visit, still had her heart set on the road.

It was during one of those weeks-long stretches when he decided that enough was enough and something really ought to be done.

“Gil-galad?”

The boy peered up at him from where he was slouched over a diagram of cart wheels.

“You’re wasting away in here; how about I teach you to sail.”

He’d made the offer before, back when he’d first arrived, and he’d been refused point-blank, but this time the teenager just looked at him. He dared not say anything more, lest he disturb the internal debate. The kid sighed. “Alright then.”

He wasn’t exactly a natural, and the terminology definitely went straight over his head, but he managed not to capsize the boat on his first try, so Círdan decided to call it a success. The second attempt did result in the both of them getting dunked head first into the water, but, considering the oppressive heat of the day, he decided that that was also a success.

And, to his own credit, Gil-galad was laughing as he pulled himself out.

“Round three?” He asked, watching him wring out his tunic.

“If I have to set foot on a boat again in my life I will lay down and take the call.”

Círdan chuckled. “That’s how you know you’re warming up to it.”

“If you say so.”

“Look, son —” he clapped him on the shoulder. Gil-galad jumped. “You’re doing great.”

He smiled. “I don’t know about that.”

“No. No one is an expert on their first try, and you’re not cooped up indoors, so you’re doing amazing.”

“You have seaweed in your hair.”

“That's part of the fun.”

Gil-galad laughed. “Fine. I'm gonna do this until I get it right.”

“That's the spirit!” It also struck him as characteristically Noldor of the kid, or—no, it sounded very much like the way Lalwen often described her older brother; it sounded Fëanorian. He didn’t want to think too hard about what that might mean.

---

When he returned to Lindon, he came not refreshed, but determined. There was an answer out there for him to discover, and discover it he would.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t scoured the records room before, but he’d been young and impulsive and looking only for what pleased him and what supported the image he was supposed to be presenting to the world. This time, he would follow every lead to its end, and he would balance every story with each other, comparing and contrasting until he uncovered some taste of the truth.

Besides, searching for Maglor would be like trying to shoot down the sun.

It had long been night when he came across the letter, starting at the bottom of a chest of the things. Very few of King Finrod’s belongings had survived the fall of Nargothrond, but the correspondences that he had sent out to others remained, even if their replies were long-gone. It was old, nearly crumbling in his hands, but about as well-preserved as could be. Even if it wasn’t useful information, he decided that it would be good to copy it out for posterity anyway, but the contents—the contents gave him pause.

          Faithful Vassal,

It had begun.

          I write to you with concerns over our alliance.

The position appeared political, which he had expected, though it was a wonder that a letter from so long ago had survived.

          While I understand entirely that there is little that can be done about the threat, there is always the promise of safety should you choose to come and dwell within my domain. I anticipate that you’re opposed to this, and I would be, too—abandoning my people wouldn’t sit well with me either—however, this is a matter of security, not to mention that your input is essential to my governance. 
Hence, I implore you to reconsider your position, humbly reminding you that Baran is perfectly capable of handling things by himself and that it would really do wonders in impressing that girl that he’s sweet on for him to hold such a position. This reminds me, I neglected to mention that last time we spoke; please do not give any indication that you are aware, he flusters easily.

That made him stop. He reread the line, but it said exactly what he’d thought, and the tone read exactly the same in his head. The romantic longings of a chieftain’s son seemed like such petty troubles for a king to concern himself with—no (he probably would do the same given the chance)—they seemed like the kind of thing that would pass a king, in all his busyness, by. This was too familial. Finrod must’ve been closer to the family than he thought.

          Although, I might add, if you get the chance, tell him to grow out his beard—she seems to find that attractive, as do many mortal women, it appears. And perhaps myself, I am as yet undecided. 
          I also recommend that he invest time in teaching himself an artistic skill—perhaps painting or flower arranging—gardening? Sensitivity is not something to be laughed at, nor is willingness to create—to bring forth into the world. And it doesn’t hurt to adorn oneself, either with fashioned jewellery or flowers and berries. The visual interest such accessories generate naturally draws the eye, thus she may finally ‘notice him,’ as he so hopes.

Finrod continued to advise for another three paragraphs, which he skimmed, before something caught his attention.

          With any hope, he will find happiness with more conventional ways than us.

Gil-galad sat back. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, it was unwise to jump to conclusions, he was not going to jump to conclusions. “They were lovers ,” he breathed. He turned back to the letter.

