Heart and Stomach by janeways  

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Heart and Stomach

Maedhros was long gone by the time they arrived, as Gil-galad had known he would be.

They were too late. He had known that, too. But he had come anyways. He was the High King of the Noldor. It was the right thing to do. It was his duty. A king could not be derelict.

Sailors clamored on the docks below. Standing half-ready in his chambers, he examined himself in the mirror by the late afternoon light: A proud nose, straight and pronounced; a noble brow; high cheekbones, well-defined; a certain set of the jaw. A face made for a king. Many had called him fair, even among the Eldar. Well-wrought, as the Noldor would say. Eyes with the light of the stars in them, hence his name, he supposed. Some said they were almost like the eyes of the Exiles, those who had seen the light of the Two Trees atop Ezellohar. And that silver, silver hair, gleaming like moonlight.

As a very young child, he had arrived wide-eyed on Círdan’s doorstep with no memories and nothing but a brief missive containing two things: a request to foster him for his own safety, and a name—Gil-galad Ereinion.

Scion of Kings. There were rather a lot of those, he reflected, proportionate to the relatively small geographic confines of Beleriand. But then, they kept dying, or leaving Beleriand, or renouncing their kingship, so that didn’t help. The problem was, of course, no one knew which one had sired him.

Even so, there were not so many Kings of the Noldor that the possibilities were endless. And there was the problem of the hair.

That silver hair, so rare among the Noldor as to be noteworthy, to warrant special mention. None among the kings or their bed-mates (marital or otherwise) had hair anything like it—except, of course, for the Fëanorians, through Míriel.

Maglor had never claimed the kingship proper, referring to himself only as Regent. The rest had been sovereign princes but never King in title. That left only Maedhros, well-formed one, among all the Kings of the Noldor, who might have passed along that silver hair.

Gil-galad’s claim to the kingship was tenuous at best. He knew that. But he was the people’s only option, and, frankly, no one seemed to want to plumb the subject too deeply, except him. Lalwen had already declined. Idril was gone. Galadriel was loath to return from beyond the mountains, and she, too, had declined.

Círdan had raised him to meet the doom of his duty.

But then, it might have been considered, by some, depending on their heritage and allegiance, Elwing’s duty to heed him—or to at least have pretended, as a courtesy among peers, to politely entertain his suggestions on statecraft and mutual allyship. It was his people, after all, whom she knew very well would be expected to rush to the Havens’ aid—as indeed they were preparing to do now, even as he tarried, ruminating in the slanted, late-day light over all the things Ereinion could never dare say.

He had warned her. He had asked her, then pleaded, then demanded, but still she remained steadfast and resolute. The very image of a proud king, besieged but unwavering—or of what she imagined a king to be, at any rate. That thought was uncharitable, he mused, but perhaps not unwarranted. In Idril, Elwing had had as disciplined an example of the hard realities of leadership as he had had in Círdan. But Elwing was a daughter of the line of Thingol, ever trusting to her own judgment above all else, damn them all and herself included to Darkness Everlasting. And even Idril had grown weary of this world in the end.

He would have given it to them. The knowledge had come to him suddenly but not piercingly—almost calmly, like a whale breaking the surface for air.

He had not even suggested this to Elwing, because he already knew the answer that would have provoked, but he had suggested, as he liked to call them, creative interpretations of possession. Of course the Silmaril shall stay with you, he had written to her. Rather, you may avoid unnecessary violence and mend the rift between your two peoples by acknowledging their birthright and requesting the honor of safeguarding this most precious heirloom of their house, last and most cunning of their own father’s creations—surely, it is wiser to open negotiations than to close them, he had advised her. Offer to rent it, he had pleaded. “A king is he that can hold his own,” or so it was recorded that Maedhros had once said of Thingol.

He would have given it to them.

Finally, he had lost his patience with her. Their numbers were few and their allies far between. You could always simply invite them to the Havens. This hadn’t been what he had meant.

Pettiness was unseemly, especially in a king. It was also a luxury that he of all kings could not afford. What would be assumed of his lineage, he with nothing but his words and his deeds, if these were found wanting? Would he be called steadfast and resolute?

It was his duty to go, so he would go. Damn them all. Hold fast, as Círdan would say.

So what if he lingered a moment too long in preponderance. It would be too late for them anyways.

As he had expected, Maedhros was long gone by the time he arrived. To his shame, he was flooded with a swell of relief, and then, to his even greater shame, disappointment. He had been hoping, somewhere deep beyond reason, for a glimpse of him.

He hadn’t actually considered the children. “What do you mean, she left them?” It was a genuine question. She knew they were coming, and she didn’t evacuate the city? Her own children? She didn’t take them with her?

“The attack was unprovoked,” Círdan answered. Gil-galad gave him a pointed look. “The Fëanorians came out of nowhere,” he continued. “Elwing had no time to prepare. It was complete chaos.”

“A total slaughter” came the rejoinder from one of the refugees who’d returned with them.

