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

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Finrod

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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

 

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“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.”

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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.

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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.

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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?