Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

The day the survivors of Gondolin arrived in the Havens of Sirion, Ereinion’s life changed.

“The High King is dead,” Idril Celebrindal said, voice low and tinged with lingering grief. “My father is dead. His heir is a traitor, and is also dead. My son is a child, my lords, and peredhel besides. There is no one else. The crown must pass to the next House, or else be broken, and all hope of stability and leadership abandoned.”

She stood, head high and proud, at the head of the small table, the mithril circlet that they had all been assured was the crown of the High Kings of the Noldor laying there before her. Artfully twisted metal formed a circlet, a colorless stone the size of a quail’s egg sat at the front. A beam of sunlight came through the chamber’s window, setting it sparkling in a rainbow cacophony to illuminate the dark wood.

Around her sat a limited set, all staring at the crown that had sat on far too many heads. Oropher and his ward, Queen Elwing, to represent the refugees of Doriath and the rest of the Laiquendi in the Havens; Círdan, to represent the Isle of Balar and the refugees of the Falas; Tyelperinquar, to represent the remnants of the Fëanorians who did not leave Nargothrond with Celegorm and Curufin; and Ereinion himself to represent what remained of the Nargothrondrim.

Tyelperinquar stood, bowing neatly at the waist first to Idril before speaking. “Cousin, the House of Fëanor remains Dispossessed, and to that I hold, despite my own estrangement from my remaining uncles.”

Ereinion’s heart clenched, remembering the news that had came out of Doriath so few years ago, and the way Tyelperinquar had refused to show any emotion until they were ensconced in Ereinion’s rooms. His lover’s grief mingling with his rage had been terrible to behold.

Idril inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Cousin, it gladdens my heart to see you once again, and I would like it witnessed here and now that no ill will sits between you and I for the actions of our grandfathers, if you agree?” Tyelperinquar nodded, bowed again, pressing his hand to his heart, and sat. Ereinion noted the omission of the deeds of their respective fathers, which said much. Idril took a deep breath. “I know less than I ought about the current state of things. Are there no scions of the House of Arafinwë that might take up this burden?”

Círdan shook his head. “None,” he said, studiously not looking at Ereinion. A pause. Ereinion’s heart sank when Círdan continued: “Two sons there might be, but neither come from wedded unions.”

That was the most flowery and yet kindest way Círdan could have phrased it, though being called an illegitimate bastard was shorter, more to the point, and more honest. Men had introduced Ereinion to the term, not being so bound as the Eldar were to their single and eternal marriages.

Idril’s face barely twitched. “Who?”

Ereinion spoke now, unwilling to cede his story and his lineage, such as it was, to another. He kept his voice low and even, revealing nothing. “Finrod Felagund, may Mandos welcome him into the Halls, sired two sons. Gildor Inglorion is the younger son,” He paused, meeting Idril’s eyes. “I am the elder.”

He could feel Tyelperinquar’s concerned gaze flicker between them.

“How?” Idril’s voice was full of disbelief, incredulity, scorn.

“How what, Princess?” Ereinion scoffed, unwilling to be polite about such an invasive question. “You have a child. You know how it is done.” He inclined his head to Queen Elwing, a girl all of eight summers who watched the Noldor around her with wide, curious eyes. “I will not say more.”

“Finrod never married.”

Ereinion laughed, a harsh bark that showed no amusement. “Oh, he married. He married a Man, same as you, and when Bëor died peacefully in Felagund’s bed, he was free to visit my mother, a Elda widow herself. No marriage bond could result, but such a thing isn’t … exactly necessary. Evidently.”

Idril frowned, considering. Ereinion felt the brush of unfamiliar ósanwë hit his mental shields, and he glared until she withdrew.

“I will vouch for his lineage, if that is in doubt, Cousin,” Tyelperinquar said, tapping his temple meaningfully. “I was in Nargothrond when Finrod ruled there, and he did acknowledge Gil-galad and Gildor as his sons.”

“Will you show me, Cousin?”

Tyelperinquar met Ereinion’s eyes. “With your permission only.”

He could feel some small bit of affection for Tyelpë softening his glare, but only just. “It’s not exactly secret, Princess Idril. Such things cannot be hidden away behind tall mountains and heavy gates. But,” he sighed. “If you must, and Celebrimbor allows it, he has my permission.”

Tyelperinquar’s eyes slowly lost focus, and so did Idril’s, in the way of ósanwë. Ereinion let his gaze wander. His eyes flickered to Círdan, who was staring out the window, then to Oropher, who had thus far said nothing. This was a Noldorin matter, and he undoubtedly knew better than to interfere. His role as Queen Elwing’s advisor and regent of the Doriathrim would only become relevant after this matter was resolved. Círdan, despite being friend and mentor, would be no help, Falathrim as he was.

And so his gaze landed upon the crown. An intricate thing, the metal twisting and curling on itself, but surprisingly plain for a piece of Noldor make, especially originating from Valinor. Though he had seen before, once, he had not given the thing any real consideration. Sitting in front of him now, he would have expected far more gems, in far more colors, in a far larger and more intricate setting. Finrod’s Nauglamír was positively lavish in comparison.

He did not wish to wear the thing.

He did not want to be King.

The High Kingship had killed all but one of its bearers, and Maedhros, the One-Handed Butcher of the North and Doriath alike, had abdicated so fast his reign was barely a footnote in the greater story of Fingon’s daring rescue.

And above all, Ereinion did not wish to invite more death to his door.

He had already lost so much.

But when Idril met his eyes next, clear and solemn, he knew what she was going to say. He stared back, daring her to place her burden on him instead of taking it up herself. A bastard son could not, should not inherit before a true-born daughter, surely.

And yet.

“Hail, High King Ereinion Gil-galad, son of Finrod Felagund of the House of Arafinwë.”

So it began.

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Ereinion came into their shared, temporary, quarters – the majority of their people and their time was spent on Balar these days, and the Havens of Sirion only had so much room. He closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh.

Tyelperinquar eyed him from the table in the corner, his notebook open, but pen discarded. He was half-undressed, in loose pants and a shirt, his black hair half unbraided. Not unusual, he had undoubtedly had an idea in the midst of getting ready for bed, or at least for relaxing in the night. Tyelperinquar rarely slept through the night, his clever mind and nimble fingers rarely still.

“Rumors will begin to spread,” Ereinion said simply in their shared cradletongue. “And I will let them, because it matters not whose son I am.”

Tyelperinquar smiled, strained. “The measure of a man is not in the deeds or legacy of the father,” he agreed, matching his tone. “It matters only what you do with the life you have.”

“I don’t want to be King.”

“Good.” 

Ereinion raised an eyebrow, a silent question.

Tyelperinquar met his gaze steadily. “It’s good, because you will not abuse it. You will not take advantage of the privileges of power.”

“Is that foresight, Tyelpë?”

Tyelperinquar chuckled, tense, closing his notebook. “That has never been a strength of the line of Nerdanel or Rundamírë, no. It is merely pattern recognition, and faith.”

Ereinion scoffed. “Faith?”

“Faith in you, idiot,” Tyelperinquar retorted. “Faith in us, if you’ll still have me.”

Ereinion blinked, connecting several disparate pieces of evidence into the picture Tyelperinquar painted before him. Tyelpë was good, exceptionally good, at hiding what he thought, what he was afraid of, but Ereinion had spent the last fifty-five years watching him. 

“I will not abandon you, Tyelperinquar,” he said fiercely. He crossed the room, placing the sack that held the crown on the table to free his hands. He caught his lover’s face between them, rubbing his thumbs over his cheekbones and burying his fingers in the loose hair at the nape of his neck. Tyelperinquar leaned into his touch, but still kept his eyes lowered. 

“I recognize the taint I carry, Ereinion,” Tyelperinquar said, ruefully. He chuckled, mirthless. “Fëanárion to all, despite all efforts to distance myself from the brood. Your nascent reign cannot afford for you to be associated with the likes of me.”

“I will not set you aside, Tyelpë,” Ereinion said. He bent, knocking their foreheads together. “I would have fought this harder, if I had known I would be alone. Unless …” His heart clenched. He forced himself to say it, because not saying it would be worse. “Unless you wish to leave?”

Tyelperinquar shook his head, then tilted his head up to brush his lips against Ereinion’s. Ereinion smiled, relieved, and deepened the kiss.

When they broke, it was with a mutual sigh. “To this I hold, Tyelperinquar. I have never, will never, hold your lineage against you. Our blood fathers parted poorly,” an understatement, said with a tiny smirk and received with a huff through Tyelperinquar’s nose, “but that does not mean I hold you responsible. Were you not just saying we have to be our own people?”

Tyelperinquar nodded. Ereinion straightened, then fell into the other chair, studiously ignoring the sack now resting between them on the table.

“Though,” Tyelperinquar murmured, voice quiet. “If I may, I would ask only one concession from you, Ereinion, in the matter of politics.”

“I’ll hear it.”

