Remember no grievance by firstamazon

---

Remember no grievance

---

Gil-galad squirmed in his seat. A slight shift of hips, and that was all. No lord noticed his discomfort, so he shifted again, trying to unflatten his sore buttocks. He had been in that position for the better part of the day, but even the Elven body had a limit. Or maybe it was just his patience. And if anyone mentioned Maedhros’ name one more time, he would throw a fit.

“...would Maedhros show compassion were he in this position? I don’t have to answer that for you, my Lords.”

The one who had spoken, Gellaer, had been one of Elwing’s captains in Sirion, and she – one of the very few survivors of that dreadful day – had every right to say that. But Gil-galad had to breathe in deeply, closing his eyes as a way of trying to call back the patience that had run thin hours ago.

Of course he wouldn’t throw a fit. He was the bloody king, wasn’t he? He wasn’t allowed to throw fits. He inhaled very slowly again, counting to twenty, so no one would notice how irritated he was becoming after all the blabbering about what to do with the last remnants of the Fëanorian army who, after being released from Maedhros’ and Maglor’s service, came to Balar seeking refuge. Not pardon, no, they were too proud – or too guilty – for that. Still, Gil-galad commended them for the courage to come to him, of all people.

It was not just anyone who would face the wrath of every Elven race together in one place just to have another chance in the fighting.

“I can’t believe they came here as refugees!” said Fethrail, a survivor of the Doriath massacre. “They want us to believe that so they can attack us from within.” He puffed his chest with justified anger.

Gil-galad didn’t think that for one second, though. Not only because there were so few of them left that an attack would be suicidal but because he had seen the mix of rage and impotence in the eyes of Sulimë, their captain. They still wanted to fight but were denied their vengeance. Gil-galad had believed they still wanted a chance to overthrow the Enemy of their people, to fight for their lords’ cause even if it would be the last thing they ever did.

“Have you actually seen them?” Brelor, an Avar ambassador, inquired with an irritated wave of his hands towards the windows as though the Fëanorians were lurking underneath the windowsill. “They are starving, in Elbereth’s name!”

“Yes, it indeed looks like they have been released from the bowels of Angband, not from Lord Maedhros’ care,” Therion muttered darkly. He had been in his grandfather’s personal guard since the Mereth Aderthad and remained loyal to his house. When his father sent Gil-galad to the Heavens after the Bragollach, Therion accompanied him, and quickly became one of his most trusted counselors and a dear friend.

Gil-galad didn’t know every detail, but he knew Maedhros and Maglor had unceremoniously discharged the rest of the army who had followed them since Aman. Rumors said that only the two brothers remained, bedraggled and cursed in a life of love and hate for each other, for the Oath, and for the Silmarils. He didn’t know if he believed those rumors, but the fact was that Balar had received a contingent of ragged soldiers who still carried their weapons and loyalties with pride – and that was precisely why nobody was willing to take them into their service as hired swords.

“So what, they want us to pity and feed them while our own people starve? After what they’ve done?” Fethrail repeated. “We have nigh a thousand mouths more to feed since the arrival of the host of the West, and I don’t think we should be prioritizing Fëanorian rebels instead of Vanyarin forces!”

“Who said we are prioritizing anything?” Therion countered. “The Vanyarian army shouldn’t be our problem in the first place. And don’t get me started with the Valar and their useless councils, sitting around like we all have all the time in the world.”

“That is blasphemy! We shouldn’t question the Valar’s judgment,” the son of a lord of the Gondolindrim cried in horror.

Therion slanted him a glance, and Gil-galad’s mouth quirked ever so slightly up. He couldn’t so blatantly show he agreed with every word, but Therion was right. This war against Morgoth was already starting to drag, and the lords of Balar were getting as impatient as he.

“That is beside the point,” Brelor waved the Valar-worshipping aside. “We must focus on our own instead of worrying about the gods.”

