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

---

Fingon

---

Fingon Nolofinwion was somewhat of a curiosity amongst the line of high kings. He had come after one of the longest reigns in the first age, only to be the shortest. He had none of the formality, and none of the maturity of his father, and yet still commanded more respect than any man could hope to earn in a lifetime. He was mischievous, and fun, and interesting. It was a tragedy that he could not be known as his son, but that would cast doubt on him, because every son has a mother. Or, at least, that’s how his advisors phrased it, before they inevitably told him that it would not do for a bastard child to hold the throne. And, by the way they looked at him, they clearly thought he was. Perhaps they were right—it wasn’t as if Fingon was around to ask.

No one seemed to doubt that they were related—he had once stood next to a portrait of the former high king and demanded that Elrond tell him if they shared a resemblance, and Elrond had joked that he had thought it was just another portrait of him. Then again, he had asked Elrond instead of Celebrimbor or Galadriel for a reason. Sure, he could stand in front of mirror for hours, counting up every single trait he shared in common—his dark hair, brown skin, blue eyes, the way he hands were built, and the way he smiled—but it wouldn’t mean anything; if he wanted to find signs he was related to Thingol, he probably could.

Maybe he should call for Celebrimbor. An honest opinion would be helpful, perhaps—but, of course, Celebrimbor would be busy with his work (and with that tricky guest of his, but thinking about Annatar tended to give Gil-Galad a headache, so he avoided it). Then Galadriel? But he hated to bother her when she had her own business to run.

At least there was no doubt that, biological or not, Fingon was undeniably his father—enough so that Pengolodh had mistakenly penned it as such, and refused to change his account, even when Gil-Galad had advised him that officially he was Orodreth’s. The politics of fatherhood were too complex for him to risk an inconsistency, and yet he found that he didn’t really mind that particular one.

His memories of Fingon were his earliest and, with the corruption of hindsight, his most painful. He had lived in Hithlum from birth until he was seventeen, and all of his formative years had been spent at his side, sitting on his knee, or at his feet at the base of his throne, listening to him trying to rule as he played with his braids, or the tassels at the foot of his robes. He had a hazy memory of a discussion in which a rather exasperated Maedhros Feanorion offered to babysit him while Fingon was conducting his affairs, to which Fingon had responded that “Everyone loves a baby, Russo; if anything it makes them more likely to side with me.”   The subject had not been brought up again, and Ereinion was only ever separated from his father once.

He stared at the page in front of him—while he’d been lost in thought, the ink at the tip of his quill had bled over into the line above.

Fingon had taught him to write, too. Or, rather, tried to teach him to write (Maedhros had been the one who succeeded). Being so small and so new to the realm of words on paper, he had found it difficult, and the ghost of Fingon’s hands guiding his across the page was a hard one to shake, especially in the darkness of a night clouded with memory. He sighed. He wasn’t going to be able to finish writing if he kept getting so lost in the past. Perhaps it really was too late for him to be working.

---

At least he knew the baby’s lungs were healthy. 

Fingon told himself that over, and over as some sleep-deprived mantra that that was what was important. But surely no baby screamed like that? He looked over at his writing desk, feeling the sure pull of the idea of writing a letter to Maedhros— another letter to Maedhros. Because the four he’d already sent that evening weren’t enough. Logically, he knew that none of them would arrive for days, and he wouldn’t get a reply back for some time after that, but logic didn’t really factor into the chaos of trying to keep the infant from screaming himself to death. 

“Hey—hey, I know you’re sad, okay? I’m sad too. I know what it’s like to miss your mother,” he said, peering over into the makeshift cot he’d had created from an ornate fruit bowl and the softest cloak he had left over from the Helcaraxë. “We’ve just gotta rely on each, other, okay? Alright?” 

The baby was quiet for a moment, staring up at him with wide, blue eyes—the colour of the morning sky just before the sun rose. He remembered marvelling at the shade the first time he saw it, but whenever he’d tried to recreate in paint it to show Maedhros he’d fallen flat. The baby scrunched up his face, and Fingon sighed, bracing himself for the next, inevitable scream, when the door swung open, drawing both of their attention. 

“What’s the baby’s name?” 

Fingon breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his father, dressed down and finally done with whatever kingly duties he had been attending to. “His mother called him Gil-Galad .” 

Fingolfin eased himself down onto the floor next to him. “And what do you call him?” 

“I don’t know. He cries so much, maybe I’ll just call him Bruinaeg ,” He groaned. 

“You wouldn’t be that cruel, son.” He caught a smile playing on his father’s lips and, if he wasn’t such a model heir, he would’ve stuck his tongue out at him for finding this situation funny. “Besides, he seems quiet now.” 

“Wait.” Said Fingon, giving the baby a hard stare. “You’ll learn.”

