Many Meetings by Gwanath Dagnir

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The Dinner Guest

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The High King was hosting a dinner engagement in recognition of his Southern vassals’ visitation, turning the capitol into a beehive of staff busy to service the occasion. Near dusk, Galadriel stole a moment of solitude to watch from a balcony as a procession of elves made their way toward the entrance upon the long path below. The collection of dignitaries were garbed in all the colours of the season in bloom – among them, few Sindar stood out in shades of grey, as contrasted with their Ñoldorin counterparts as the shadows that they cast. Inside, her husband occupied the hall already, last seen immersed in discussion of tariff schedules with Gil-galad’s treasurer. Celeborn had volunteered to shoulder Harlindon’s business dealings alone this night, in exchange for her attention elsewise.
“I approached the matter of Thingol’s dynasty all too hastily, just as you warned against, and Elrond has shied from me ever since,” he said earlier as they readied. “Mayhap your gentler handling can coax the shell to reopen. I would regret if we leave here without knowing each other better.”

To that end, she spun off her perch on the banister to lower her bare feet back into the shoes left on the tile. From several chambers away, she easily picked out Elrond’s voice amongst several, and followed it through the commotion. Common elves would guess they heard a discordance of mannish nature in his voice, and they would be wrong: the unfamiliar tone is the sound of a force of nature filtered through the clothing of flesh, which the Half-elven inherited from the Maiar.

She found Elrond in a small archive where he might have enjoyed his own solitude, before being cornered by two high-born houses brash enough to arrive earlier than their invitation and openly compete for attention. Elrond stood his ground in this rare state of separation from Gil-galad or Círdan, who to her observation acted as ardent hosts to the newcomer to their realm (or by her husband’s description, as watchdogs), though he interrupted the surrounding prattle with the enthusiasm of a hostage spotting escape.

“Hail Galadriel, good evening! Are you without an escort?”

“Not anymore,” she replied, wrapping her arm around his as she joined him in the center and widened it with a pointed glance at those crowding in. “So this of all places is where the king has lost you! He will be glad for my luck to hear your voice as I was passing by.”

The surrounding elves collectively deflated, recognizing their ambitions were thwarted. One among them most reluctant to surrender the stage said, “I take the blame for detaining him overlong, lady! My daughter is recently returned from visiting her mother’s land afar, and I know the king would wish to make their introductions.” He gestured to the maiden at his side who bent her knee stiffly, as if careful not to tip the platter her father served her upon.

Galadriel smiled to continue the game of invoking Gil-galad’s desires for selfish purpose. “Welcome home, Annarel, and greetings to you all. But if you would excuse us, I have neglected an errand, and the king will know to look for us where it must be tended to. Please make your way to the hall where Celeborn is waiting to receive our distinguished guests.”

The circle broke to form an aisle of bowing elves who watched them leave dejectedly.

Galadriel directed their path outside and through the courtyard, a longer but less populated route to reach the next wing of the capitol, and she walked lighter of foot upon the soft grass.
“In Thingol’s court, it was said that those who arrive early to dinner bring a secret appetite.”

Elrond laughed, “Oh, they kept nothing secret! Nor discreet, even. Annarel is the fairest, most eligible and keenly desired maiden in all of Lindon, who any would be honoured to court – of course her father told me so. And apparently the king should commission excavators to survey the Ered Luin and aim to deny trade with the dwarves of Khazad-dûm – evidently it is expected of me to influence this somehow. Also the cotton from Forlindon is rumoured to be infested with mites, according to the one spreading the rumour – who is that shorter elf with brown hair?”

Galadriel sighed. “That is Faernen, commissioner of Harlindon’s Silk-grower cooperative, among other interests.” Elrond shook his head as though dazed, and she pet his arm soothingly. “Do not be dismayed. That bunch are the busybodies among the ruling class in Lindon. You will find their counterparts less self-interested, and more appreciative of your own authenticity. Now do tell me, has Annarel’s father already set your wedding date? He finally gave up on matching her with Gil-galad after years of failed attempts, and you are a handsome compromise!”