An argument broke between the Gondolindrim lord and the Avar ambassador – two opposite sides of the religious spectrum that grated on Gil-galad. And that was precisely why he had called this council. Not to revolve in petty discussions, but he needed to know what the lords and ladies of his still fragile and fractured kingdom thought of the idea of incorporating those soldiers into their own lines – thus giving them refuge, if not amnesty. They would not suffer any kind of trial, at least not until the war was over.

Gil-galad knew well what these Fëanorians did and were still capable of doing, but he was not without a heart. He would not have them cast out. Not yet. They still had a common Enemy gathering forces against them in the North, and the Valar spent far too much time sitting in silence without taking proper action.

The influence of Morgoth’s black hand extended as far as the Heavens now, and thousands of Men and Elves were condemned to live in a condensed pocket of land that offered little in terms of supplies. The arrival of the Valinorian forces didn’t exactly improve the situation, even if the majority of the Amanyar wouldn’t approach Gil-galad’s court with a ten-foot pole. Most days, he wished he could send them all back just so he could stop thinking about the damned logistics.

And, of course, there was the matter of Celebrimbor. Gil-galad had been mulling over the letter he had received from his cousin not a fortnight ago.

 

To Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor.

Cousin.

I hope this finds you well. I wanted to inform you that once the war is over, I will cross the mountains in search of a new home with whomever chooses to follow me.

I appreciate the hospitality you have always given me and mine, but it is time we look for a place to call our own, away from those who would have us killed simply for being born Noldor – and away from my grandfather’s blood and of those who followed him from Aman.

You know you need only ask, and my people will fight beside you – they are keen to do so, as I am sure Sulimë has told you. My only request is that after all is done, and Morgoth is defeated – for he will be – you will grant us a few soldiers of your own to spare. We need no more than a small company, for we still have women and children whom I’d like to prioritize, so I count on your aid.

All my love,

Tyelpë

 

Laconic, straightforward Tyelpë. Gil-galad bristled every time he thought of that damned letter – informing him of his decision. He stifled a weary sigh and returned his attention to the discussion that had taken another heated turn.

“They are murderers and should be put to the sword, not enter our army with a pardon!” The Gondolindrim cried. The wife and children he had managed to save in Gondolin had been murdered in Sirion.

“If we kill them, we are no better than them,” Gil-galad spoke for the first time in a long while, and the room fell instantly silent. He held the eyes of those who would see him commit a Kinslaying of his own with all the power of his Finwion heritage. “I will not condemn an entire people to death or starvation. I don’t have to remind any of you that these are still Elves, and we are not Orcs.”

“But, my King, they have behaved like Orcs their entire lives! I don’t doubt they would put us to the sword given the slightest opportunity!”

“You speak out of ignorance.” Gil-galad stared coldly at his council with concealed ire. He was sick of the lords who boasted they knew his past better than himself. But a startled look from Therion told him he had gone a bit too far. His lords avoided meeting his eyes, unwilling to face his wrath or contest the obvious influences Maedhros had had in his upbringing. The rumors that followed Fingon’s and Maedhros’ relationship were even stronger – and vitriolic – than even the ones that claimed Fëanor loved the Silmarilli more than his own sons. Both were ridiculous.

Gil-galad sighed and waved a tired hand. “Forgive my intemperance, Lord Hallor,” he continued in a more conciliatory tone, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the table. His golden-silk braid slipped over his shoulder and tickled his exposed forearm. “As you all know, I spent part of my childhood in Maedhros’ company, for he was a very good friend of my father’s. He was not an Orc then, as he isn’t one now.”

Even though he tried dispelling the tense atmosphere, the silence in the room intensified as a storm brewing. Gil-galad bit the inside of his lower lip. He wouldn’t take his words back, though he wished they had not been necessary.

“The king’s justice includes all who seek refuge, even Fëanorians.” He began anew, any sign of emotion crushed under the mask of his willpower. “I know the weight of the grief each of you carry, but I will not willingly permit them to be treated without mercy under my banner, under this crown. The same crown that Fingolfin the Wise wore. They are war criminals and will be treated as such when the time comes. But they are not monsters. And neither are we.”