“Traditionally, you would begin collecting oaths of fealty.” Tyelperinquar shrugged apologetically. “I’m sure you can understand why I might not wish to swear to an oath.”

Ereinion hummed. He knew. He understood. And yet … “An exception for one opens exceptions for all,” he murmured. 

Tyelperinquar nodded, expression shuttered. “It was worth asking.”

They sat with that for a moment, Ereinion already resenting the choices he was forced to make in service of the crown. The thing sat between them, physically hidden, yet as present as a hurricane off the coast, feared for its destructive potential.

“I’d release you from it,” Ereinion said quietly. “Whenever you feel it is too much of a burden. You need only ask.” A sigh. “But I think I will need as much support as I can get, in these next few decades.”

“Promise?” Tyelperinquar’s voice seemed small.

He nodded, gazing at his lover with pity. “Promise.”

Tyelperinquar searched his eyes, and finding the reassurance he sought, smiled. He flicked the sack Ereinion had stuffed the crown into after leaving his private conversation with Idril. “Let’s see it then.”

“You’ve seen it before,” Ereinion groused. “You probably chewed on it on Finwë’s knee, menace that you are.”

“I did not!” Tyelperinquar laughed. He suddenly grew serious again. “It’s different, now. It’s yours.”

Ereinion drew it out, letting it rest, dull and lifeless, on the table between them. The colorless gem reflected the light of the candle, a red and orange light flickering into rainbow. 

Tyelperinquar reached out, then hesitated, his fingers a hairsbreadth away from touching the metal. “May I?”

Ereinion waved a hand, relaxing into his chair. “Please.”

He picked it up, turning it this way and that. “It’s in remarkably good condition,” he mused, “for having survived … well, everything.” The fall of a hidden city. A battle so gruesome survivors could not go back to bury their dead. A duel with Morgoth himself. If rumors were to be believed, a spirit that fled his body so violently it had left only ashes. “We may need to resize it for you, though.”

Ereinion scoffed. “Forgive me for not having been born in the Light of the Trees. Not everyone can be as tall as you.” Ereinion came up to Tyelperinquar’s shoulder and not much further, was slight and lithe as a spear-dancer compared to his lover’s bulk from a lifetime spent in the forge.

Tyelperinquar rolled his eyes, bright with lingering Treelight, before setting the mithril circlet down. “Forgiven,” he muttered. “Have you put it on yet?”

Ereinion shook his head. “Itarillë suggested I do so for the first time privately,” he said. “Do you know why?”

“Yes,” Tyelperinquar nodded. “Nolofinwë was lucky Maedhros abdicated in a small hall, even if it was most suitable we had in Mithrim. We all saw how it went.”

Ereinion grimaced. Itarillë’s description of Turukáno’s crowning had been brief, but enough to warn him. “Well, that saves me having to explain.” He glared at the thing. Took a deep breath. “Better to just get it over with then, yes?”

Tyelperinquar gestured to the bed. “After you, Highness.” 

Ereinion rolled his eyes as he plucked the thing off the table. He went to sit on the edge of the bed, feeling foolish. But he knew he’d be able to do this properly, publicly, with some amount of dignity, once the initial rush was over.

He took another deep breath, steadily ignoring Tyelperinquar’s unwavering gaze. The crown, Finwë’s crown, he held loosely in his hands. The words Itarillë had given him fell from his tongue with ritualistic slowness, his Sindarin names clashing slightly with the fluidity of Quenya: “I, Ereinion Artanáro Inglorion, called Rodnor Finellach, called Gil-galad, do accept the mantle of High King of the Noldor, and all the responsibilities and privileges that entails. I will do my utmost to uphold justice and mercy for all who may be downtrodden; to govern and shelter and protect all that may look to me; to maintain fairness in all my dealings; and to learn from all who would teach me. Witness me, Manwë Súlimo and Varda Elentári and all the Powers of the West, for this I do so swear in the name of Eru Ilúvatar.”

He could feel the weight of it settle on his fëa, gentle like a silk scarf that, if wet, had the potential to be constricting and heavy on his shoulders. 

Ereinion lifted the mithril and crystal circlet and placed it on his head. The last thought he had before the pounding, waterfall pressure of unfamiliar ósanwë overwhelmed his mental walls, dimming his vision, was that Tyelperinquar was right. He would need to get the thing resized.

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Ereinion was Finwë. 

Manwë smiled down at him, wispy hands caressing his face and setting his hair fluttering in the breeze. Valinor spread below them, green and gold and silver and utterly lush with life. Treelight shone in the distance, Ezellohar bright. 

They were safe. They were free. The Noldor had followed him here, and here they would stay. Pride welled up in Finwë’s chest, tears fell from his face as he gazed up at the King of Arda. 

“Let this be a symbol to all who see it of my love for thee,” the wind whispered. “Let this accompany thee throughout all the days of thy duty, and let it be a comfort in the darkness and the light.”

“Hail, Finwë Ñoldóran,” Ingwë shouted, and the crowd around Máhanaxar upon Taniquetil cheered. It was the first day of his Kingship, and he was glad. 

...

Tirion was slow to rise, but she did, and as soon as was reasonable, he married. Míriel Þerindë was stunning, scarlet dress embroidered in gold and silver trees, silver hair caught in a net of pearls, face radiant with a smile just for him. 

…

Míriel caught his hand, face beaded with sweat and voice roughened from her cries. Finwë’s wrist ached from how tight she gripped him. Panting, in the space between contractions, she told him: “I fear for him,” and “I cannot stay, you must let me go” and “You must love him for both of us” and “Marry her.” And Finwë’s heart ached with sorrow he thought he had left behind, even as he gathered his son in his arms. 

…

Again he married, Indis golden and bright and happy. Fëanáro, young and frowning and impossibly burdened, still occupied the majority of his thoughts. 

…

A thousand thousand names and faces and problems swirled past, every day under the light of the Trees presenting a new problem, a new puzzle, a new thought. Repairs to the old started being more common than new buildings, innovations made to ensure things lasted. And around him grew his family, large and fractious but beloved all the same. 

…

He stood within the circle of thrones of Máhanaxar with Ingwë and Olwë and the heads of the most prominent Houses and Guilds in all three of their cities. Manwë stood before them, voice soft as he spoke of reconciliation, of reform, of repentance, of reparations. 

Finwë eyed the shadowy figure lurking at Manwë’s shoulder with suspicion. Melkor met his eyes, and Finwë shuddered, the familiar and unforgettable feeling of the Dark Rider passing in the shadows around Cuiviénen dripping down his spine. Melkor smiled, and Finwë supposed it was meant to be comforting, but he could see only gleaming teeth, and hear only the horrific sound of his own mother’s choked off screams. 

…

He was not blind to the influence of Melkor’s whispers among his people. He was not blind to the tension between his sons. 

But what was he to do? 

He was helpless in the face of the Valar’s lack of understanding. 

A sword was raised against a vulnerable throat, and Nolofinwë’s silence spoke a thousand thousand words.

And Finwë wanted to scream, thrashing against the very crown that forced him to hold his tongue.

…

He stood firm, spear familiar in his hands, the warm wood of the doors solid at his back. Melkor strode forward, great hammer held loose in his grip. “Little Ñoldóran,” Melkor whispered, smile full of teeth. “Step aside.”

Finwë merely shook his head, defiant.

They danced in the courtyard, his spear flashing in the light of the torches, Melkor was a dark shadow as his warhammer beat great rents into the earth as Finwë dodged his blows. And then, a feint, a hooked ankle, and Finwë was on his back, on the ground, gasping.

Pain, and fear, and then nothing.

Ereinion was Fëanáro.

He stood before the Valar in stupefied silence as memories of his father’s life washed over him, his own eldest son holding his arm to keep him upright. Tears streamed down his face, and he felt numb, and cold, and small. He was Ñoldóran, and it was so dark, and he was so angry. 

And Manwë had the audacity to look upon him with pity!

…

He was no stranger to grief, but Míriel Þerindë had been gone so long that that wound was mostly scarred over. His father’s death was fresh, bleeding, a weight that carved out a hole in his chest and sat that, dense and impenetrable. He held the memories of Finwë tight, oscillating between gratefulness for having them, and resentment that Finwë was not here to tell him himself.

There wasn’t enough time to mourn; he could only set his grief aside and act.

Only in the privacy of his rooms could he linger in it, and weep.

…

He gathered his sons around him, and together they swore unending vengeance upon Melkor – no, Moringotto. It settled around his throat, a strangling vine that promised dire consequences should he fail.

…

The slaughter was unintentional, but he hardened his heart against the lingering cries of dying Teleri and Noldor. From the deck of a swan-ship, the sea air gusted, the smell of salt and metal and danger meeting his nose as he cleaned his sword of blood. Nelyafinwë stood, back straight at his side, giving him a moment of quiet as his son organized their host for their move north. Blood was smeared on his son’s cheek, like a lover’s kiss, and Fëanáro knew his heir would never desert him – blood bound them twice over now.

…

The swan-ships burned. Ambarto – no, he had rightfully earned her true name for him – Umbarto burned. 

