Child of Kings by singing-sorrowless  

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”

--The Fellowship of the Ring

Gil-Galad was an elven-king,

of him the harpers sadly sing

Galadwen—

Galadwen had never expected to be married to one of the Noldor, newly come out of the west, fair and haughty, glowing with a light she had only heard of in rumor. Yet here lay one of their princes by her side, on the grass by the riverbank. He looked less imposing in sleep. His head, so often crowned in ribbons of gold, rested on her chest, gilded strands unraveling from long braids, black against her pale skin.

Yet even when he was awake, Galadwen no longer found this particular Noldor prince imposing in the least. The fell kind of fire in the eyes of all his kin burned in Fingon’s gaze too, but, Avari as she was, she had not wanted to look away.

Theirs had been a fast, reckless kind of wedding—they had married under the stars, the wild things of the forest the only witnesses. Fingon, despite being counted among the wise, had little plan for their future together.

It had been chance that brought them together in the first place, he exploring east of the Blue Mountains, she running westwards through Eriador with her tribe. Fingon had strayed far from his companions while hunting; Galadwen had left the shelter of the forest to scout out the lands ahead.

She had heard him singing as he walked and came to listen, creeping softly in the shadows. But he saw her and called out to her, lost. She had no idea where the other Noldor might be, but she had stayed with him until morning, not wanting to leave a stranger alone in the wilderness. In the light of the moon and their small fire, they had tried to talk, though their languages had long been sundered.

As Galadwen continued traveling westwards with her people, she had continued to run into Fingon and the other Noldor while hunting, or while plotting the next night’s route in the gray of early morning. Before she realized what was happening, she was falling in love with him, then, married.

Now, she had no choice; she had strayed and found the one her soul loved. She would have to follow him, back to wherever his people were living. Galadwen laughed at herself, a pale moth chasing the splendor of the morning. Fingon stirred, and she lay still again, running her fingers lightly over his hair, watching the constellation of the Hunter sink in the gray of early morning.

They were to leave today, as soon as the sun began to set, to make it easier for her. Galadwen had said her goodbyes already, far sooner than she had wished, to her mother and grandmother. She needed to travel with the strange party of Noldor. Even one of the Avari, for whom surviving in the forests and wild places was as natural as breathing, could not hope to cross Beleriand alone, not with the shadow in the North.

Fingon had promised they could make a home in Taur-na-Fuin, a dark forest much like this one, though half his time would have to be spent in the mountains of Hithlum with his father, the High King. Galadwen would not dare to come to the Noldorin palace. She was Moriquendi; she belonged in the twilight of the woodland, in a world of soft semi-darkness, not with the Noldor in their kingdoms of bright banners and glittering stone, fire and shining metal. But she would go with Fingon, and make her home in Beleriand, and dwell in his light.

Chapter End Notes

"Galadwen" could mean either "tree-woman" or "radiant woman" in Sindarin.

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The last whose realm was fair and free

between the mountains and the sea.

Fingon—

Fingon rushed to Galadwen, holding her tightly, desperately, in his arms, as if it would keep her from disappearing, too. Her silver hair was falling out of its crown of braids, the leather of her boots and the hem of her tunic singed. But she was safe, unharmed.

“You’re here,” he said, starting to cry, “You’re here, you’re alive. I thought you had gone, too.”

“Fingon,” she said, her voice unusually soft, “I’m here. I’m with you. Always.”

She clung to him, just as intently, burying her face in his cloak. The wind whipped through their hair, the air still thick with smoke, great black plumes of it still rising in the north. Ard-Galen was charred to ashes. Taur-na-Fuin, where Galadwen had fought, was overrun, the trees burning up, the shadow deepening. Fingon’s father was dead.

The next month was a blur of motion and ceremony, funerals and the coronation, resettling his cousins’s peoples who had been displaced, receiving condolences for the High King Fingolfin’s passing. And moving Galadwen into the palace in Hithlum.

Fingon had always felt guilty, hiding Galadwen away like a secret when he wished he could have sung her praises to all the world. And yet she would not have been happy, paraded around the court in Hithlum, stone walls caging her in, a princess’s finery wrapped like chains around her frame.

He knew that, just as surely as he knew the harsh sunlight glinting off the snow and the glittering lamps that brightened the castle keep’s halls were too bright for her to look upon for long. It had not made it easier, spending so much of his time away from her, leaving her in the dark forest with Aegnor and Angrod’s folk.