Elrond did not return her playfulness, and whether he knew they had reached their destination or not, he paused walking before the entrance to a chamber as somber as his tone. “You assume right that her father made inquiry, though he may regret it now. Nay. I shall not be so eagerly pursued as the High King.” Beside the entrance was a portrait of Finduilas. A shelf of votives beneath the frame inspired reverence, and her visage, lovely but sorrowful, seemed to mourn her own untimely end. Elrond went on, “None of them knew the strange fate of my kin. About the choice granted to us both. That my brother will die a mortal death. Or of the doom upon my children. ‘Appalled’ may be a word too strong for describing their reaction to learn it, but surely Annarel will be relieved to never see me upon her stoop.”

“I confess my own knowledge is almost as limited,” said Galadriel. From a small desk that housed candles and holders and an oil lamp burning low, she selected two sticks and tilted their wicks against the flame. “From Elros we learned of the choice granted to you twain, the same granted to your parents. But he said nothing of his brother’s children unborn. What is this doom?”

He stared into the room growing dim as the sun set. “That the grace of the Eldar shall be bestowed upon them whilst they abide with me in Middle-earth. And at the end of that time, so too must their own choice be made; either to join our kinsfolk in the Undying Lands, or to follow the Unknown beyond the circles of this world, and to forsake whichever road not taken thereby.” At last he looked away. “By taking my hand, their mother must accept that she may eventually be parted from her children forevermore. In turn, I must resolve to perhaps never meet she who could bear to face that day.”

“Hm. She would need to have the bold spirit of a seasoned warrior unafraid to lose, and the girded heart of a wise queen that loves unconditionally. Nonetheless, consider leading with a more cheerful topic if ever you should meet her!” Galadriel held out the light she had prepared for him with a smile he did not match.

“I can see in the dark as well as elf kind,” he responded, dull from a lifetime explaining his nature.

“The flame is to use for paying your respects.” She watched his face twist with embarrassment to have misconstrued her intention, but asked anyway, “Have you not yet visited the Gallery of Honour?”

“I have. In the daytime. The candles were not lit then, but- I understand now.” He took the candleholder that she offered. “Sorry. Thank you.”

Galadriel led the way inside. The chamber was narrow and long, and minimally decorated so as not to distract from its solemn purpose. The furthest wall made of beveled windows faced West, and the last breath of sunlight warmed the edges of velvet curtains draped from floor to ceiling. On each perpendicular wall hung portraits of champions and kings, of mothers and citadels, memories bygone of fallen glory and triumphs eternal. Before each frame stood a waist-high pillar holding a cylinder of wax, their stages of use varied. She joined her candle to the wick of Finrod burned very low, the first of her brothers’ paintings by the entrance.
“You may light whichever you wish. Some choose to light them all in passing. I only light those with whom I visit, and alas our time here tonight will be cut short.” She looked upon the expression of Finarfin’s eldest, captured in the breathless stoicism preceding a courageous deed, and she sighed, then moved on to Aegnor.

“Well, this is strange...” Elrond had proceeded to light the candle for Eärendil, and stood now by the last portraits hung at the end of the room. He twisted toward the opposite wall and back again, then reached out to trace a scratch on the wall worn by a differently-sized frame than the one he faced. As Galadriel approached, he explained, “Indeed I was in this room mere days ago, and Orodreth’s portrait hung here. It’s been switched.” He pointed behind to prove it.

Galadriel lit the wick of Angrod as she passed, next to whom should be his son. Instead hung the portrait of Fingon, and beside it, Gil-galad. “I see. Seems this old joke is as undying as those who invented it, and grown no less petty than its creators with the passing of time.”

Elrond looked at her searchingly, then at the gallant countenance of Fingon, and behind again to where Orodreth had been displaced. “I don’t understand. What am I missing?”

“Only the incongruent features of Orodreth compared to his son, and Gil-galad’s striking resemblance to Fingon specifically.”

“What? No. They cannot mean to imply...” Elrond whipped his head around and back again. True that Orodreth’s blond hair matched all of Finarfin’s children as well as his own daughter Finduilas, yet Gil-galad -like Fingon- had the dark tresses common to the Ñoldor. But so did Finwë, forefather to them all. He muttered, “My own father has golden hair.”

“Also well known is that only Celegorm among his six brothers inherited sandy locks from parents of black and auburn.” Galadriel shrugged and lit the candle before Fingon. “Appearances alone would not be enough to grow this weed of doubt – but its seeds were planted deep and long ago. Alas, Orodreth once suffered injury in battle. Its nature was severe but undisclosed, and such careful discretion -combined with the warped gait and grievous pain that haunted his recovery- tempted indelicate rumours to propose the unspeakable. When his son was born many years later and sent into the safekeeping of Fingon’s friend Círdan, it only opened a new chapter to the mythos.”