…

Battle was exhilarating, and Fëanáro rode hard, leaving his host behind. The Oath thrummed under his skin, urging him on, urging him forward, ever forward towards the lost parts of his fëa. Shadows rose around him, whips and swords and great hammers wreathed in flame raised against him. 

…

His hröa was a ruin, and no Song from Kanafinwë’s skilled repertoire could heal him. Blackness rose behind his eyes. He looked into Nelyafinwë’s eyes and spoke as flames licked at his extremities, “Do not put it on, not yet” and “Swear to me you will get them back” and “I cannot stay, you must let me go.”

And then, relief as something released in him, and darkness.

Ereinion was Nolofinwë. 

Memory overwhelmed him. He sat, leaned against Turukáno’s chest, reeling all over from the deaths of his father, of his brother. Decades of introspection and mourning Finwë while trudging across the Helcaraxë seemed wiped away in the face of knowing his father’s thoughts. Maedhros knelt before him, searching his eyes. “You saw,” he said, not a question. 

A memory flashed, a conversation under the stars on a stolen ship that Nolofinwë himself never had, never witnessed.

Nolofinwë nodded, ignoring the stares of his family and all their lords in the hall by the Lake. “I saw,” he said. 

“Them both?”

Nolofinwë nodded.

Maedhros only smiled. He stood, holding out his left hand to help Nolofinwë to his feet. “May Finwë’s wisdom guide you, Ñoldóran.” The empty space that Fëanáro took up lay between them, unacknowledged and heavy. 

…

Barad Eithel rose steadily. Hithlum flourished. Letters flew across the land. A great siege arced over the green lands and began to tighten, step by bloody step. 

He took the lessons Finwë had taught him, in life and in death, and organized a great feast. 

People were more agreeable, he knew, with full bellies and hearts full of song.

…

He stood on the walls of his city, breathing in the brisk dawn air. Ard-galen was green and lush and stretched for leagues before him. The wind picked up his hair, gentle and comforting. For this moment, at least, he was content. 

Findekáno joined him, frowning. “Turukáno is gone,” he said without preamble. “Vinyamar is empty.”

“How?” Nolofinwë demanded. Please, he thought, let them not be dead! Memories of the battle they had fought upon their arrival on these shores flashed through his mind, the bloody and rent body of his youngest son cradled in his arms.

“Disappeared in the night,” his eldest son muttered, snorting derisively. “At least, that’s what the trees say. I could find no living soul between Ivrin and the sea.” 

…

Ard-galen was burning.

He could lose himself in the battles he led, defending Barad Eithel and Hithlum, the sharp motion of sword and shield, leading the Songs that supported them all. It was only in the quiet moments, the lull between waves of Orcs and worse, that he could let himself feel. 

Despair and grief had never quite left him, but they were overwhelming now, an inferno. He had to do something, anything, to end this.

…

And Morgoth came, black armored and carrying that same heavy warhammer that had destroyed his father’s hröa so completely. He wasn’t hubristic enough to think he could win; he knew he was coming here to die, there was no other way this could go, and yet, he had to try. 

One strike, dodge.

Parry, two.

No time to think. Three, and roll.

Four, the roar of agony echoing through the mountains.

Exhaustion dragging at his limbs, five.

A flinch, then six.

At first, he thought Morgoth was playing with him, but now he harried him in earnest. He stumbled, falling onto his back. Looking up at his death, he wasn’t sure if he was before the Gates of Angband or before the Gates of Formenos, and he grit his teeth in one last defiance. 

Seven.

He grinned savagely at the scream Morgoth let loose, and closed his eyes as the hammer raised. And he hoped, in those final thoughts, that Findekáno would not see this. 

Then darkness, only darkness.

Ereinion was Findekáno. 

Maedhros knelt before him now – and again, and again – searching his eyes as he emerged from the deluge of memory. He would not shame himself by accepting the memories that seemed to come with Finwë’s crown before the entirety of the Noldorin court, but his brother was gone, his sister gone. Maedhros knew, and so there they were. 

“I’m fine,” he muttered, voice cracking.

“It’s all right not to be,” his cousin said quietly.

…

The coronation went as well as it could, though the guest list was sharply curtailed by the price they had paid in defense of the north. So many dead, and with that came a thousand thousand problems.

But he had his allies. He could lean on his cousins, his father’s nobles . Maedhros was still here. Finrod had arrived, bringing his sons – silver-haired and wide-eyed – to meet him, to meet them all. It was good to see things were prospering enough in the south for there to be children amongst them once again.

…

News was rarely good, but messengers flew between them all regardless.

And then Finrod was dead. Nargothrond in turmoil. And Maedhros, suspiciously, was not answering his letters. 

…

It took a trip to Himring himself to understand. And Maedhros, clever and cunning and ruthless, talked him in circles until he conceded responsibility of punishing Celegorm and Curufin to Maedhros’ hand. 

And Maedhros, clever and cunning and ruthless and for the first time in centuries hopeful, drew him into plans for a great Union, a final push, a way to end this once and for all. 

And the memories of three deaths at Morgoth’s hands rattled in his mind, and above all he wanted to live, to let this curse end with him.

…

Unlooked for, unexpected, did Turukáno take the field of battle, bolstering their meager showing in the west even as they waited for the signal to come from Maedhros’s host in the east. Hope, hope for them all bloomed, and he cried out a glad greeting: Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie'n aurë! The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come! 

And around him, a joyful chorus: Auta i lómë! The night is passing!

…

He had seen this one before – or not him, but Fëanáro, and it still galled him to know so intimately his half-uncle’s madness and death. The Balrog took down his guards, one by one, axe swinging in his hands with brutal efficiency. And he stood strong for as long as he could, though fear clenched his heart like ice. 

He did not see the whip.

He stared up at the Balrog in defiance, grinning through the pain of his flesh burning, burning, burning under his armor. He had the satisfaction of knowing this Captain of Angband needed help in slaying him, even as the axe sped towards his head.

Darkness, then.

Ereinion was Turukáno. 

Was it better or worse, to know how his family had mourned him when he had followed the word of Ulmo into the mountains? Was it better or worse, to know that his father and his brother had both died thinking that his sister was still alive, safe behind the white walls of Ondolindë? Was it better or worse, to know that his father had loved him despite his absence, that his brother had cheered to see him again?

It looked exactly as he had seen it last, carried by Sorontar with his father’s body. Turukáno had sent the circlet back to Barad Eithel, and to Findekáno, with the Great Eagle. He sent no messages beyond that, deeming the secret of Ondolindë too great still, even from his own brother and King.

This time, Lómion had retrieved the rent and broken crown from the field scattered with corpses, in the midst of their retreat. He had repaired it, seamless and perfect.

He hadn’t been sure the memories that had overtaken his father would still be there.

And though it was overwhelming, and though it was terrible to behold, he was glad to have them.

…

Ulmo’s messenger arrived, in familiar armor that barely fit him, bearing a shield too large for him decorated with a familiar device. He had left them in Vinyamar, and so Tuor was a welcome guest, despite his unsettling message.

…

And then Itarillë married, and he was glad.

…

Her peredhel son was perfect, Eärendil Ardamírë, golden-haired and bright and happy. And Huor’s final words to him echoed, ‘from you and from me a new star shall arise,’ and he thought now he understood.

…

His sister-son was missing for a long time. When he returned peace settled in his heart again, despite the unease and tension between Lómion and Itarillë. He came from the mountains, he said, but something about him was different, changed, and he was not sure he believed his heir.

Tuor warned, time and time again, that it was time to abandon Ondolindë. Tuor’s voice echoed with the might of a Vala behind it, but he would not heed it.

He had built so much, his family was happy and growing and his people were safe, safe behind these walls that he had built, behind the mountains in the place set aside for them. He did not want to leave. There was no other place for him in Beleriand than the one had had built, an echo of Tirion, a memory of happier times.

So he did not.

…

Betrayal! Lómion’s black eyes were alight with fey and feral glee as dragons of flesh and dragons of bronze and Balrogs and wolves and a thousand thousand Orcs poured over the mountains. But, coward and craven as he was, he sped away instead of confronting Turukáno before the Tower of the King.

Itarillë begged him to leave with her, to escape. But he would not. He looked out on his city, and knew he had built his own tomb long ago. There was nowhere else for him to go.

But the crown had to leave. “Tell the next bearer of this thing,” he said, knowing she would not need to, he would hear him just fine, whoever it might be, “that the wisdom of his predecessors may always be flawed. He must place his trust in himself first.”

Ereinion was all of them at once, and himself.

Tyelperinquar knelt before him, gripping his forearms. Ereinion blinked, seeing Maedhros’s red hair overlaid thrice over before blinking the memories away again. 

“Are you okay?” Tyelperinquar whispered, realizing Ereinion was again aware of the world. 

Ereinion shook his head mutely, overwhelmed.