Now he wished he could go back to the bliss of those few short years, when he had still been prince and the forest was not yet corrupted, and they had been free. Now he felt guilty for drawing Galadwen out of hiding. But there was no safe path for either of them, anymore.

A messenger’s arrival startled Fingon out of his thoughts.

“High King,” the elf said, “There’s something you should see.”

Tragedy after tragedy, loss after loss. Instead of a dread at the messenger’s forebodings, Fingon found he felt only the familiar numbness. Wordlessly, he followed the messenger outside, to the wide plain in the valley, stretching out to the side of the palace, the mountains shrouded in mist and snow.

There, on the plain, head bowed despondently, stood Rochallor. Fingolfin’s horse, who had gone with him under the shadow of Angband. Slowly, Fingon walked towards Rochallor, burying his face in his matted mane, unable to stop himself from crying. His father’s death had not felt real, before. Now it was all too pressing.

Galadwen came to join him, a dark shawl drawn up over her head against the daylight. They settled Rochallor in a clean stall in the stables, but he would not eat or drink. They sat with him through the evening and all that night, Fingon singing a soft lament between brushstrokes, as he tried fruitlessly to get the dirt and soot off of Rochallor’s pale gray coat. His father’s horse died just before the dawn.

Exhausted and spent with crying, Fingon retired to his rooms with Galadwen. There was nothing to be done but to wash the stable dust away, eat a hasty meal, and sleep through the day. That evening, nothing felt better, the shadow still hanging over the north of Beleriand, the grief no longer numbing but painfully sharp and clear.

As Galadwen woke beside him, she stifled an almost hysterical laugh, and he rolled over to face her, shocked she could find anything to laugh about.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s not funny in the slightest, really,” she said guiltily, “Only, it’s such awful timing.”

“What do you mean?” Fingon thought he might crumple under the weight of another loss.

Galadwen reached out, smoothing the crease in his brow, her fingers twining in his hair.

“I just remembered what I was going to tell you yesterday.”

He looked at her intently, afraid to ask, afraid to hope.

“My king,” she said gravely, “you have an heir.” Galadwen ran her hand over her middle, smiling despite her attempts at stateliness.

Fingon stared back at her, open-mouthed, less in shock and more in a quiet kind of wonder. They had wanted a babe of their own for years, and now they would have one, and at such a time. He could almost laugh too; it was ridiculous, such exuberant life and joy in the face of tragedy. He supposed they did everything recklessly.

“Galadwen,” he breathed, kissing her brow and her mouth, “What will we do?”

“What everyone does, when losing a parent, and gaining a child,” she said. “Grieve, and hope, and worry. And keep living.”

He imagined she must have seen many losses. They both had.

“Yes,” Fingon said, “Of course. Easy as that.” Now he did laugh, at the absurdity of it all.

“I’m sorry, love.”

“Don’t be. We’ve never made anything easy for ourselves.”

“It’s terrible timing. But I cannot wait to meet our child,” Galadwen whispered.

She smiled and leaned back in for a deeper kiss, and he gladly obliged, trailing gentle hands in her silver-white hair and down the curves of her body. When they broke apart, he pulled her in close, cradling her in his arms, her head by his heart.

“I love you,” he said softly. And he would love their child, and maybe someday he would understand his own father’s actions.

That loss was like a gaping wound, one that should have been mortal. But he and his kin had suffered many such wounds and still lived on.

The night would pass. There would be better days.

Chapter End Notes

"Then when Fingon heard afar the great trumpet of Turgon his brother, the shadow passed and his heart was uplifted, and he shouted aloud: 'Utulie'n aure! Aiya Eldalie ar Atanatari, utulie'n aure! The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!’ And all those who heard his great voice echo in the hills answered crying: 'Auta i lome! The night is passing!'" --Of the Fifth Battle, Nirnaeth Arnoediad

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His sword was sharp, his lance was keen,

his shining helm afar was seen

Lalwen—

Lalwen had come as quickly as she could from her quiet, lonely home in Nevrast after receiving Fingon’s letter. Now, she sat by Galadwen’s bed, where Lalwen had settled the elleth, helping her wash and change after delivering her child. She had delivered many Noldorin babes over the years in Beleriand, but never a child of one of her many nephews and nieces, not until now.

Lalwen cradled the babe in her arms as Galadwen slept, Fingon sitting on the bed, a strange look of love in his eyes as he watched his wife. A wife none of them had known about, and now a child. Lalwen would have expected such a thing from Celegorm, or Aegnor, maybe, but not Fingon. He had never been a secretive person, for all that he loved recklessly.

