Child of Kings by singing-sorrowless  

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Orodreth

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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. 

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Chapter End Notes

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