His lover reached up, and thumbed away the tears that coursed down his cheeks. Ereinion leaned into the touch. “I wish,” he murmured, eyes closed, “I wish I could take the same comfort they did, in knowing exactly how their fathers loved them so. How it tore at them to make decisions they did not want to make but had to for the sake of our people.” 

He felt rather than saw Tyelperinquar sit beside him and gather him into his arms. His hand shook as he roughly lifted the crown off his head, collapsed into Tyelpë’s broad chest, and let himself sob.

Chapter End Notes

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Long nights in council with Círdan coordinating rule of the Isle of Balar and its fractious peoples often ended in cups of tea.

“He talked about you all the time,” Ereinion murmured to himself, into the quiet. He was curled up in the crook of Círdan’s ragged yellow couch, a cup of hot tea cradled between his hands. They had run out of wine a long time ago, but alcohol could be made with just about anything if one had a strong enough stomach. He himself didn’t consume alcohol much these days, the memories too large, too prone to overwhelming him if he let mere drink disorient him. 

“Who?” Círdan asked, sitting cross-legged before the fire, building it up. 

He blinked, coming back to the present. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken. “Finwë. He missed you.”

Círdan looked back at him, eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that, child?”

Ereinion rolled his eyes, but then Círdan called most people children, Unbegotten as he was. He knew Círdan wasn’t being condescending. “I thought I told you. He’s rattling around in my head, or his memories, at least.” He nodded at Finwë’s crown sitting on the desk, a glorified paperweight holding down letters from Amon Ereb and the Havens and scouting reports. “It was … blessed, or perhaps cursed, when it was made.”

Círdan hummed. He twisted to face Ereinion properly, then said something in a form of Quenya so old Ereinion as himself could not decipher it. But his mouth opened and he responded with the ease of habit that was not his, tongue forming words he didn’t know he knew. Ereinion covered his mouth with his hand, frowning. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Círdan said, Sindarin modern and comprehensible. “Do you know what we just said?”

“You greeted me … ‘I see you by the waters of Cuiviénen.’ And the response, ‘May the stars watch over us both,’ I think.” Now that he was thinking about it, he could start to pick out root words, sounds that had mutated over time. Though whether that was he as himself, or perhaps Fëanáro’s latent interest in linguistics making those connections, he wasn’t sure. It was unsettling, how automatic his response had been. 

“You have his lisp,” Círdan murmured, looking unmoored. “You’ve never done that before.”

Ereinion nodded his head. “Celebrimbor has that Fëanorian pronunciation, sometimes, when we speak Quenya. We used to laugh at my inability to do it, that I must truly be a scion of the line of Indis because of it.” Ereinion shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant but not sure it was working. It was too easy to let his masks down around Círdan. “It comes easily, now.”

“So,” Círdan said after a long moment. “Is it just Finwë, or all of them?”

“Finwë, Fëanor, Fingolfin, Fingon, and Turgon. Maedhros seems not to have put it on, which I can honestly only be glad for.” Ereinion shuddered. “I’ve seen Morgoth’s face far too often. I don’t relish the opportunity to see it again.”

Círdan scratched at his beard, thinking. “No, I wouldn’t either,” he mused. “No telling what the future holds, unless you’ve also suddenly gained a measure of foresight?” 

“Only patterns of the past. Petty grudges and politics going back thousands of years. Tirion’s library organization scheme. Battle stratagem. The horror and thrill of Kinslaying. The chill of the Helcaraxë. Four separate ways to die horribly by hammer and axe. Entirely too much Nolofinwean-specific family drama. Linguistic drifts, apparently.” 

Círdan nodded, eyes filling with a certain amount of pity that Ereinion both resented and appreciated. “They’ve certainly had a run of it,” he said lightly, sensing accurately that Ereinion did not want to dwell on it. “More tea?” 

“Please.” Ereinion handed over his empty mug as Círdan stood. Thinking about the deaths of his predecessors had gotten easier, but it was still disconcerting. Shifting through his thoughts, he threw out a question. “What do you make of these letters from Amon Ereb? About Elwing’s Silmaril?”

“They’re certainly getting bold,” Círdan grumbled. “They’re your people now, what do you make of it?”

Ereinion shrugged, turning his attention inward. “It came from Maedhros’s own hand, which speaks to his seriousness.” Fingon had always known when Maedhros used a secretary. “He doesn’t say it outright, but he is threatening violence.” There had been a phrase Maedhros had used that Fëanor had shouted during the slaughter at Alqualondë that had triggered a memory. “If Elwing doesn’t respond, the threat will become more obvious before it escalates.” Fingolfin had once been on the receiving end of an exceedingly polite letter that boiled down to You should rethink your response to me because you’re being fucking stupid and I know Finwë did not raise a stupid son. Maedhros was a politician in addition to a warlord, but Beleriand had made him straightforward and blunt. “But I think we have time.”

Círdan handed him a fresh cup of tea. “I concur. Less time than we’d like, but time.”

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He had been called on to settle a dispute between three minor lords regarding grazing rights on common pasturage. This wouldn’t have been a problem, necessarily, had there been enough land on Balar to support their flocks, but it was a small island. The Noldor lords were being stubborn and the Falathrim lord was trying her best, but the Falas had had a different system in the days before it fell. 

Ereinion himself had no great experience dealing with these particular Noldorin lords, nor any idea himself what might be done about the rights to common pasturage they seemed to disagree on. But Nolofinwë’s memories showed him that this had been a common problem with these two particular lords, and helpfully showed him the right precedent from both Finwë and Nolofinwë’s times as king. All left the meeting grumbling, but satisfied. The Oath he had sworn lay peacefully around his throat, warm and soft.

Dusk was swiftly falling into night, the sky turning purple, the clouds pink and orange. Ereinion sighed, a smile dancing on his lips as he walked back to the main settlement and Círdan’s house. Tyelperinquar shot him an amused glance. “What is the sigh for, arimelda?”

“Can I not be happy?” Ereinion asked, turning to walk backwards to face his lover, arms held out as if to embrace the world. “Can I not take pleasure in a job well done, in the fresh summer air and the glory of a colorful sunset and my love at my side?”

Tyelpë smiled. “I suppose you may,” he teased. “But if we’re late for dinner again Círdan will be wroth.” 

“If you make us late for dinner again,” Ereinion scoffed. “I’m always perfectly on time.”

“Oh, fuck you, no you’re not.”

“You want to test that theory?” Ereinion winked. “I bet I can suck you off and still get us back in time for dinner.”

Tyelperinquar glared. It was halfhearted, though, Ereinion could tell, and he laughed when Tyelpë sighed forcefully and wordlessly left the path to find a suitable and discreet tree.

But before he could disappear into the trees after him, he heard a voice from down the path. “Noldóran!” 

Ereinion let his shoulders drop in momentary disappointment before softly calling into the shadows, “Tyelpë, come back.” Tyelperinquar emerged, hands busy redoing a half-undone braid. To his raised and expectant eyebrow, Ereinion huffed. “Duty calls.”

The runner was Ferendis, an elleth he knew from Nargothrond, calling from the top of the path – Ereinion and Tyelperinquar were in the slight valley between two hills. “Noldóran!” she repeated, her breath coming in short bursts. “The Havens are burning!”

Ereinion didn’t hesitate. He ran. He could hear Tyelperinquar’s feet beating a staccato rhythm behind him, but he paid his lover no heed. 

Ferendis ran at his side, telling him all she knew. “They’re flying banners,” she huffed. “Red banners.” Ereinion increased his pace. “Círdan is readying ships.”

“Aid or arms?” he asked, glancing at her.

“Both.”

Ereinion grimaced. 

They all crested the final hill. Before them lay the docks, which was a hive of activity, of torches and running soldiers in dulled armor and noise. Círdan’s house, the estate they shared as coexisting rulers of Balar was nestled amongst the dunes, dark and empty. And in the distance, the smoke stained the sky black, obscuring the emerging stars. And from the north, the red glow of a distant fire, the faint echo of screams carried over the water. 

It wasn’t the first time he had seen homes burning, but it galled him all the same. Alqualondë’s beaches were overlaid with the burning ruins of Angrod’s fortress, destroyed in the Dagor Bragollach, which were overlaid again by Losgar, and again by his own memory of Brithombar burning. 

He came back to himself as Ferendis peeled off, muttering something about getting her own armor. Círdan was already at the docks, organizing people into boats. A dozen were already on the water, heading towards the Havens. “What do we know?” Ereinion said, not bothering to disguise how out of breath he was by the time he approached Círdan’s side. “How long?”

“The fires started less than a quarter of an hour ago, my Lord,” Círdan said quickly, etiquette efficient and entirely for the people around them. “If I may suggest getting Aeglos, and I’ll be able to put you on the next boat.” 

Ereinion nodded once. He grabbed Tyelperinquar’s wrist and dragged him to the side to let Círdan do what he did best, his own eyes scanning the crowds for his valet, Cecetion. “Will you come with me?” Ereinion asked, not releasing his lover. 

“Should I?”

