Child of Kings by singing-sorrowless  

---

Fingon

---

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