“Will she be alright?” he asked.

“As far as I can tell, Galadwen will recover fully, hroa and fëa,” Lalwen assured him. “She is only tired from the birth. Now, come, dear one, hold your son.”

She settled the babe in his arms, noting the resemblance between her nephew and his child. The babe had the same light brown skin as Fingon, the same wide, dark eyes, though he had his mother’s silver hair.

“He’s beautiful,” she told him.

“He’s so tiny,” Fingon said, “I don’t remember any of the little ones in our family being so small.”

“The Moriquendi and Edain women bear smaller babes. He will grow.”

“Lalwen…” he trailed off. “Was it wrong, to ever bring him into the world?”

“Wrong because of Galadwen or wrong because of the world we are living in?” Lalwen asked pointedly.

“Not Galadwen,” he said, face darkening, “I've heard the gossip; I don’t mean that, you know I don’t! But by marrying her, I’ve put her in danger, and now our child will be in danger, too.” He spat a curse, at Morgoth, at himself.

“Oh, dear one,” Lalwen said, standing, wrapping her arms around Fingon, “you cannot control everything, and you cannot save everyone.”

“I cannot even keep my family safe. I promised Galadwen a good home in Beleriand, and she trusted me, and now she is under the shadow growing in the North with a child to care for.”

“He would be safer elsewhere,” she said. “But you must see your son, and raise him. You will have to decide whether it is worth the risk to keep him here.”

“I don’t know anymore, what’s worth it and what is not,” Fingon said dejectedly.

“But that is a lie of the enemy,” Lalwen replied, taking the child, who was beginning to wake, soothing him. “You know better than most when risking everything for those you love is worth it.”

“I trust Galadwen, Fingon said, sighing. "We can decide together. She knows she can go wherever she wills, and I’ll follow her as best I can."

“It’s alright now,” she said, half to the restless babe, half to his frightened father. “It will be alright.”

“I know. Or at least, I hope.”

“That is all I would ask,” Lalwen said. “Now, what father-name will you give your son?”

“Artanáro,” Fingon said. “A high flame, a beacon in the darkness.”

It was a good name, Lalwen thought, defiant, like his father and grandfather, echoing Arakáno’s name. Light here under the shadow, and life.

Chapter End Notes

Artanáro is glossed as "Noble Fire" by Paul Strack, creater of the Eldamo Elvish Lexicon.

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The countless stars of heaven’s field

were mirrored in his shining shield.

Círdan—

Círdan pitied the boy the moment he saw him, even before any news came. The look on Lalwen’s face was enough to know that something was wrong, that he’d need to invite another lost little one into the havens.

He looked very young and very small, just old enough to walk beside Lalwen on the journey instead of being carried. But the expression on his face was far too old for one so little.

“Círdan,” Lalwen spoke. “Considering your long friendship with the elves of Hithlum and Mithrim and the tentative situation in the north of Beleriand, High King Fingon of the Noldor humbly asks that his son be taken into your care. He believes this will be safer for him.”

Tentative was a rather diplomatic way of putting it.

“Of course, my lady,” he replied. “And what of the child’s mother?”

“The Lady Galadwen is a warrior like her husband, and a huntress of the enemy’s creatures. With the recent losses…the king cannot afford to send her away.”

“Oh. Of course,” Círdan said. “I am sorry. What is your name, little one?”

“Rodnor,” the child answered softly. The Sindarin form, not his mother-tongue.

“Well, Rodnor,” Círdan asked, “would you like to come play with my grandchildren? They’re very kind, and the youngest ones are about your age.”

The boy looked at Lalwen, as if for approval, then nodded slowly.

In a few days, Círdan stood with Rodnor, watching Lalwen depart after he had said his goodbyes. He did not cry, or seek the comfort that Círdan was so willing to try to bestow. That worried him.

For two weeks, he tried to reach out to Rodnor to comfort him, to little avail. The boy buried himself in books, he ate, he slept, he listened to Círdan and did what he was told. But when the other children played, he sat alone, staring out to sea.

There was nothing for it but to take him out sailing. Círdan thought he detected a hint of a smile on Rodnor’s face when he suggested it. He stocked his small sailboat with a picnic meal and made up a little nest of blankets in case the boy grew tired.