“I want you with me,” Ereinion said, finally looking over at Tyelperinquar. His hair was falling out of its braids, his shoulders slumped with resignation, his head ducked and not meeting anyone’s eyes. Ereinion shifted his grip on his wrist to lace their fingers together. “Of course I do. But …”

Tyelperinquar bit his lip, then released it. “Red banners can only be Maedhros.”

“Your blood doesn’t matter to me, Tyelpë. Only your willingness to stand at my side. That’s all that matters. You know this.”

Ereinion could see the mix of anxiety, fear, and political calculation in his eyes. Then his expression smoothed out, a shuttered mask that betrayed nothing, his eyes fixed on a point behind Ereinion’s left shoulder. “I’ll go where I’m bid, my Lord,” he said softly as Cecetion came trotting up, arms full with two heavy bags, multiple swords hanging from his belt, and Aeglos, its long spearhead sheathed in leather, strapped to his back. 

Ereinion frowned, but let the politic answer stand. Time enough for an interrogation after. 

Cecetion forwent any pleasantries and got straight to work. “I knew I’d find you both together, my Lords,” he said, his voice firm and matter of fact as he lowered the bags to the ground at their feet. “Thank you for proving me right.”

“Wouldn’t dare do otherwise,” Ereinion said wryly. He and Tyelperinquar started donning the armor Cecetion had brought in their bags, Cecetion helping with deft hands to secure buckles and straps and ties. Cecetion was a former guardsman from Nargothrond, but Glaurung and the resulting fires and smoke had ruined his lungs. He could and would fight if he had to, but today it wouldn’t be necessary. There were enough people already heading across to the Havens. 

Despite their best efforts, Ereinion and Tyelperinquar were on some of the last boats going across the Bay. It was slow going, with the wind against them. The darkness of the night was thick with smoke, the sounds of battle steadily growing louder.

They were maybe halfway across the Bay, darkness turning the waters inky black when the familiar light of a Silmaril appeared, bright with captured and preserved Treelight. Ereinion sucked in a sharp breath – it had to be Elwing, but she was far from the Havens, up on the cliffs to the west of the settlement.

What was she doing out there?

Why had she unveiled the Silmaril, with the Sons of Fëanor so close?

Only Finwë had memories of the Silmarilli; they had been lost by the time Fëanáro had accepted the crown. Finwë’s thoughts had been tinged with pride and paternal love at first, which had twisted into confusion, then annoyance, then rage as the split between his sons had gaped into a chasm. 

Ereinion had seen it himself, once, at Elwing’s wedding to Idril’s son, Eärendil. He understood, viscerally, why Fëanáro had been so distraught at losing them, in the terror and confusion of the world changing so profoundly. He understood the desire to hoard them – the Silmaril was beautiful, and it magnified Elwing’s own beauty, her hair dark and iridescent under the light like a raven’s wing, the last jewels of Gondolin sparkling on her ears, Ereinion’s father’s grand necklace draped around her neck. That had been a day of joy. 

He watched the light of the Silmaril blink on the cliff, limning the shape of its bearer.

And then, Elwing plummeted into the sea.

Ereinion lurched forward with half a shout caught in his throat, but where could he go? He was on a boat in the middle of the sea.

They were too late.

He met Tyelperinquar’s eyes, bright in the darkness with a sliver of the light of the Trees he had been born under, a shadow of the brilliance of a Silmaril. His mouth was set in a stubborn line, bracing himself, but his eyes betrayed his anguish.

Ereinion knew he was probably making the same face.

An inhaled breath from the head of his guard, Fionkenë, at his side, barely noticed above the sound of waves splashing on the hull. Ereinion followed her eyes – titanic hands with slender fingers rising swiftly out of the water – Ereinion’s memories helpfully supplied him the name of Uinen, Lady of the Sea – cupping something. A great white sea bird was tossed into the air, the Silmaril bound with the Nauglamír around it’s – her – neck. She flew west, and disappeared into the clouds and smoke.

He refrained from uttering a blessing to speed Elwing’s fëa to the Halls, if the bird was, in fact, Elwing. Somehow. He would not wish that fate upon her prematurely. It was an ill-omen, to beseech Námo Doomsayer before someone’s death.

The next few hours were a haze of the unfamiliar yet all too familiar process finishing a battle, the Fëanorian forces turning tail and running. 

Then came the tedium of cleaning up after a battle, Ereinion directing scouting parties to secure the borders, directing some to heal the wounded survivors, and yet more to catalog the dead and begin the process of preparing bodies for burial. He tasked several to look for Elwing’s twin sons, to comb the beaches and the cliff and her home for them. As much as he might wish, he couldn’t look for the little twins himself. 

And throughout, he walked among his people, being available, being seen as steady and steadfast and calm even though his heart ached to see so much blood, so much death.

This was yet another price of the crown, he mused. Never a person, only a symbol. Never allowed to grieve with his people, he could only provide ruthless efficiency in service to them.

“What are we to do with the Fëanorian dead?” someone asked timidly.

Burial practices were a major division between the Sindar and the Noldor, and even within factions of the Noldor, the customs varied. The Sindar tended to bury their dead among their forests, returning to the trees which succored them. Survivors of the Helcaraxë preferred to be buried on the plains, where the sun could warm the ground and the ice could never touch them again. 

“A pyre,” Ereinion said shortly, sighing. The resulting smoke would be visible for miles, would attract the attention of Orcs or worse. And yet, that was their way. He was King of the Noldor, and that meant all the Noldor. “Spread the word. Take from the winter stock of wood, and any houses that are damaged beyond repair. We have time to replenish the stock before winter comes again.”

“Aye, Sire,” the elleth nodded and ran off. He placed her only as she left – a former follower of Celegorm, who like so many others had stayed in Nargothrond.

He had lost Tyelperinquar amidst the rush. But he was walking through the ruins of the Havens of Sirion, searching for survivors and being present, when he found his lover again. Ereinion hung back for a long moment, watching.

There he was, kneeling in the dirt between two bodies. He had pulled one of the pair into his lap, was speaking quietly, smoothing back his messy red hair as the figure shuddered, then went limp. Tyelpë leaned down and pressed a kiss to Ambarussa’s forehead. 

Tyelperinquar straightened, and glanced behind him, meeting Ereinion’s eyes. His own eyes were dry, but his chin wobbled with the effort of suppressing his tears. “Dead,” he whispered, as Ereinion came up to kneel on one knee at Tyelpë’s side. 

The mismatched set of Ambarussa lay there – one scarred, one tattooed, both tall and strong and so familiar despite Ereinion himself having never met them. Littlest and Last of the Fëanárioni, and yet Fëanáro had not regarded them with much fondness in the end, their fealty to him confused with their love given to Nerdanel, whom Fëanáro had loathed with fierce passion until his death. Now they were just broken and bloodied corpses, hröa empty of fëa from their attempt to destroy this last foothold of Beleriand. 

“Tyelpë,” Ereinion murmured, soft and tender. 

“Don’t.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was firm. He took a shuddering breath in, then let it out in a gust. “It can wait.” He lifted Ambarussa off his lap gently, and stood. Ereinion followed him, searching his face in the darkness. “There are too many eyes, Highness.”

Somehow the sound of his lover using his title felt like a slap. 

He wished, oh how he wished, he could offer the kind of comfort Tyelperinquar could accept. The crown, with its plain mithril and its colorless gem and its burden of a thousand thousand memories stood between them. An unfathomable gulf, a burden he could not free himself of. 

“As you say,” Ereinion said with a nod. The business of ruling comes first, always. “A pyre is being prepared. Or would you rather them buried?”

“They did not want to burn,” Tyelperinquar muttered. “Not again.” Tyelperinquar looked around, then beckoned to a passing soldier. “With your permission, I’ll take care of them myself,” he said, bowing. 

Ereinion blinked. Nodded. He knew he had been dismissed, polite as could be.

So he turned to leave his lover to his grief, again ruing the distance their roles put between them. 

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Ereinion gave it a week before confronting Tyelperinquar about what had happened in the Havens. 

He had barely seen his lover since they returned to Balar, survivors in tow. Tyelperinquar was avoiding their shared rooms and sleeping even less than usual, from what Ereinion could tell. He had not joined them for the communal dinners the various leaders of Balar hosted. Instead he, reportedly, had been busy at the island’s forges, turning out blade after blade from their dwindling supply of steel. 

So Ereinion, taking advantage of his scheduled meetings finishing early, donned a nondescript cloak with a deep hood and walked inland, where the forges lay outside the main town so as to keep houses from burning or being bothered by the smoke and the noise. He knew Fionkenë, the head of his guard, was following him. It was her job, as much as Ereinion might wish to have this conversation in complete privacy. No, the cloak was not for her. It was, like many things, for everyone else. 

Some part of him yearned for the days of his youth, where he could just ride out alone onto the plains of the Talath Dirnen and think. To race Gildor across the land, and deliberately check his horse at the last moment to be able to listen to his little brother exalt in his victory, because it was never about winning. To find a friendly tree to sit under and weave flowers together into tiny crowns for the sparrows and crows and nightingales.

