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

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Cirdan

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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.

 

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“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?

 

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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.

 

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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.

 

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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.