Elrond backed away slowly and turned to light the candle for Orodreth. The glow softened his already gentle presentation, warming his expression to gratitude. “A father must be many things. A sire need be only one.”
Galadriel came to his side and at that moment, he noticed Gil-galad approaching down the hallway. He said quietly, “If the king does not already know of this jokesters’ game, I would rather he not learn now in this way. May I leave it with you to rectify?”

She took his candleholder with her free hand and nodded. “Until dinner, then.”

Elrond paced his speed to meet Gil-galad at the entry and effectively blocked it as he bowed.

“Good evening,” said the king, sober in the presence of this venerate place. He angled to acknowledge Galadriel’s presence inside but made no motion to move past Elrond to enter. The portrait of his sister drew his gaze as he said, “Did you light my father’s candle by chance?”

“We did indeed,” said Elrond, adding, “Galadriel would stay a moment longer, but I was just leaving.”

“Good, then allow me to steal you.” The king led them away. Coming back into areas bustling with his subjects happy and gay, his gait gradually resumed its usual bouncing stride, and his voice lightened. “Someone is here to meet you tonight. I was just alerted that they arrived, and hoped to offer you time alone together before the meal is served. One moment…”

Elrond let himself be positioned behind a column while Gil-galad peered around it to spy. The hall was a flurry of socialization in advance of supper, the room echoing elvish chatter mingled with the song of a minstrel’s flute and the clanging of tableware being set.

Gil-galad returned to their place of cover to say, “I will lead you to her now. Expect to be separated from the crowd to converse alone, I imagine. And so you know, there is a place setting reserved at my table, if she keeps her promise to stay for supper. Come.” They moved through the crowd at a determined pace to discourage interruption.
As close as possible to the edge of the floor without leaving the room stood an elf-maid in conversation with Círdan. She was dressed plainly and had a tense look soothed by tenuous placation – even a typhoon could be convinced to temper its mood if the Shipwright put his heart into it.
In their last steps approaching, Gil-galad opened his arms in a grand gesture of welcome customary to his public self. “Renwen. What a delightful surprise that you accepted my invitation.”

“Thank you for remembering me, Lord.” She offered him her hand that he lifted to kiss. “I see I am underdressed as usual, but this is all stunning,” she spoke with dispassionate awareness of things that concern others, motioning to the decorative banners and flowers and elves fancied up for the occasion. As if to explain her separation from it all, she said, “Arriving so late, I wasn’t sure where best to put myself to be at your disposal.”

“You are precisely where you should be,” Gil-galad replied with a broadening smile. “Speaking of which, may I introduce Elrond.”

“Tsk. I wish that you could…” she withdrew her reaching hand before they could connect, folding her arms across the chest as her attention focused over Elrond’s shoulder.

Celeborn, the target of her unthankful gaze, disentangled from the crowd to join their assemblage. “Renwen, well met at last,” he said, answered with only a nod and silence that he filled himself, “Ah- I noticed when you arrived and have been making my way over. You look well!”

While his tone mimicked all the characteristics of fond familiarity, Renwen made no such effort. “Hm. Somehow I did not notice you, and no one mentioned you were here.” She let her gaze wander as though it needed to, “Along with your wife, I presume? Oh yes, there she is now – still without child, I see...”

Impossibly, Celeborn straightened even taller, yet his voice remained tempered to say, “We await the gift.” He placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder to squeeze briefly. “Until then, I’m glad to receive the gift of new family in the full-grown variety.”

“Family…” Renwen bared her teeth in something resembling a smile, “Of course, since you are related to his mother. And her brothers.” Here she inserted a pause where it did not naturally belong. “Well – might I leave you gentlemen to grow as you are planted, while Elrond shows me where guests go to take fresh air from here?”

“There is a Western wind tonight and a clear sky,” Círdan gestured to the courtyard that the far end of the hall opened into. “Perfect for a moment of respite.”

“And happy reunions! Obnoxious bells will soon announce when the table is set,” said Gil-galad cheerfully. “Until then.”