Instead he was far from the home of his youth, which was lost; he was alone, with his brother sent far over the mountains in the east and safe; he was the leader of a fractured people being slowly driven into the sea by a foe so dreadful he shuddered to remember him; and his lover was hurting. 

The stroke of a hammer rang out, a rhythmic clanging akin to bells, heralding Tyelperinquar’s presence before Ereinion rounded the stone wall that demarcated the bounds of the forge. 

Tyelperinquar, braids bound high and covered in a scarf, shirt sticking to every muscle of his back with sweat from the heat of the forge, seemed to consider the white-hot future blade in his gloved hands, then quenched it. His back was to the entrance, and so Ereinion watched, listening to the sounds of his lover breathing and the crackling of the flames. 

“I know you’re there, Ereinion,” Tyelperinquar said neutrally, still showing Ereinion his back. “You may as well come in.”

Ereinion entered, wordlessly hanging his cloak on the hooks for that purpose, then the mithril circlet, then stripped off his tunic and hung that as well. Tyelperinquar cleared off a section of the worktable, brushing wood shavings into his hands and tossing them into the fire. 

This was familiar. Tyelperinquar knew Ereinion liked to perch, seated on a table or a window casement when he visited Tyelpë in his forge – anywhere tall and out of the way, so that Ereinion might watch his lover at work at his craft.

So Ereinion sat on the worktable, legs crossed, on the table and leaned back to lounge against the wall. He deliberately left his posture open and relaxed, calm and nonconfrontational. He waited, watching Tyelperinquar putter around the forge, picking up after himself, putting his tools and apron and gloves back in their appropriate places. 

“Don’t you have other things you need to do?” Tyelperinquar muttered as the silence stretched on. He tore the scarf that bound his braids back off his head, and mopped his face with it.

“No.”

“The King’s business never ends,” Tyelperinquar muttered sourly.

“I left it at the door,” Ereinion lied. “It’s just us.” A pause. “I am worried about you.”

Tyelperinquar’s eyes were fathomless, deep and full of pain. “Why?” he said, voice cracking.

Because you haven’t been home. Because I miss you. Because the slaughter at the Havens was horrific. Because I want to hold you and be held. Because we both lost something there. Because I love you. He said none of that. Instead, he said lightly, “Do I need a reason to worry about my lover?”

Tyelpë grimaced. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with me.”

“I am, though. I wish you wouldn’t push me away, Tyelpë.” Another pause, and very deliberately Ereinion pushed. “I wanted to be there for you, after Ambarussa died.”

Tyelperinquar blinked. “Why? They were Fëanárioni; they don’t deserve your pity.”

Ereinion frowned. “They were people,” he says, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “They were your family.”

“‘Your blood doesn’t matter to me,’” Tyelperinquar quoted back, voice harsh. He was pacing now, shoulders stiff. 

Ereinion shook his head, frowning. He fought for control, to separate out his own impulses from Fëanáro’s deep-seated need to not be misunderstood and Nolofinwë’s instinctive defensiveness. “Tyelpë, don’t take my words out of context. You say, over and over, that people should not be measured by the legacies of their families, and yet you persist in thinking that I, I who have seen your family at their best and at their very worst, both in memory and with my own eyes, that I will hold you accountable for the actions of your uncles.” 

“Everyone else does!”

“I am not everyone! I am your melotorno and your lover. I gave you my heart long ago, and I would hold yours – all your pains and your sorrows and your joys, if you’ll just let me. Trust in me. Trust in us, what we’ve built together.” He was leaning forward now, palms up, beseeching. 

Tyelperinquar stopped pacing, and just stared at Ereinion’s hands.

“I will never judge you, Tyelperinquar Rundamírion. You are not your father. You are not your uncles. You carry no stain upon yourself for their deeds.” Ereinion smiled a little, soft and sad. “I will say it as often as you need to hear it, but it is the truth.” 

“I couldn’t save them,” Tyelperinquar said quietly, a lone tear running down his cheek. “I wasn’t enough.”

“What happened, Tyelpë? What didn’t I see?”

Tyelpë shook his head, crossed the space to stand before him. Ereinion kept his hands open and still, as Tyelperinquar gingerly rested his fingers on the pads of Ereinion’s own, barely touching, gentle and hesitant. “I tried to save them,” he whispered. “Ambarussa. They were alone. They raised their swords against me, tried to kill me before they realized who I was, I think.” He shook his head. Ereinion waited. “I tried to tell them, promise them, that they could just walk away, just stop, like I have.” A sniffle, wet, but neither of them moved. “And then Telvo took an arrow to his neck, and Pityo to his back, and I …”

Ereinion nodded. He let his hands trace up Tyelperinquar’s bare arms and pulled him into an embrace, his legs unfolding so he could press them together, chest to chest. Seated on the table like this, he could hook his chin over Tyelpë’s shoulder – he wasn’t tall enough to do so normally.

“He apologized,” Tyelperinquar whispered into Ereinion’s neck. “For it all.”

It would have been better to not do it at all. He had the memories of Fëanáro’s actions at Alqualondë, the sick thrill of blades entering the chests of the Teleri on the quays. There wasn’t much of a difference in the physicality of killing Orcs, Ereinion knew, or even hunting animals, compared to Kinslaying. Flesh was just flesh, meat and muscle and blood were all the same. But it felt different, in the fëa. In some indescribable way, it was different. Was it any wonder that Ereinion favored the spear, as Finwë had wielded, when the memory of a sword in Fëanáro and Findekáno’s hands had so much discord attached to it? Ereinion could hardly imagine why someone would do it twice, let alone thrice. 

And yet.

“May Mandos welcome them into the Halls,” Ereinion murmured, the words rote and ritual and earnestly meant. 

And Tyelperinquar fell apart. 

Ereinion held him, murmuring soothing nonsense as Tyelperinquar shook and sobbed and ruined Ereinion’s shirt. He let his thoughts wander. 

There was a certain level of hypocrisy, a dissonance in what Tyelperinquar claimed was the guiding truth of his life after Nargothrond, and the way he broke.

Oh, he could listen and smile and applaud the stories of Findekáno rescuing Nelyafinwë. He could reminisce with fondness about Huan’s antics. He could talk about Aman in general terms. He extolled the virtues of the Nolofinwean branch and recalled the Mereth Aderthad with relish. It was all part of his story, part of his song, and could not, should not be disregarded.

But in specifics, about his family, about Finwë’s court and Fëanáro’s house and the tensions that pervaded in Formenos, about the slaughter on the beaches of Alqualondë, he spoke not. He cringed and tried to make himself small in Oropher’s presence even as they debated the right course of action, unable to meet the Sinda’s eyes. He hid in the forges, instead of helping resettle the refugees from the Havens of Sirion. 

He continued to carry so much guilt, such shame, a multitude of embarrassments for the actions of Fëanárioni, even as he said that he cared not for them, even as he said he was not part of that House. 

Family was complicated. 

Family was messy.

Ereinion was both part of the greater Finwean brood and outside of it, bastard son as he was. And yet, also the closest to them all, carrier of the memories of their patriarch and all the ones that had followed. 

Was he not also a hypocrite, in searching the memories of his predecessors for guidance and wisdom? In saying he was the King of all the Noldor, and yet he made no effort to ingratiate the remaining Fëanárioni and their partisans? Turukáno’s voice resounded in his mind: ‘the wisdom of his predecessors may always be flawed. He must place his trust in himself first.’ What a load of shit! He could hardly separate himself from them all. He was so young – still fifteen years until his second century – and yet his memory was ancient, stretching back thousands of years. Who was he, Ereinion Inglorion, Gil-galad, as a man alone? Twenty-seven years he carried the crown, and yet the memories of his life before were faint in the wake of all the others. 

He wished the crown had never come to him. Would that many other choices had been made, so that the crown might not have fallen upon his brow. But wishing wouldn’t change the facts of his life. He would carry it, and try. No one would ever be able to accuse him of not trying.

Ereinion pressed a soft kiss into Tyelperinquar’s messy dark hair. He had stopped crying. They were just holding each other, leaning against the other for stability, each the keystone in the other’s arch.

“Better?” Ereinion asked quietly.

Tyelperinquar nodded. “Thank you,” he croaked, voice raw. 

“You’re welcome. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

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Ereinion was holding open court, making himself available to the problems and concerns of the people of Balar, when news of the ships came.

Lindaerlinn was a quiet mariner, their brown eyes nervous as they approached Ereinion. They had adjusted to sea-life well, after spending their entire life cooped up in the encircling mountains of the Crissaegrim. They bowed upon reaching the table Ereinion had set himself up at. 

“Come, sit,” Ereinion said, smiling invitingly. “What brings you here, Lindaerlinn?”

“News from the Alphien, Noldóran,” they said even as they sat. Ereinion poured them a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and pushed it towards them. “The captain sent me ahead. She’s keeping everyone aboard for a spell, to give you time before the rumors start.”