Gil-galad bit back another uncharitable thought about preparedness and Idril and how he had arrived on Círdan’s shores. Silence, he had learned, could also be a kingly virtue.

Later, when they were alone, and looking out together in silence across the vast, tumultuous blue of the sea, Círdan began, “She did what she thought was best. She sent them to a place she hoped they would be safe. Perhaps … perhaps, by the end, she assumed they were already dead.” Gil-galad stared straight ahead.

Círdan sighed. “Children were not imagined in my future,” he said quietly. “You were, as the mortals say, a surprise. I attempted in good faith to raise you as I, who awoke unbegotten under the stars, imagined a king might be raised, and to instill in you the virtues of a king as I understood them.”

Gil-galad bowed his head deeply. “And I, called Scion of Kings but without father or mother, could not have imagined a better tutor of kingship than you, my lord—even if,” he continued, heading off another start at that old argument, “you do not claim that title for yourself.”

Círdan had done his best. But Gil-galad did not call him “Father.”

A note of ransom never came. Not, if he was being honest with himself, that he ever really expected one. These were, after all, people who committed to things.

He tried to rationalize it. Guilt was an obvious motivator. Perhaps they felt a certain responsibility for the boys, after everything. Perhaps they simply thought there was no one left to take them. Perhaps they thought the boys wouldn’t be safe.

But then, that was why he had been sent away to Círdan, wasn't it?

He hadn’t expected the boys (nearly adults by now) to be so well-adjusted, if he was being entirely honest with himself.

They were both fine examples of the lords of Men and Elves: hale and vigorous, intelligent and curious. Elros seemed older, somehow, more driven; Elrond, more reticent, more observant.

They were sent away for their own protection, Elrond explained. And, Elros added, they were more than ready to join the fight.

Gil-galad welcomed them, and schooled his countenance into one worthy of a king: light and untroubled, gracious, ever-patient. As he always had—had to—and as he suspected he always would.

He stumbled upon Maedhros quite unexpectedly.

It was after sunset, a quiet week in a quiet month, all things considered, and Gil-galad had taken advantage of the relative respite to sojourn for a day in the wilderness. There was no set path, other than what the forest laid before him; the land was upheaved with Morgoth’s ruin and the Valar’s war. As he rounded a growth of thornbushes, a spark caught the corner of his eye. He turned around and saw—a fire.

Across the edge of the firelight, a shadow stirred.

And there he was, nearly as Gil-galad had always imagined him: beautiful almost beyond description, even to the Eldar, even in the gauntness of his fall from majesty. A proud nose and a proud brow, cheekbones to cut glass, a steadfast jaw, copper hair shot with strands of mithril.

Maedhros, having spotted him, called out, somewhat cautiously, “Hail, and well-met! Gil-galad Ereinion! Your Majesty.” He stood and offered a deep bow, in the style (as Gil-galad understood) of the Dwarves.

Gil-galad swallowed. He gathered himself. Shoulders back, chin up. “Hail, and well-met,” he responded, hoping it sounded more regal and less awkward to Maedhros than it had to him.

Well, here he was. He had rehearsed so many versions of this meeting in his own mind. What, now, could he say?

“I have met your—I have met Elrond and Elros. They are fine boys.” He paused. “You did admirably.”

There was an immense quiet. Perhaps, thought Gil-galad, he had spoken ill when he meant well. “Forgive me,” he began again. “I meant it sincerely. I of all people know the challenges such a situation may present to all involved. Especially given the circumstances …”

Maedhros’s gaze held steady.

“You must have been a good father,” he blurted out, a little desperately. Better than—

He should stop now, he realized. But these were thoughts he never dared imagine he might utter to another living soul, and it was him, and Gil-galad found that, having begun, the words welled up and burst forth of their own accord:

“A ruler must make difficult decisions. They must choose their people before their own pride!” His eyes blazed, and heat blossomed across his face. “She chose that fucking rock over her own children!” He shocked himself with the ferocity of it, the suddenness, the need to say it—and to whom. There was a buzzing in his ears, a feeling like he was separated from his own body, and he wondered, detachedly, if his fury seemed only righteous, or something more.

Maedhros hid it well, but his countenance betrayed a glint of surprise, and something else. Pity, Gil-galad realized. It was pity.

“Yes. So did my father,” Maedhros answered simply, and Gil-galad was struck, in his anger, with the gentleness of it. “I tried to choose differently. But such is my doom, that to evil end shall all things turn that I begin well.”

“I don’t understand” was all he could say, when what he meant was, I was such a lonely child.

Maedhros answered calmly once again. “Parents as well as kings must make difficult decisions.” There was stillness for a moment. “I love him nonetheless,” he added quietly.

A tremendous sorrow overcame Gil-galad’s heart then, and it rendered him, finally, blissfully, silent. He opened his mouth but found that there was nothing he could say. Maedhros held his gaze a little longer, and finally turned away from him into the twilight.

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