Though his words brooked no dissent, Gil-galad saw the sour looks his lords discretely cast one another. He bit his lips and hardened his resolve. Accepting Kinslayers in their midst was not going to be as smooth a transition as Círdan had hoped when last they met. Their lives would now be filled with suspicion, hatred, and disgust for a people who deserved it – yet didn’t.

“I expect each of you will aid me in this most difficult endeavor.” His voice dropped, and he forced a pleading tone he would not have used otherwise. “We need more swords.” And Gil-galad needed the petty, arrogant, self-righteous lords and ladies he had in his council. “The Fëanorians are exceptionally skilled warriors. Not better than any,” he added quickly with a raised hand when more than one lord opened their mouths to protest, “but they are without a doubt the people who have fought Morgoth up close longer than any of us.”

Once more, no one contested the truth of his words. Good. Perhaps Gil-galad would have lost the sliver of patience he still had if anyone did. So he breathed in deeply, letting his speech sink in. He wasn’t beyond demanding the council’s help if they were not willing to cooperate – many of the lords there owed him the lands and riches they had hoarded these past few decades, while others would never have become lords in the first place if Gil-galad weren’t in dire need of building alliances with the varying cultures that fell under his protection.

He took the silence that followed his words as a good sign. “We can talk about the details of logistics in the morrow. Ladies, lords, if you will excuse me,” he rose from his chair, and the council rose after him. They bowed to him as they left the council chamber, and the lack of chit-chat, even bickering or complaints, brought a concerned frown to his brows. This discussion was far from being over.

Only Therion remained behind. His counselor smiled wryly and approached him, and Gil-galad allowed himself to show the weakness he never could have shown in front of others. He gripped the back of his chair with white-knuckled fingers and let his head fall forward.

He let out an audible groan. “Why can’t I win these people’s trust? Haven’t I done enough to prove I am on their side, that they are my people? It doesn’t matter that my past is in the past. They will always see Maedhros as my father’s murderer and the Fëanorians as monsters.”

Therion had also been dear to his father, for he was one of the very few people who knew the nature of Fingon’s true relationship with Maedhros. Gil-galad’s chest heaved like he had run a marathon, but a warm hand on his shoulder brought his head up.

Therion’s eyes were filled with compassion. “We both know he was not.”

“Yet is not enough,” he exhaled out loud.

“Command them. They have made you their king, Ereinion, and they know the lengths you have gone to fulfill their wishes.”

“Do they?” He scoffed in sarcasm. “Sometimes it is hard to tell. They seem only to see me as a Fëanorian lap dog as they whisper my father was.”

“That is a filthy lie!” Therion’s outraged voice rang in the room. He quickly amended his outburst by closing his eyes and saying: “I am sorry. You should never have to hear such despicable commentaries. I will make sure they will never be repeated.”

Gil-galad chuckled. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, my friend, but that is a promise you can’t keep.”

He went to the window and stared at the sea shining under the moonlight, the smooth waters capturing the glitter of the stars above.

“Tyelpë wrote to me.” He said casually.

“And? Is he coming to the isle?” Therion asked, coming to stay by his side.

“No. He is leaving.”

A sigh escaped his lungs. He loathed the idea of letting go of another family member, and Celebrimbor had been a steadfast ally throughout the most challenging years of his reign. His cousin cared not for lands or riches or renown. He only wanted to create beautiful things, and, once Gil-galad gave him free rein, Celebrimbor proved to be more than just good company. They had become close as brothers.

“Leaving? Where to?”

“He is crossing the mountains with his people. He didn’t tell me an exact location.”

Therion was silent for a long moment. “May I speak plainly?”

“I trust you always do.”

“Perhaps it is for the best,” he began in a low, cautious voice. “The news of his leaving might calm down some spirits, and maybe your pledge will be more smoothly accepted.”

“Maybe,” he replied in an equally low tone. It was not that simple, and they both knew it. “I have no aspiration to please everyone at once, but I wish things didn’t feel like an utter failure most of the time.”