Ereinion raised his eyebrows. “That serious?”

Lindaerlinn nodded, then took a scrap of paper out of their coat pocket and handed it to Ereinion. They sipped at the proffered water while Ereinion read.

Swan-ships from Aman. Flagship claims to have three hundred or more in fleet. Host of at least a hundred thousand, leaders Arafinwë Noldóran and Maia Eönwë. Two days.

Ereinion blinked. Read it again. And a third time.

“You outraced them to warn me?” Ereinion asked once he could be sure his voice was steady.

Lindaerlinn nodded. “Aye, Noldóran. We, that is, the crew of Alphien thought it worth it to try. No one likes going into a squall blind.”

Ereinion nodded. “This is more like a hurricane,” he muttered, and Lindaerlinn huffed a laugh, then covered their mouth, looking embarrassed. “Thank you,” he continued. “You can tell the Alphien that their attempt is sincerely appreciated, as is the warning, and will be remembered. And your captain needs not hold the crew from shore leave; I’ll have an announcement by day’s end. But if you would be so kind as to wait to speak of this as you return to your ship, it would make my job that much easier.” 

Lindaerlinn nodded, shot him a shy smile. “As you will, Noldóran, so shall it be.” They downed the last of their water, and left with a small bow before disappearing out of the hall. 

Ereinion sighed.

Valinor.

Valinor was sending an army.

This was going to be a logistical nightmare.

The morning sun was bright overhead, white clouds scudding across the blue expanse of sky. The breeze was gentle, whispering softly as it picked at the hems of their clothes. Birds wheeled overhead, riding unseen thermals. 

Ereinion stood on the deck of Círdan’s ship, hands clasped together behind his back, watching the Amanyarin delegation begin to cross the expanse between their ships so that they might play politics before the entirety of the host landed. Tyelperinquar stood at his side, close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. 

Even dressed in his best, even with Finwë’s crown on his brow, even with Círdan and Tyelpë and Oropher at his side, even with a boat full of his own mariners and soldiers, he was nervous. 

“Last chance to hide below,” Ereinion whispered in Sindarin, glancing at Tyelperinquar with mischief in his smile. Oropher chuckled.

Tyelpë only rolled his eyes. “Uncle Arafinwë has already seen me,” he whispered back. “Can’t run away from duty.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Ereinion said sardonically. 

The first of the delegation stepped onto the ship, and Ereinion schooled his face into something more politic – closed off, blank, attentive. Their eyes met across the deck, Finwean grey to Finwean grey. 

Arafinwë looked so similar to the last time Fëanáro had seen him – his clothes practical but sturdy and well-made; his golden hair caught in a myriad of small braids and tied away from his face; pearls and gold studding his ears. But the weight of responsibility now hung heavy around his shoulders. A sword hung from his waist, and Ereinion immediately cataloged how unfamiliar his grandfather held himself with it. And upon his brow lay a mithril circlet with a colorless gem, an echo of the one Ereinion wore. Not exactly a copy, but close enough to signal its ancient inspiration. 

Half of the job of being King, Ereinion had quickly realized, was in assuming the shape that was expected of the position. It was the mannerisms, the diction of a worldly education, being seen to be loyal and steadfast and calm and patient and fierce in turns. It was wearing the right clothes, assuming the correct symbols, each in imitation of the original patriarch, Finwë, whose shadow was so long. But Arafinwë was trying to imitate that which Ereinion had, and some part of him thought less of Arafinwë for it. 

Behind him was Ingwion, High King Ingwë’s eldest son. Finwë had many memories of him in both social and political settings. He, too, adorned himself in gold, with purple gems in his circlet and about his ears, with the same style of practical clothing. He seemed a bit more relaxed, a bit more familiar with the weapon at his hip. As he smoothed out his tunic, he looked up, and Ereinion followed his gaze.

One of the birds, a falcon, dived from where it had been circling, and for one mad half-second, Ereinion thought the bird would shatter its neck against the deck, but no. In the space of a blink, the bird grew, unfolding itself into a form Ereinion recognized only because Finwë, too, had had many dealings with the Herald of Manwë. Eönwë landed lightly on the deck beside Arafinwë, and gave both Ingwë and Arafinwë a shallow bow. 

Nothing for it.

Ereinion strode forward, and pointedly did not bow. “Hail and well-met,” he said in perfect, fluid Quenya, “Arafinwë, King of the Noldor in Aman, Ingwion, Prince of the Vanyar in Aman, and Eönwë, Herald of Manwë Súlimo. I, Ereinion, High King of the Noldor in Valariandë, welcome you to the Anaryullë and hope your sea journey was not too arduous.”

Eönwë bowed shallowly. “Hail and well met, High King Ereinion. My Lord Ulmo of the Waters was with us. The journey was fair.”

Ereinion nodded, smiling politely. “That is well. And these are my companions,” he gestured as he spoke, “Círdan, though you may know of him as Nowë Unbegotten, Lord of the Isle of Balar; Oropher, Lord of the Sindeldi of Lestanórë, called Doriath, which is lost; and Tyelperinquar Rundamírion, Lord of Himlad which is lost.” Each of them bowed as he named them, faces ranging from easy and open to guarded and hesitant.

Arafinwë spoke, his voice soft. “Well met, all of you.” But Ereinion knew he had caught the absence of Tyelperinquar’s ataressë, his eyes curious as he regarded his nephew’s son. And Ereinion had caught, and ignored, the long stare Arafinwë had given him. He was sure Arafinwë had already guessed they were related – probably already knew he was Finrod’s child – but he wasn’t about to bring it up. 

Arafinwë was his blood, but he did not know him. Better to start whatever relationship they may have on equal footing, as Kings of the Noldor, then with Ereinion as the subordinate. Better to avoid, if possible, the question of jurisdiction between them.

“Shall we adjourn?” Ereinion held out his arm to gently urge the group into motion. “I find conversations such as this much eased by a cup of tea, don’t you agree?”

A gamble, but not a very high stakes one. He knew already that the two Eldar in front of him had been partial to Finwë’s blends. Ereinion didn’t have many resources at his disposal, nor the complexity of flavor available in Aman, but he would offer what he had. 

Such luxuries would likely be rare indeed, if they had come, in fact, to make war against Morgoth.

Arafinwë smiled, bright and golden like the sun. Ereinion felt his own smile almost falter – he looked so much like Findaráto like this. His father had given his smiles freely, open and trusting and always happy to hear Ereinion and Gildor and Finduilas chatter away about a hundred little, inconsequential things. 

“Indeed,” Arafinwë said, polite as could be. “We would be pleased to accept your hospitality.”

What followed was the sharing of history and news and many, many cups of tea. 

In turns, Arafinwë and Ingwë told of Elwing’s flight, of Eärendil’s journey to the Máhanaxar, of the call to arms, of Olwë’s construction of their fleet. Aman had been emptied, the Noldor and the Vanyar and a small number of Teleri uniting to be soldiers and support both in the war Elwing had called them for. Eönwë had excused himself from the rituals of tea and conversation by shifting back into the form of a falcon, perching on Arafinwë’s shoulder, listening intently and occasionally nibbling at Arafinwë’s ear. Ereinion had no doubt that the Maia was speaking with both of the Amanyarin commanders in ósanwë, which was decidedly rude, but it wasn’t a fight he wanted to have.

And then in turns, Ereinion, Círdan, and Oropher spoke of the wars in Beleriand, with Tyelperinquar acting as translator for Oropher since he spoke only a little Quenya, and Arafinwë spoke only a little Sindarin. They spoke of the crossing of the Helcaraxë, of the splintering of the House of Finwë, of the Great Siege, of the Long Peace and the Dagor Bragollach, of the daring of Beren and Lúthien, of the feuds between the House of Fëanor and Doriath, of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and its overwhelming loss, of the Kinslayings at Doriath and the Havens of Sirion.

They pored over maps, Ereinion pointing out key areas as they spoke. It was a bleak picture, the one they painted with their words, of lands lost, of factions upon factions, of death, death, death.

And then began the strategies. Numbers discussed, supply chains organized. The lay of the land, its capability for harvest, its mountain passes and its choke points, the locations of major cities and fortresses now overrun by Morgoth’s forces that they might take and hold and garrison again. What was known about Morgoth’s forces, their estimated numbers and the dread monsters that had been bred in the dark.

Ereinion had no experience riding over these lands, nor in directly fighting the massive armies of Morgoth, but Nolofinwë did. Findekáno did. Oropher did, having spent much time among the marchwardens of Doriath. Círdan knew the coasts like the back of his calloused hands. Tyelperinquar knew the eastern reaches, having spent a good portion of the Long Peace traveling between Himlad, Amon Ereb, Thargelion, and Himring to spend time with each of his uncles.

It was dark by the time they finished, plates of bread and fresh fish empty of all but crumbs. 

Ereinion was exhausted. Everyone was. But it had been a very productive session, and the vast majority of the problems had solutions that had been easily found among Aman’s vast supplies or wealth of labor-power, or else were problems they would all face together, like clean water shortages and a lack of fresh vegetables. 