Oblivious to the festivities, Renwen navigated the straightest path toward the arching doorways and continued beyond, only pausing once outside and distanced from other stargazers. She spared a moment to find Eärendil’s beacon on high before turning to his son.
“May we speak at once? I did not come to see the king’s landscaping, or to bask in the same night sky that shines upon my home in Forlindon,” she said. “I would not have come at all, except to meet you. Judging by your expression before Celeborn barged in, you do not recognize me.” Her raised hand halted his response, “It’s all right! Neither did Elros, and like you brethren, nor could Elwing recall much from the tragedy of Doriath after we absconded. Elves have an unstoppable memory, everlasting as a curse. The mundane might pass us by peacefully as the blur of long rainfall, but the best and the worst things stand out in sharper contrast thereby. You Half-elven seem to have an innate ability to quash certain unspeakable horrors from your recollection – truly, it is a blessing that I envy.”

“That would be an enviable gift, though I did not inherit it,” said Elrond, half-immersed in echoes of the past as he studied her. “I was going to say, there is a familiarness about you that seems just out of reach.”

“Hm. I feel the same way about myself, a semblance of the person I was, far gone.” The bells tolled, making her jump. “Mercy, those are obnoxious. Is dinner prepared, or is it invading?” Around them, elves shuffled inside to take their places tableside, until they two stood like the last grains of sand at the waist of an hourglass. She hastened to make use of the privacy they had left, “I should have started at the beginning. I am Renwen. In my youth I came to live in Doriath as early as the founding of Menegroth. I was handmaid to Nimloth since she was a lass and trained to become her midwife. Alongside few others, I narrowly escaped the Kinslaying with Elwing in arm, and went on to serve what remained of Elu’s house at the Havens of Sirion, where eventually you were born – into my own hands. I- oh!” Renwen found herself nigh pounced upon.

“Lady Midwife! Hênwen we called you!”

Swallowed by Elrond’s embrace, his chest smothered her laughter. “That’s right, the baby-lady. Even I had forgotten my old pet name!” They separated to arms’ length but held on hands to shoulders. Softened momentarily, she said, “I am glad to see you again, Elrond. Elros told me he became the taller of you two, but now I realize he became the jokester. You twain were born so small and grew elven-slow, your mother worried, oh I’m sure she worries still.”

“It’s come back to me now,” a flood of memories burst out in no order, “You used to keep ribbons braided in your hair. We helped you collect oysters on the shore for roasting. Mother would sit up with you by starlight sewing the pennant that father set sail with.” Inside, the music and voices dwindled into silence, indicating the King would soon speak. Brought back to the present, Elrond said, “You’ve come all this way, please join us at Gil-galad’s table so we may spend more time together. It would be my honour.”

“I said I would, and I keep my word. We best hurry, before he shatters that poor chalice by clanging on it.”

Arm in arm, they exchanged in summary their whereabouts since the War and how they came to be in Lindon as they returned to the hall. Two long tables were arranged on either side of the room, and in its center, a smaller board catered to the most exclusive invitation list. In addition to the usual attendees at the King’s table, Galadriel and Celeborn were sat, and beside Elrond a place had been reserved for Renwen. They took their seats as Gil-galad inaugurated the occasion with his thanks and blessing, ending with a toast to his honoured guest from Forlindon.

While their plates were being filled, Círdan leaned in from his place at Gil-galad’s left side. “So you do remember,” he said to Elrond. “I am glad for it! And you should have rights to brag, Renwen. Your presence made a more lasting impression than even a bearded elf as guest in Eärendil’s household!”

“Renwen was not a guest, she served my mother and lived in our home – I remember,” said Elrond. “Although, I should be ashamed not to have immediately recognized her.”

“Nay, you have good reason,” she said. “My face is worn with regret and sleepless nights, and your memories of me must be sullied by the circumstances of our parting. Last we saw each other, a Kinslayer held his knife to your throat while I knelt on the bloodied ground begging for your life.” The table fell utterly silent of cutlery and talk, its guests frozen by the imagery and the casualness of its conjuring. She winced away from Elrond’s stricken face. “Sorry. I just meant some things are understandable to forget. Uhm… Elwing’s boys had a cute pet name for me.”

“Hênwen, the baby-lady,” said Elrond, catching onto the segue and chance to revive some levity. “I think we must have misheard it originally, but in the mind of children, naturally the midwife would have a name that explains her talent.”

Galadriel laughed. “How darling. And how good of you Renwen to keep up your mastery of such a rare art – alas, as rare as the opportunity to exercise it.”