          I have arranged to travel to meet you in a month’s time, at which point we will be able to discuss these matters further. I hope the younger ones have not missed me too dearly; it pains me to be away so long as it is. 
          Yours eternally, 
          Nóm

---

“Fin—”

“I asked you to leave me in peace, brother.” Finrod opened his eyes from where he lay hunched over several sheets of parchment.

Aegnor hovered in the doorway, bringing light into the darkened record-room with the flicker of a candle. It illuminated his face in such away that he looked like something out of a bedtime story; the kind about uncanny monsters that would eat you if you didn’t wash for more than two weeks. “We haven’t seen you in a while. People are worried.”

He sighed, sitting up in his chair and stretching out. “I told you—” he yawned— “I’m updating the records.”

Aegnor stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, so soft that it might’ve been made of glass. “There are others who could do that for you.”

“They’d get the details wrong.”

“How much detail do they need?”

“As much as possible—they’re my kids , you monster.” It felt good to say it out loud. Aegnor made a face, but he evidently chose not to comment, which was nice; Finrod didn’t feel like fighting with his brother. He didn’t feel like much of anything—not since—not since then.

Aegnor drew up a chair and sat down next to him at the desk. He rested a hand on his shoulder in the same, tentative way that their mother always did when she was about to teach them a difficult life lesson. Instead, Aegnor used the moment to say, “you’re the stupidest person I know.”

Under normal circumstances, he might’ve cheerily agreed, or punched his younger brother in the shoulder—instead, he bowed his head and began to cry. It wasn’t the first time, either. He looked with regret through the filter of his tears at the stack of discarded papers already ruined because he couldn’t bear to fill out the digits of that second date. He let out a sharp breath. “It just hurts so much, you know?”

Aegnor shook his head. Of course, he didn’t. He couldn’t. “You really loved them, didn’t you?”

“Love,” he said, “please—no past tense.”

“Why? Why put yourself through this?” Aegnor gently took the quill from his hand, and shifted the sheet of parchment away from him, skimming over its contents.

Finrod shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I would never—I could never bear it.” He uncorked another pot of ink and dipped the quill into it.

“Then I pray you won’t have to.”

The scratching of writing drew his eyes to where Aegnor had neatly penned in the date where it had been missing. He watched as his younger brother filled out all of the details he had been too distressed to put in himself, marking everything off with as much care as could be afforded to such tasks. He paused, nib hovering over the final two entries. He caught Finrod’s eyes. Finrod shook his head. Not them—not yet.

Eventually, but not yet.

“I’ll have to make a trip,” he said, “I shouldn’t be gone long. I’m leaving Angrod in charge while I’m away.” He stood, folding the records away and laying them in their proper place in the cubbies.

Aegnor frowned. “Let me come with you.” Finrod stared at him. “You shouldn’t have to go alone.”

“I have an en—”

“Emotionally alone.”

Finrod took a deep breath, his brother was far from the most eloquent of their people, that was certain, but the gesture was sweet, even if he suspected it was because Aegnor didn’t trust him to remember himself. “Alright then, but if you fall for any of them I will both kill you and laugh at you.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Aegnor scoffed.

“Perhaps you should.”

---

Finrod had been a prolific letter-writer, Gil-galad found, sifting through several boxes. He supposed it must’ve been necessity—Nargothrond was a hidden city, and it was safer to communicate via trusted messengers and letters than by inviting potential allies (and enemies) over for tea. Most were boring—there were several addressed to his father—to Fingon which consisted mostly of complaining about Turgon and his apparent inability to stay in contact with his family. There were a few other letters sent to Bëor that he could understand, but none like the one that he had initially found.

He began to wonder if he had thought correctly.

He pored over one addressed to his younger sister, Galadriel, which, according to the note tacked onto it in Elrond’s handwriting, had for some reason been in Maglor’s possession before he vanished.

It was easy to see why he’d kept it; the letter was a detailed gushing on human musical practices and their use of sound in ritual. He wondered why the letter had not been addressed to Maglor in the first place.

He managed to build up a picture of Finrod. A good ruler, friendly, beloved by his people and adoring of all he met. He was the kind of person who loved so ferociously, so brightly, and so freely that others couldn’t help but love him back. He smiled as he read through his letters, the affection with which he spoke about his siblings and the younger humans in his court, and the respect which he held for their culture and language—the downside, of course, being that he often chose to write in Taliska, too.