“I don’t think it was a failure, sire.”

Gil-galad, who had been staring at the ocean, turned his head to Therion, surprised. “You don’t? Were you paying attention?”

They shared a brief laugh, but Therion swiftly returned to his usual circumspection. “The council respects you, regardless of their opinion of you. They might bark and whine, but you have the final word. They will obey your command, whatever that may be.”

Gil-galad sighed. He had to believe it would be so, or else his actions would come to nothing, and his reign would be short-lived.

“You remind me of him. Your grandfather.”

Gil-galad started. It was not always that Therion allowed memories of a long lost life to creep back into their conversation, least of all about Fingolfin.

“You have his strength and resilience. The same smile.” Therion’s voice picked up a nostalgic tinge. “It was a rare thing on him, but it fed us like sunshine and dew.”

“Tell me about him.” Gil-galad had heard the same stories a thousand times, but he could never get enough.

“The very best. I have seen Fëanor only once, on the shores of Lake Mithrim, and he had a radiance about him that was hard to match. Lord Maedhros has it, too, even if it has dimmed after everything he went through. But Fingolfin was... Different.” Therion’s eyes shone with memory unhinged, and Gil-galad heard the knot in his friend’s throat. “He was the sun and moon of our people – we, who swore we would take no king.” He laughed low. “But Fingolfin stole our very breaths with his compassion, his readiness to listen to even the smallest complaints, the love he showed his people. It was impossible not to love him back.”

Gil-galad tilted his head at that last sentence and realized it was a veiled confession. He turned to look at his friend’s face in full.

“You loved him.”

Therion’s smile was wistful. “Like I said, it was impossible not to. Fingolfin was the epitome of the Noldor. Powerful yet graceful. Beautiful beyond the measure of words and as kind as a Summer breeze.”

“I can never strive to be that man.”

“You already are.” Therion smiled and touched his cheek affectionately. “With your grandfather’s wits and your father’s charms, few can resist you.”

Gil-galad laughed. “You are a flatterer.”

“Nonsense! If you had a liking for females, you would be wed already.”

They shared complicit smiles before Therion rested his hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, drawing Gil-galad’s gaze into the green ones. “They would have been exceedingly proud of you.”

He couldn’t reply to the earnestness reflected in his friend’s eyes, so he squeezed Therion’s shoulder back. His counselor understood his feelings, and Gil-galad couldn’t be more grateful to him.

“I will write to Tyelpë. Let him know we are still with him. We cannot afford to lose an ally such as him.”

Therion grinned. “I will leave you to it, then. Sire.” He bowed low and left.

Gil-galad returned to his chambers in a pensive mood, wondering if his words would be enough to convince his taciturn cousin of the truth of his heart.

 

To Telperinquar Curufinwë Fëanorion,

It is with a heavy heart that I hear of your departure. Your presence will be sorely missed. Balar has seen in you a powerful ally and friend, a lord worthy of your forefather’s name. And I am not one to easily cast aside friendships such as yours.

After the war is over, you will have your escort. My personal guard will accompany you if ever they live to see the day. Count on me to guarantee the safety of your people, as I count on you to report your news of the lands you find.

I have thought much of you lately, Tyelpë, and I wondered if you truly believe this war can be won. I know how much you’ve already suffered, but I have to believe the Noldor will come stronger out of it. When I gaze across the bay, I believe I can detect your movement on the other side, a faint quiver in the air like a heart that has lost control. It is madness. But. I BELIEVE.

Please, do not disappear. This is not the king speaking, but your kinsman and a cousin who loves you. I cannot bear losing you to the wilds without a word reaching my ears.

Yours always,

Ereinion

 

Back of the postcard: When I gaze across the bay, I believe I can detect your movement on the other side, a faint quiver in the air like a heart that has lost control. It is madness. But. I BELIEVE.

---

Chapter End Notes

Immense thanks to my wonderful friends polutropos, cuarthol and Melesta for the helpful betas - and Melesta for giving me the title! <3