As they set out in the afternoon, Rodnor sat silently, close to the water, watching the ripples in the boat’s wake. He seemed to enjoy being out on the ocean, but Círdan’s efforts were just as vain here as they were on shore.

After their picnic dinner, Rodnor curled up on the deck in the bed Círdan had made. He tucked the boy in and set sail back to the Havens as night began to fall. But as they neared the harbor, he heard soft sniffling sounds coming from the blankets.

Círdan lashed the sails in place and rushed over to Rodnor, afraid the little one had hurt himself somehow.

“Rodnor, what is it?” he asked softly.

The boy sat up, brushing away the tears. His wispy silver hair fell wildly around his shoulders, shining in the twilight.

“I can’t go to sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Círdan said, “we’re nearly back to the harbor.”

“I don’t want to go back to the harbor. I want to go home,” he sobbed.

“Oh, dear one. Of course you do.” Círdan reached out, tentatively. “Come here.”

Rodnor leaned closer, letting Círdan scoop him up, all wrapped in blankets.

“Shh,” he said, carrying him on one hip, “It will be alright. You will see your home again, soon.”

“I don’t want to go back to the harbor,” Rodnor repeated.

“Shall we stay out here a while longer, and watch the stars come out?”

A tiny nod, through the tears.

“Alright. Let’s do that.” He set Rodnor down so he could lower the sails, then sat at the stern of the boat, Rodnor clambering into his lap. Círdan held him as he cried, stroking his silver hair and pointing out constellations in a whispered voice.

“Father says the sickle in the north means hope,” Rodnor added after a while, sniffling. “I love watching the stars.”

“The sickle does mean hope. That’s why it’s one of the brightest constellations. As long as you can see it, you know you are not alone.”

“I know. But I miss home. I miss my name.”

“You don’t have to tell me your Quenya name. But you can if you wish. I will not tell King Thingol.”

“Artanáro,” he said quietly. A prettier name, Círdan admitted, but very Noldorin.

“It’s a good name,” he said. “I’m sorry that it isn’t safe to call you by it, for now. But I have an idea, for a new name for you. You can tell me whether you like it or not.”

“Alright.” He wiped his nose on one sleeve, sitting up straighter.

“I think, little one, that you shine less like the fire, and more like a star over the sea. And you have starlight hair, like your mother and like us Sindar. I think we should call you Gil-Galad.” Star of radiance. It almost matched his mother’s name.

The boy smiled up at Círdan, faintly, then more brightly. Gil-Galad was a fitting name. And it would keep him safe. He would make sure of that.

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But long ago he passed away,

and where he dwelleth, none can say

Orodreth—

Orodreth only received the news of his cousin Fingon’s death when his heir appeared in the night outside Nargothrond. He had been awoken in the middle of the night, quickly throwing on appropriate kingly robes and hurrying down to the throne room. A boy and his companions, three elves of the Falas, stood rigidly, surrounded by the guards who had brought them in. The boy couldn’t have been more than a young teenager, but he bore himself regally despite the way his companions and his captors towered over him.

In a slow, measured tone, he told Orodreth what had happened, the news of the High King’s death, and his own escape from the Havens. How, since he was not widely known, Turgon would be assumed to be next in line for the throne. How he had come to the lands around the waterfalls and let the guards bring him before Orodreth, knowing it was the fastest way to gain an audience with the king. And his name, Gil-Galad.

“Thank you for bringing news,” Orodreth said, after a few long moments. “What do you ask of Nargothrond?”

He did not know what he could provide this new nephew who had shown up unannounced. Who was only here because Fingon was dead. Angrod and Aegnor, his two younger brothers, were dead. Finrod had died and left him alone years ago, but the pain was the same.

Galadriel, at least, was alive and safe.

“Only sanctuary here, my lord,” Gil-Galad said softly, dropping to one knee.

“Rise, child,” Orodreth said, “such formalities are hardly needed when so little of our family remains.”

“You would claim me as your kin, Lord of Nargothrond?”

He supposed gaining a new family member was a blessing, though it offered him another chance to fail his kin. The guilt, that he had not offered aid in the battle, tormented him. But it was unthinkable, to send his people to aid the killers of their kin, or to leave them and fight someone else’s fight, as Finrod had done. He would not have turned the tide; he could have succeeded only in dying with his brothers and cousin. Orodreth was alive, alone, with leadership thrust upon him, and Gil-Galad was in much the same situation. He must help the boy.

“I would,” he said gravely. “If you are willing, I would claim you as my foster-son.”