They sat in silence for a minute, waiting, but the infant seemed to be fixated on his father, reaching out a tiny hand to grasp at his fingers. Fingon shook his head—this was not happening. “Maybe you should take him instead,” he sighed.

“I’ve no need for another heir,” Fingolfin gave him a wry smile, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “I have you.”

Fingon leant into the hug—no matter how old he got (or how mature he convinced himself he was), he was still a child in his father’s arms. When they watched the ships burn, when they were crossing the ice, when they’d buried Argon, when he’d gotten back from Angband, covered in blood and dust and tears—he’d always been able to find some small comfort in his father’s arms. There was safety there. Or maybe his dad was just really good at giving hugs. One of the two.

Gil-Galad began to sniffle.

“Oh, Eru have mercy.” Fingon pulled himself free of the hug and reached down into the fruit-bowl, picking up the baby and holding him close against his chest. It hadn’t worked when he’d done it before, but he didn’t want to look incompetent in front of his father for not trying. “Hush, it’s ok; Finno’s got you.”

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow.

“I feel weird calling myself his dad.” He winced. “I’m too young.”

“You’re older than I was.”

“Then I’m too used to being a brother, or an uncle.”

His father shook his head, moving swiftly on. “You did notify Maedhros—” They froze as the baby let out what was officially his first scream in the presence of the High King of the Noldor.

“Of course,” he said, carefully neglecting to mention the exact number of times he sent such a notification.

They paused again as Gil-Galad continued to cry.

“He’s got great lungs,” Fingon added, trying to keep a straight face.

“Indeed, he has.”

---

 

Again he found himself wanting to send for Celebrimbor, Annatar be damned. He wasn’t sure why he’d been so cautious to interrupt their work in the first place—he didn’t exactly value those experiments they were always doing, and he had always much preferred Narvi being around anyway. Still, he found himself deciding against that particular endeavour, yet again afraid of the results that it make yield, but he still wanted to find some reason to get Celebrimbor away from the forges. No matter how many times Annatar ‘proved’ himself trustworthy, he couldn’t allow himself to let down his guard. Not when it came to one of his oldest friends.

He leant forwards against the cool stone of the balcony wall, looking out over the city as the sun rose above the horizon, making its way lazily through the summer sky. That early in the day the air was still cool, and the feel of the breeze against his skin was refreshing, rather than oppressive—he knew that it wouldn’t last. Best to make the most of it.

The summers in Lindon ranged from pleasantly warm to, at their height, scorching, and he had never gotten used to them—he used to joke that he was a cold-climate kind of person on account of being from Hithlum until he remembered that he wasn’t actually officially from there.

The most refreshing kinds of people to talk to were those who believed he was Fingon’s bastard, and who blatantly didn’t care. It was perceived as somewhat of an ‘open secret’ among scholars and few of them cared to muse on any other possible theories: it was the simplest explanation so, naturally, it had to be true. The High King Fingon had, in a passion, conceived a son (possibly with a human woman, but that was hotly debated) and raised him best he could to make up for his scandalous creation. Gil-galad wasn’t sure if he liked that version of events, but it was the first he’d come into contact with—he’d overheard a maid gossiping about it with her friends during his first night in Círdan’s household. It had been the first time he’d any inkling that there might not be the utmost clarity surrounding his parentage.

He remembered demanding that Círdan tell him if he, too, believed that, and Círdan had asked him if it mattered. Gil-galad hadn’t been sure of the answer. He still wasn’t.

---

 

The following days offered very little sleep, but did gift him two welcome riders entering Hithlum from Himring. The first being a messenger carrying a letter back from Maedhros that could, essentially, be simplified down into ‘ very funny, Finno, but you’ll have to try harder to trick me’ and the second being Maedhros himself, who greeted him with a grand speech that could be reduced to ‘ oh, Eru, you’re serious’. It was, Fingon ‘regretted’ to admit, rather entertaining. Or, at the very least, his lover’s expression was—the situation itself could be aptly summed up as ‘unideal’ and perhaps even ‘concerning’.

After eight days, it was pretty clear that there was something wrong with little Bruinaeg. More so as even Fingolfin appeared to warm up to the name with each passing day.

Fingon had led Russo straight to his chambers, kept pitch black in the hope that it would help little Gil (as he had taken to calling him in lieu of any real name) sleep. It had not helped him sleep.

Maedhros had at first been apprehensive at the idea that Fingon had somehow acquired a baby, but he hadn’t asked questions and had tolerated Gil’s tiny hands grabbing at his hair. He lifted him gently from the makeshift crib (and even managed to restrain himself to only one comment at how inappropriate a place it was for a baby to sleep— ”A fruit bowl?”, to which Fingon had responded, “Because he’s the apple of my eye.”Maedhros had just sighed). And he had managed to get him to stop crying for a full hour by finding distraction after distraction to keep him occupied; Maedhros was probably a thousand times better at handling babies than he was, but he managed to keep himself from asking if he would take him instead—possibly because the question he’d rather ask was if Russo could finally give up the ghost and hand Himring over to Maglor’s people so that he could come and live in Hithlum permanently. He bit that one back, too.