Finrod had revered their world as he had revered them, it seemed. And he cared for them deeply.

---

He wasn’t sure that what he was doing was a good idea.

“Orodreth is in charge,” Finrod stared down the two Fëanorians. Celegorm didn’t meet his gaze—his attentions were turned elsewhere, as usual, thinking of other things. Finrod often wondered what it was like to exist within the mind of a Fëanorion—to be wired in the way that they all were, with impulses and ideas like constant static shocks. Curufin did, though, with a steely judgement that made his skin crawl.

“Orodreth?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, and you will respect him.”

“Sure.”

Finrod decided to ignore the disdain. He tried not to blame them—they hadn’t always been like that—but the oath seemed to eat away at the insides of their minds, or, at the very least, embitter them.

Uneasy, he slipped his travelling cloak over his shoulders. Beren was waiting.

He had a weakness, he knew—at some point before Andreth he had believed it to be a sickness—a physical ailment. Perhaps something of his more unhinged cousins had rubbed off on him. Why else would he be so drawn to those which had no power to stay? And drawn, he was. Again.

Beren bore only a passing resemblance to the man he had befriended so many years ago, but he had felt his heart latch onto him, wanting to smother him, to protect him as a parent should a child. Beren had seemed so lost and so desperate and so in love; he really, really didn’t want to fail Lúthien. He recognised that emotion.

“I need to do this for her,” he had said, with a look in his eyes that blew out all possibility out of argument. “Please help me. I don’t want to die.”

Finrod had winced. He had been with mortals at their deathbed before—a young woman having her first child, realising that she wasn’t going to make it through the night, in frantic tears because she didn’t want to die—didn’t want to leave her daughter alone. Finrod had sung her and the baby to sleep.

Maybe he couldn’t keep Beren alive, but, if he came with him, he could offer him some comfort as he died, and he had come to learn that that was usually enough. And what if he died? Perhaps, he hoped, he had spent so long around humans that part of him had become one. Perhaps, if he begged hard enough, he could join them—see them again. Perhaps. But he had been doomed long, long ago, and Mandos found it hard to forgive.

“What if you die?” Celegorm asked, turning his attention on him. Occasionally, Finrod would become paranoid that he could read minds.  

“Then Orodreth will be king, and you will continue to respect him.”

Celegorm shrugged.

He left them to enact whatever mischief they would; he had already warned his nephew that they might cause trouble. Still, as much as he appreciated Orodreth, he found himself wishing he had a son of his own to leave in charge—he couldn’t help but feel as if they’d have more authority. Perhaps he should’ve taken a leaf out of Fingon’s book and acquired a child under foggy circumstances. Still, he felt as if this was the way things had to be.

Maybe it was time Nargothrond had a new ruler. Maybe he had grown too soft for its heavy stone walls. Maybe he had suffered this place long enough.

---

The final two letters in the box were hard to read. They were the last of the paper-trail that Finrod’s life had left across the years.

One was a letter to Galadriel, informing her of her brother’s passing, and the other was the one that had prompted him to investigate Finrod in the first place. It was torn and singed, never sent, somehow salvaged from the wreckage of Nargothrond by Eru-knew-who.

          Fingon, 
          I come to –r you with an urgent r– Please – that my –d son is protected –

The rest of the letter had been torn away. It made sense, those who had seen it said, that he was referencing the young Gil-galad. Perhaps he had had a mortal lover, and a half-elven son whom he had entrusted to his cousin to watch over while he followed his quest. Perhaps.

But Gil-galad measured the length of the missing word against Finrod’s other letters and the way that he spoke about mortals, and he didn’t think that he was the one that it was referring to.

A drop of water hit the corner of the page. He realised that he was crying. He had never met Finrod, but he felt as if he knew him somehow, and now he mourned him, and lamented the pain that he had coloured his life with.

He laid the fragment back into its place atop the pile and took a deep breath as he closed the lid. His eyes drifted towards the box next to it, a polished chestnut with a latch of gold, padlocked tight. Identical to the rest, save for that lock and the initials inscribed on its front. There was a letter in there that he knew well—well enough that he could recite it in his sleep—and it called to him.

He lifted the box from its place; some nights were meant for mourning, and who was he to deny grief?