He dared not speak it out loud in the company of the guards, but surely Gil-Galad would understand his meaning. If the crown had been passed to Turgon, that removed Gil-Galad from the line of succession. But Orodreth was next after Turgon, and he would gladly relinquish the crown, as would Finduilas, leaving Gil-Galad exactly where he wanted to be. He would be protected here in Nargothrond, too, especially as Orodreth’s foster child.

“I would be grateful, my lord,” Gil-Galad said.

“Of course.” It was the least Orodreth could do, since he had survived. “You must be tired. I will have Gildor show you and your companions to rooms, since he is bound to be up at this hour anyways. You must excuse me, but I would wait to discuss more until the morning.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Orodreth made his exit quickly, blinking back tears. He had not realized they were coming. Now that he was alone, the grief overwhelmed him again. He lay awake for long hours that night, half mourning, half wondering. What desperate hope had overcome his cousin, to think he could ever have a family in this half-ruined land? Why had he not told any of them?

Orodreth wondered if Fingon had told someone. It would have been Maedhros he confided in, surely. The kinslayer, who had returned the favor by leading Fingon to his death.

His heir asked for no further audience that morning, or in the following days. He was unobtrusive, and kept to himself, though he was friendly enough when approached. Orodreth watched and wondered.

One night, sleep evaded him, as it did too often since the battle, and he wandered wearily through the corridors. He had taken to checking anxiously on those in his care, afraid some new tragedy would come and snatch them away in the night. He listened through bedroom doors: Finduilas, then Gildor, across the hall, and now Gil-Galad. The children, his children, were responsibilites that continued piling up, as Orodreth continued to prove he was unfit to care for them.

Finduilas and Gildor both snored lightly, as they were wont to do. But when Orodreth came to Gil-Galad’s door, he heard soft crying.

He knocked lightly on the door, and the sniffling sound stopped instantly.

“Gil-Galad,” he said insistently. “Child, what is keeping you awake? Are you all right?”

Soft footsteps sounded, then the door creaked open, revealing only a flash of silver hair in the torchlight.

“I am hardly a child, my lord. I did not mean to trouble you.”

“You haven’t. I was awake, already. And I…do not wish to keep you as a foster-son in name only. I would know what it is that troubles you.”

“I would have thought you could guess easily enough, my lord,” Gil-Galad said, a wry note covering up the crack in his voice.

Despite himself, and despite the gravity of the boy’s situation, Orodreth let out a startled snort of laughter.

“There’s no need for titles. Please, Gil-Galad, if you can speak of it, come with me. I’ll show you where I spend my sleepless nights.”

Siletly, Gil-Galad opened the door fully, reaching out for Orodreth’s hand like a frightened child. He had wiped away the tears, but his face still showed he had been crying for quite a while.

Orodreth was reminded of when Finduilas had been this age, as he led his new foster-son through Nargothrond’s quiet corridors to a sitting room in one of the upper caves. An arched window opened to the night, starlight streaming in. He settled Gil-Galad one one side of the chaise that faced the window, under a blanket, then sat beside him.

“Did you know my mother?” Gil-Galad asked softly. “I guess you wouldn’t have. She would have liked it here, though.”

Orodreth didn’t know what to say.

“She loved the night, and all the dark and shadowed places of the world that weren’t under the enemy’s control. She was Avari, you know. Her name was Galadwen.”

“Fingon…” Orodreth’s voice broke, “Fingon never told us, about her. I think it was his last attempt to keep both of you safe.”

“But now she’s gone, along with him. She would have,” he said, the tears he’d been struggling against coming fast, “she would have wanted to be with him, at the end.” His words turned to violent sobs.

Orodreth felt useless, much as he did with Finduilas. He had no words of comfort to offer. But he risked wrapping his arms around Gil-Galad slowly, pulling the boy into a tight embrace. As Gil-Galad sobbed onto his shoulder, Orodreth cried silent tears for Fingon, and for his brothers, and for Galadwen, whom he had never known.

It was going to be a hard night, he thought, for both of them. Like all the nights he and Finduilas had hardly made it through, after her mother Tirinde had died. He still felt he had failed his daughter. He would try not to fail his foster-son.

So he sat with him until the night passed, and listened, and cried with him at times. And the dawn came, and they were weary, red-faced and puffy-eyed, but Gil-Galad smiled faintly at him, Fingon’s smile.