Maedhros was standing across from him, pacing in circles around the room, trying to soothe Gil into falling asleep, humming the same tunes he used to hum for Ambarussar when he had been stuck babysitting them. Back then neither of them had ever considered that their positions in the royal household were anything but for show—no one died in Aman. In Aman, everyone was safe. Still, they had joked that someday, if Finwë ever decided to abdicate, and if Fëanor pulled some stunt that would inevitably skip him from the succession, they would get married and co-rule, and everything would be great. In some twisted way, that pleasant daydream had almost become reality.

Fingon bit his lip. This was not how it was meant to be, and he was not the person he’d imagined that he would be.

Gil would be silent in Maedhros’ arms, content to simply be carried around and spoken to, which made sense: Maedhros had been old enough to get roped into child-rearing duties when his first brother was born, and then he’d dealt with five more after that (plus a couple of Fingon’s younger siblings once Fingolfin had realised how hopeless he was at the whole ‘being a responsible elder sibling’ thing). He wasn’t the kind of person who could soothe a child to sleep just like that; he was the kind of person who would lead the same child into doing stupid things, and who’d let them eat too many sweets because he remembered how much he had wanted to when he was young.

Maedhros lowered the now-sleeping child back into the fruit bowl and yawned. “He’s crying because he’s in pain, you know,” He said, easing himself into the seat next to Fingon’s.

“I guessed as much, but I don’t know what to do about it—I don’t know what to do about him, Russo. He’s so small and helpless and I’m a disaster: I can’t raise a child. It’s so hard.”

“Yeah, and I’m willing to bet the skin condition isn’t helping.” Maedhros cocked an eyebrow, with that insufferable little half-smile that said, ‘I am about to tell you something I could’ve told you hours ago, but waited for dramatic effect, and am also going to pretend that I thought you knew the whole time’. Maedhros liked to pretend he wasn’t like the other Fëanorians. That is what he liked to pretend.

Fingon sighed, playing along, “skin condition?”

“Uncommon among our kind, but Caranthir had it, and Gil-galad clearly has it—I know it’s possible to make a salve to deal with it because I’ve seen humans doing it for their kids.”

Fingon wasn’t sure whether to punch him in the arm or kiss him. Instead, he settled for burying his forehead in Maedhros’ shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Possibly because I thought you’d notice the fact that your baby has rashes covering his face. You and your father are both useless.”

“I know—I—” Fingon hesitated as he realised that he was crying. He covered his mouth—half in surprise, and half to muffle any sobs, but by the way Maedhros wrapped an arm around him, he was pretty sure he could tell.

“You don’t have to—”

“No, no, I said—I promised her that I—” he shook his head, remembering the look on her face—the way she had, bleeding, thrown herself at his feet, pleading with blue eyes wide open. He pulled himself away, petty thought interrupting his break-down. “Did you see his eyes?”

“His…eyes?”

“They’re the exact shade as before the sun first rose.”

Maedhros laughed. “Really?”

“Would I lie about that? And—” he noticed the way Maedhros’ eyes, too, shone powder-blue in the low light of the chamber (how had he never noticed that before?)— “I think I know what to call him.” He held his gaze, thinking back to afternoons spent in the warmth of the trees, laying about in open fields and talking about a future they never considered could be theirs. “Ereinion.”

He saw the change in Russo’s expression—the way the switch flipped from happiness to worry. “You—we can’t.”

And he was right, of course, but that had never stopped Fingon before.

---

 

When had he first been hailed Ereinion? It was by Círdan’s people, crying the name over and over on the day of his coronation—cheering for the new king. He had never been quite sure who had started the chant, but he had his suspicions. However, before he was hailed Ereinion, he was called it in gentle voices in the privacy of rooms with closed doors. Fingon had called him by that name whenever he could. It was a close-kept secret—only for those select few who were truly in the know about the nature of his origin. Fingolfin, Lalwen, Maedhros, and, perhaps Orodreth (he had never been sure whether he knew or not: the man gave little away). Of course, all of those people were dead.

Now everyone called him by that name, regardless of what they believed was the truth about his parentage. It felt half like a relief, and half like the invasion of something private, that was only ever meant to be for him and his family.

“Ereinion?” Of course, he didn’t mind Elrond invading that space. Maybe it was because they were almost family.

“Hm?”

“You have a letter—this little kid came up and handed it to me; said you’d know who it was from.”

Gil-galad smiled as Elrond shot him a quizzical look. “Let’s see what she came up with.”