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

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Orodreth

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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.