“Less rare in the hidden peace of Menegroth than in the strife-ridden realms beyond, as you know from your time there with us. I had years of practice before I pulled Elwing from her mother, and more still before her brothers came. But I never delivered twins before Eluréd and Elurín, and never again since, after Elwing’s pair.” She then sighed, suddenly despondent again and forgetting her own effort to change the subject. “Alas for Nimloth’s poor boys. Whatever their fate, however merciful or grim, not knowing is worse in the end by far.”

“We know their fate,” said Celeborn, as stern as she was mournful. “Painstakingly have its survivors pieced together the sacking of Doriath, down to the worst detail.”

Renwen gave a dismissive wave. “All I know is when that nightmare began, I was sent for Elwing and the twins were supposed to be with you of all people.”

“It never tires you to say so, nor to hear me repeat: if they had been with me, they would be with me still.” A soothing glance from his wife changed Celeborn’s tone. Calmer, he said, “I went to great lengths to learn the ugly truth of that day, Renwen, which the company at this table need not suffer to hear. But take from it what comfort you can, and let us move on from this once and for all.”

She scoffed. “My mind is unchanged. The word of a Kinslayer -especially a captive one- should be highly suspect. Not unlike whatever ‘great lengths’ you resorted to in the extraction of his confession!”

“Peace, please,” Gil-galad put out his leveled hands, one for each antagonist on opposing sides of the table. “This bickering wrought from pain is testament to your love for those children, of which you are both guilty. Your shared grief should bring communion between you.”

“It should,” agreed Celeborn. “I have always said so.”

Renwen said nothing.

The guests went on to address their plates for a while, some less aggressively than others, as the wine-pourers tried to elevate the mood with the flexibility of their wrists. Conversation forged an unnatural path around the unspoken, falling again and again into gaps of silence heavy with the weight of the dead.

Finally Elrond surrendered to the demands of unresolved anguish. Heart-wrenched, he said, “Renwen, I commiserate with your pain. Every motion of daily life rubs against the nerve of not-knowing. It is a distinct and maddening agony, which I beg the king’s permission to alleviate for his honoured guest, since I believe that I alone can.” He angled to Renwen sat at his side, folding his hand over hers. “Amidst the chaos of the attack on Doriath, Celegorm’s servants stole away with my uncles who had been seized, and carried them deep into the Neldoreth forest and deserted them there. Maedhros reviled this deed when he learned of it and searched for them, in his words relentlessly, but the children likely fled further and hid in their fear, and they were never to be found. Whether that agrees with the tale Celeborn learned or not, it is the truth.”

“Alas! Now it is the truth twice confirmed,” said Celeborn, the tightness of his voice betraying that even he had held onto secret hope that it may be otherwise.

Renwen took this in like a cauldron already overfull, and brought to boil, left no room for relief. Her ire targeted Celebrimbor whom she had ignored entirely before that moment. “That wretched uncle of yours, did he give the command that doomed those boys to terror and to death?”

“It may be so,” he said numbly. “Celegorm festered with anger over what he saw as Lúthien’s betrayal of him. Enacting revenge upon her progeny would be consistent with his twisted sense of justice.” His demeanor was little changed by the gruesome topic, his natural state already a tight braid of shame, dismay, and penitence for the misdeeds of his closest kin. “If my own apology means aught, I offer it a thousand-fold.”

Elrond said, “Even Maedhros did not know that much. Celegorm was slain ere he himself could be questioned, and his surviving servants refused to speak, whether to protect the will of their Lord or their own cruel desires. But for this crime, those responsible were exiled, and Maedhros and Maglor rued the loss of those children bitterly – they wept when this tale was revealed to me and for days that followed.”

Renwen drew back the hand he held as though it caught fire. “Curse their tears, and curse the foolish pity they gulled you into.” She sprang to her feet. “Maedhros did not weep at Sirion when he spared my life on condition I relay his decree, that if the High King dared to pursue he would collect Elwing’s sons in pieces along the way! Maglor did not weep when he broke his silent assent only to command that I bid you goodbye! What part would they have had to sever from you, before waking one night to find a knife at their own necks?”

Undeterred, Elrond looked upon her with the same mercy she railed against. “My humanity.”

While the rest of the party stared unblinking, Renwen covered her eyes until she began to tremble, soon to emerge with an outburst of fey laughter. “Well! Silly me, I have been doing this all wrong! Without the fell guile of Celeborn, the misplaced guilt of Curufin’s son, the noble sufferance of Elrond, what am I, but a bitter old nursemaid with no recourse but the very hatred that spoils me?” Her strange humour smoldered with resentment by the end.

