Heirs of the Past by clotho123

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Chapter 1

 

The cliffs were low, little more than heaped up broken ground formed by the wreck of Ossiriand.  Behind where they stood the remains of Lindon stretched, still fair but changed now by the salt breeze that blew from the sea, as well as by the Elves who clung to the last remnants of Beleriand of old.  It was wild no longer; dwellings and fields of crops crossed the slopes beneath the broken mountains.  The settlements were scattered. Gil-galad had not cared to found a city.

 

"I do not believe you to blame for the rumours."

 

"No," the elder of the two Elves who stood upon the cliff agreed, "but you believe me to blame for not silencing them."

 

"Not to blame, not with malice."  The King of the Noldor in Middle-earth sighed.  "I think only that you do not understand their extent, or their danger."

 

"It is such foolishness.  I: a king?   I am a craftsman."

 

"So was Fëanor.  Nay!"  The King held up a hand.  "I know you do not seek lordship.  But there are others who may make comparison."

 

"How so?  They cannot say that I have sought to rule."

 

"They can say it, true or no.  They can say you took the lordship of your house, that you wear the royal ring."

 

Celebrimbor's right hand clenched lightly as he raised it before him.  The silver ring on his middle finger was a crude piece of work to the Noldor of later days, heavy, plain and very old.

 

"This?  They cannot build such tales on so small a thing."

 

"You do wear it."

 

"It is no crown.  It was Finwë's own and nothing more."

 

"It is no crown, but in its way it is as potent.  The crown is a new thing."

 

The crown of Gil-galad was fair and precious, wrought by Celebrimbor after the fashion of the silver crown of Tirion, and yet it was a new thing.  Not the crown of Finwë, taken from the strong room of Formenos by Morgoth.  Not the crown of Fingolfin and of Fingon, lost in the fall of Hithlum.  Not even the crown of Finrod, dragon's loot in Nargothrond.  It was the crown of Gil-galad only.  The ring was far more ancient.  Some said it to be the most ancient work of craft in Middle-earth.

 

"You are of the elder house," said Gil-galad.

 

"The kingship passed from Fëanor's line long since, and with good cause."

 

"For crimes you had no part in.  You were a child at Alqualondë and on the strands of Losgar.  The Valar would permit your return, if you wished.  You are of the Light, on both sides.  You are Lachend, as I am not.  These things do matter."

 

Lachend: one whose eyes bore the Tree-light as Celebrimbor's did.  Save for a certain strength of build Gil-galad might have been a Sinda; as he was on the side of his mother.  There were some who said that he resembled Finwë, but those in Middle-earth who remembered the first King of the Noldor were few enough now.

 

"Without the crimes of your line, you would have been king."

 

"I doubt that."  Celebrimbor stared out across the sea, to where the rocky isle of Himling stood out against the pale evening sky.  "Without those crimes, would I be the last of that line now?"  Last in all ways that counted; if Maglor lived he was not coming back.  "I want no kingship.  I prefer to be a smith, and nothing more."

 

"I believe that.  Others do not."

 

"What others?  Do you speak of the one time followers of our house?  I cannot think that any of them look to me for kingship.  They know me better.  I am barely of Fëanor's line now."

 

"Kinsman," Gil-galad stepped closer, laid a hand on Celebrimbor's arm.  "I do trust you.  More than I trust those who think all of Fëanor's line alike.  I know you took the lordship of your house only because there was no other to do so."

 

"And how long did I hold it?  Long enough only to submit to the king."  Celebrimbor's hand, the one that bore the silver ring, clenched more tightly.  It was a broad band of metal, with no gem, but with inscription in the old runes of Rúmil.  F·NWË.  It was a part of Celebrimbor's name also, a part he never used.  "What is it you want of me?"

 

"Only your aid in combating the rumours."

 

"And how may I do that?  By saying I have no interest in kingship?  Those who wish to think otherwise will not believe. They will say I am my father's son."

 

Curufin's son: reminder of Finrod's death and the shadows that fell on Nargothrond, a tale recalled of malice, and of weakness.

 

"If you are so," said Gil-galad, "I am also."  Heir to Orodreth, the king who knew not how to rule, and yet a father remembered by his son with love.  "We are more than the heirs of the past, Celebrimbor."

 

His kinsman sighed, and held his right hand out, the setting rays of the sun catching the silver. 

 

"Would you wish to wear it?"

 

"No," said Gil-galad, after consideration.  "It is not the ring of Finwë alone now."  Taken by the first Curufinwë, by Fëanor, to be borne in torchlit madness and destruction.  Worn through grim centuries on the sword-calloused left-hand of Nelyafinwë Maitimo, Maedhros to the Sindar.  "It is the ring of the elder house."

 

"And a reminder I belong to it."  Celebrimbor's eyes had turned inwards, to Forlindon.  His eyes were not his father's but a clear blue; legacy of his mother's Telerin blood.  "Might it not be better if I were not here?"

 

"Better I should drive out a kinsman?  No!"

 

"There might be better places for smith-work eastwards.  I have thought of visiting the Dwarf mansions across the mountains, that are called in their tongue Khazad-dûm." 

 

Dwarf tongue and dwarf friendship: both the inheritance of his father Curufin.

 

"I would not wish you to leave Lindon," Gil-galad said.  "You have been my friend too long."

 

"Nor will I cease to be so, whether I remove for a while or no. We have not so many kin remaining that we can afford estrangement."

 

"Very true.  It was divisions within our people caused the Downfall.  That road must not be taken again." Gil-galad sighed.  "I think there is more fear than malice in the talk."

 

"Fear, and remembrance.  But you are right, Ereinion, we are more than the sum of our pasts.  I am not my father or his brothers, nor am I Fëanor."

 

"I know it."

 

"If you know it, then that is enough. Surely as friendship between us continues unbroken the talk will die away."

 

"Perhaps so.  I trust that it may."  Yet Gil-galad felt the brush of silver as he clasped his kinsman's hand.  "Let us go down," he said, "it grows chill."

 

As they descended the slope the ring remained on the finger of Celebrimbor, Márafinwë Tyelpinquar in the High tongue, as it would remain until the last days of his life in Middle-earth.

 

Chapter End Notes

Lachend (plural Lachind) = flame-eyed: a Sindar term for the Elves who had come from Aman.

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