Unnumbered tears had been shed, and still would be. But there was life, here, and the reminder of it each morning. 

Chapter End Notes

Tirinde means "guard" or "watcher" in the wood-elven dialect of Sindarin.

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For into darkness fell his star

in Mordor, where the shadows are.

Finduilas—

Finduilas had loved her brother from the moment she met him. It would have been harder not to love Gil-Galad, harder not to accept him into the family. He was compassionate and brave and selflessly concerned for others, and he had the most delightful quiet rebellious streak, which she encouraged shamelessly.

And he was holding back, right now.

“You can hit harder than that,” she taunted, parrying his strike and lunging with her own bowstaff.

In a few swift movements, Finduilas knocked him down onto the grass, his staff flying out of his hands.

“That’s not fair,” he said, letting her help him up.

“Isn’t it? You’re taller than me, now. I don’t have to go easy on you anymore.” She tossed his staff back to him.

“You never did, Fin,” Gil-Galad said.

“I tried,” she said, and it was true. She had been very gentle with him when they first started training.

“Once you stop being so afraid of losing control,” she continued, “it will be better.”

“You’re not afraid of anything,” he said, shaking his head.

“I am,” she said sadly, “trust me, I am. But even if you still fear losing control, you’ll have a much easier time once we switch you to a real spear.”

“I’d still be afraid of hurting you.”

“I know. But you won’t. Here, give me your staff,” she said, sitting down.

He did, and she pulled two of the green ribbons from her hair, letting strands fall down around her face. Gil-Galad sat with her on the grass and watched as she tied a ribbon around one end of her bowstaff, then his.

“This will be your spear-point for now,” she said. “This is how my mother taught me.”

Her voice caught a touch as she handed the staff back to Gil-Galad. He looked at her intently. Of course he had caught it; he knew the same grief and more. She had given up trying to hide how she felt from him long ago.

“I didn’t know Tirinde was a warrior,” he said softly. “But I guess, as one of the Laiquendi…”

“She was fearsome in battle, when she had to be,” Finduilas said. “That was…that was how we lost her. But she would have loved you—”

“I am tired,” Gil-Galad said suddenly, “of hearing parents would have been proud of me, would have loved to see where I am now!”

He blinked back tears, laughing bitterly.

“It’s cold comfort,” he said, “for one who is no one’s child, anymore.”

“Gil,” she breathed, pushing their weapons aside, “What are you saying? Come here.”

She gathered her brother into her arms, as if he was much younger, instead of nearly an adult, one of the heirs to the throne.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You are still the child of Fingon and Galadwen, and Círdan and Orodreth. You have suffered too much, as we all have, but you are loved by more people, not less, because of it.”

“It is not the same,” Gil-Galad said, pushing away from her gently.

“No. And I would not have it be. Would you?”

He looked at her silently, almost shocked.

“Of course we wish they had not died,” Finduilas said, softening her remark. “It’s horrible, losing someone. But would you really rather be confined in Hithlum with all the old wounds of our family? You are the heir to the throne, and you must know your people, and let them love you.

“It’s not fair, that you have lost so much. But it is a mercy, to you, that you have met Círdan and my father, and that they have loved you. And it is a mercy to me, that I have met you.”

“I know,” he said. “But it is a kind of mercy that has hunted me down, dogging all my steps until I am alone. The king’s heir, but no one’s child.”

“You are still your mother’s child, and Fingon’s, and Círdan’s. You are Orodreth’s son, and my brother. You are a child of kings—Erenion, Gil-Galad.” Finduilas squeezed his hands in her own.

“Is that the new name I ought to bear, since I have no father-name, and no name in my mother’s tongue anymore?”

“If it will remind you whose you are,” she said.

“That, at least, is a mercy.”

“The kind that has been hunting you and me,” Finduilas said wryly.

“You never make anything easy, Finduilas,” Gil-Galad sighed, brushing back the tears. “But I suppose honesty is better than pity, or cold comfort. I will be Erenion, a child of kings.”

“I am sorry I have no soft words of comfort.”

“From you,” he said, smiling again, “I would not trust them to be genuine.”

“Come, Erenion,” Finduilas laughed, helping him up, “We are warriors’ children as well as kings’ heirs, and we will live, and fight!”

The night is passing, she thought. And in Arda marred, someday she, or her father, or her brother, might die by the spear, as they lived by it.

But life and hope would go on, for those left.

The night was passing.

Chapter End Notes

Auta i lome! Thank you for reading!

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