Gil-galad matched her standing to answer, his gentle tone in contrast to the authority he imposed, “You are priceless wisdom and memory of a bygone Age. You are twice-survivor of unthinkable evil and stronger thereby. You are trustee of the most precious gift to the Eldar, our children newborn.” He opened his hand to the place she left empty and faced like a combatant. “And clear to see you are suffering – but of all things, you need not be alone. Please, rejoin us.”

She took a step further back, casting a detached glance upon those who still sat, again a spectator of things that concern others. “One day I may prove myself fit for it. Until then, I deem I’ve sufficiently proven why I’m no good at parties. With your leave, High King, I shall rescue your guests from my company.”

“Though my heart aches, so be it. I only ask that you not go unaccompanied.”

Círdan had already stood up and made his way around the table. “Parties are the King’s forte. I’m better for long walks and quiet contemplation, and buggering off once I’ve exhausted my charm. If you would permit me.” Renwen accepted his arm, tenuously placated once more, and together they left.

In the wake of their parting, the remaining company recovered their bearings like survivors of a storm rattled by its passing.

Gil-galad mustered a faltering smile for his guests as he returned to his seat, defeated. At length, he sighed. “None of us here are strangers to atrocity, and it’s no secret that Renwen is haunted by more than her fair share. She found no peace on the Isle of Balar where I harboured countless refugees during the Great War, and in Lindon after all these years she fares little better. At her best, she reminds me of my own old nursemaid, shrewd and persnickety but selfless, and fiercely protective; and at her darkest, I see the shadow of my own failings and feel compelled to make amends. When I sent my invitation I expected no response, but her willingness to leave the solitude of her home in Forlindon filled me with hope that the joy of meeting Elrond would keep her thoughts in the present – yet I’m afraid this table is decorated with such history that it had the opposite effect.”

“I should have held my tongue,” said Elrond. “I thought putting her uncertainties to rest would help close the wound. Seems the weight of finality only deepened it.”

“Perhaps in another environment she may have been consoled,” said Celebrimbor. “Not here, crowded by the sharp edges of ancient memorabilia.”

“Your point is made,” said Celeborn tersely. “I admit I was as helpful as she was friendly. My patience has waned over the years to endure the salt she insists on rubbing into old wounds. Do not make yourself such an easy target, Celebrimbor, lest she make you her next scapegoat.”

Celebrimbor had returned to his plate, more experienced than most at carrying on after unseemly eruptions of temper at the dinner table. “Good advice,” he said.

“Nonetheless, thank you.” Elrond placed his hand over Gil-galad’s where it rested on the board beside him.

The king laughed without mirth. “For thrusting you unwarned into the midst of this drama?”

“No, for that I forgive you.” Elrond smiled. “Thank you for keeping her candle alight.”

Gil-galad squeezed the hand gladly. “I always will,” he said, solemn again. “Like any who came into my purview bereft and despairing in the dark times behind us, she deserves release from the shackles of pain that burden her, and those of us less weakened by our own griefs owe every effort to break the bondage of our kinsmen.” Their eyes locked and with ease uncommon for the king, the connection relaxed into pure exchange of thought. He saw the tragedy of Fëanor’s sons through the eyes of an innocent, the corruption of love into malice, and the inevitable doom of a darkened heart. He saw a set of lone footprints in the sand, forsaken if not followed. With that image came an inkling of their fate, somehow both final and endless – then he felt it: the maddening agony of not-knowing.

The motion of a servant reaching over Renwen’s empty seat interrupted. Gil-galad stopped himself from speaking, and soon the place setting was cleared, leaving nothing to return to.

The hand around his tightened, and together at once, they let go.

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Chapter End Notes

Canonically speaking, there would be no question as to Gil-galad's parentage. 
The Silmarillion was printed with Fingon named as Gil-galad's father, but Tolkien wrote several versions. It was eventually determined that Orodreth (himself being the son of Angrod) was Tolkien's final decision on the matter.
The implication in this story that Gil-galad suspiciously resembled Fingon leading elves to speculate as to his true parentage is simply this author being tongue-in-cheek and has no basis in the lore.

I highly recommend this video by Tolkien Untangled for anyone interested in Gil-galad's many incarnations.
https://youtu.be/DVUxtw98thM