Ingwion excused himself with a bow. The first part of their plan hinged on his forces making safe the port city of Eglarest, directly north, then sweeping west to retake Barad Nimras and Brithombar. The sooner he could establish that foothold, the sooner the rest of the fleet could land after months at being at sea, and he was eager to rest. Eönwë went with him, perching on his shoulder and preening himself. 

Oropher and Círdan also left not long after, murmuring their own excuses.

Which left only Arafinwë, Tyelperinquar, and himself around the table. Tyelperinquar raised an eyebrow as the door closed.

“I would have thought you would go back with Ingwion, Uncle,” he said bluntly.

“Why?” Arafinwë asked mildly. He removed his circlet, placing it carelessly on the table before him. He loosened the tie that held his hair back, letting his braids fall over his shoulders and into his face. He relaxed into his seat, letting his shoulders drop. Shedding the formality of Kingship to be a person again, amidst family.

Ereinion envied his ability to just let go. He doubted Arafinwë was plagued by the same dark dreams, the same racing thoughts, the same doubts about his own personhood. This King sitting across the table from him, with soft hands and a soft voice and no battle experience at all, bringing fresh supplies and fresh soldiers and the grace of the Valar with him … Ereinion was furious at the injustice of it all, yet desperate enough for this help, for himself and for his people, that he would bite his tongue and bear it.

They shared a title, yes, but certainly not the same experience.

Tyelperinquar shrugged, tense. “Plenty to do.”

“Would you rather I left, Curvo?”

Ereinion closed his eyes and counted. One, two—

“Don’t call me that!” Tyelperinquar hissed, fists clenched. “I left that name behind a long time ago.”

“Ah, yes,” Arafinwë was so calm. “Rundamírion. She’s here, by the way. Rundamírë. Nerdanel too.”

The anger deflated out of Tyelperinquar so quickly it might be comical if it were any other subject. “Ammë and Haruni both?” he asked, voice suddenly small. “Not for the fighting, surely?”

“No. Rundamírë is for the engineers. Nerdanel is …” Arafinwë shrugged, smiling ruefully. “Nerdanel is for her sage advice, and earthwork projects should we need them.” A pause, delicate, before adding, almost as an afterthought: “And for her sons. She would not be left behind again.”

Ereinion snorted, a decidedly unkingly noise. “If you think Nerdanel can talk some sense into Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë, I wish you both all the luck the stars can provide. Like as not, our contact with the Fëanárioni is limited.”

Arafinwë regarded him steadily. “If it is in my power to give her that opportunity, I will.” A pause. “I, too, wish I had better news for you, Ereinion, to restore to you ones who love you.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “And who exactly do you think I’m yearning to see, Arafinwë?”

Ereinion could tell Arafinwë was picking his words carefully. “I regret now my decision to leave Findaráto as my regent in Tirion. He spoke of you and Gildor with great affection, and hoped we would meet.” 

Ereinion blinked. “It’s been eighty years since Findaráto fell,” he said, incredulous. “The Doom was very clear. ‘There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies and find little pity.’ There is no world in which Námo Doomsayer has released him already from the Halls!”

“I lie not. Never about this. Not about him.” Arafinwë shook his head. “The Princess Lúthien bargained for him before she passed out of the Halls in the way of the Secondborn, or so he says.”

Ereinion exchanged a look with Tyelperinquar.

“So you knew Ereinion this whole time,” Tyelperinquar muttered. 

Arafinwë nodded. “And many other things besides.”

“Like what?”

“That you two are melotorni, for one.”

Ereinion snorted, ducking his head. “We’re well past that,” he muttered into his chest.

Tyelperinquar rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were flushed slightly. “The customs of Aman are not as strict, here in Valariandë,” he explained diplomatically. “But that was accurate, yes, when Findaráto left us.”

Arafinwë only hummed, considering. Ereinion thought the silence comfortable. He had no intention of hiding his lover, of dismissing him for political expedience or personal discomfort. Let Arafinwë wonder what happened behind closed doors, if that was what he wished to do. Ereinion didn’t care.

“And Gildor?” Arafinwë asked, tactfully changing the subject.

Ereinion inclined his head. “Artaresto suggested, before Nargothrond fell, that we split up, reasoning that we were safer apart than together. It was prudent, in those days. Mídhíril, our mother, stayed. Tyelpë and I went west, to the Falas and Círdan. Gildor went east, seeking Artanis and her husband. I have not sent for him,” Ereinion, anticipating the next question, shook his head. “I cannot not send my messengers through Fëanárioni held lands without risks I cannot afford. Even if he was found, I would not want him here, this close to danger.”

Arafinwë nodded. “I understand.”

Ereinion’s heart ached. He missed his mother, dead and burned; his brother, far away and hopefully safe; his cousin Artaresto, who – having taken leadership of Nargothrond instead of Ereinion because he had been true-born and not a bastard – died facing down a dragon alone.

Tyelpë reached out and squeezed his knee under the table, brief and grounding.

“Is that … the original?” Arafinwë asked, nodding at Ereinion – no, at the circlet still on Ereinion’s brow.

Ereinion nodded slowly. Here it was. If Arafinwë was going to make a claim on the Kingship of all the Noldor on both sides of the sea, it would be here and now. “It’s been repaired and refitted a few times, but yes, it is the original.”

Arafinwë only smiled, easy and relaxed. “My father always hated it, I think. Would have rather had something by Fëanáro’s hand.”

Ereinion shook his head before he could stop himself, memories of a different life oppressively present. “He never minded the crown as an object; it was Manwë’s gift to him. He just hated the pressures it put on the brood.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Arafinwë asked sharply.

Tyelperinquar touched his elbow, and Ereinion blinked. “Oh, I did it again, didn’t I?” He laughed, a little self-deprecating. “Apologies, Arafinwë.”

“What–”

“Finwë’s crown was cursed by Manwë, Uncle,” Tyelperinquar interrupted. “Probably all three of the original crowns, but Olwë and Ingwë haven’t died so it’s an impossible hypothesis to test. Ereinion carries all the memories of all his predecessors. All of them.”

Arafinwë stared at Ereinion. 

“So if you were intending to ask for it back – and I do understand, it was your father’s, you may have the stronger claim to it – but know it comes with a price. Never mind the impracticalities, and that the Noldor of Valariandë will not, at this point, consent to be ruled by someone who has not bled with them yet.”

Never mind his own Oath to Eru Ilúvatar, a permanent weight that writhed around his throat, which could not be forsworn. 

Arafinwë shook his head slowly. “It is an awful burden you have taken, Ereinion. I was not – am not – interested in laying any claim on Valariandë.” He bit his lip, eyes welling with pity and admiration. “I do not wish to–” a laugh, exhaled through his nose. “Tirion is quite enough for me. I was merely surprised to see it.”

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The Hosts of the West were slowly pushing north, splitting to rush through the mountain passes. It was risky, they all knew, but if they could just get through the pass and reassemble on the plains of the Anfauglith – green again as Ard-galen once was, but it wouldn’t last, not for long – then they had a chance. 

Maybe. 

Hopefully.

Which is how Ereinion found himself at the head of an army comprised of a mix of Amanyarin soldiers and former Fëanorians, riding a Amanyarin palfrey – a gift from his grandfather – through the valley on the east side of the Sirion, between the Ered Wethrin and the Echoriad. Ahead of them, the river split into two around an island, lush and green, a spot of life incongruous with its surroundings. Great white stones rose from the summit, walls encircling, but all in ruins.

“Did you ever see it, before Minas Tirith fell?” Ereinion asked quietly. 

Tyelpë nodded. “Once. I rarely had the opportunity to come west, but I was sent to represent Himring and Himlad shortly after Finduilas’ birth.”

Ereinion nodded, heart aching. “I miss her.”

“As do I,” Tyelpë murmured. “I miss Gildor, even if sending him east was the right thing to do.” He sighed, biting his lip. “I miss Finrod, too. Despite knowing he is alive again, on the other side of the sea, I miss him.”

Ereinion sighed softly. “As do I,” he echoed in a whisper. “So do I. They say Lúthien and Beren buried him here.” 

Tyelperinquar leaned to cross the distance between their horses, cupping Ereinion’s elbow gently, offering as much comfort as he felt he could in public. “Would you like to go across, and see?”

“We don’t have time,” Ereinion said automatically. 

“We have time enough to climb to the citadel.”

Ereinion pursed his lips. 

“The sun won’t set for another few hours. You have commanders who know when to halt the march, and how to set up a camp.” Tyelpë said, quietly. “The horses are swift enough that we will catch up with the host before it is truly dark.” A pause. “And it may do us both good, to lance this grief before we do battle.”

Ereinion grimaced. “I … I do not wish them to see me …” It was a token resistance – they had never paid much mind to what Ereinion’s guard saw; they were all sworn to secrecy, and had become almost friends over the long years. Tyelperinquar shot him a look that withered the protests in his throat. “No, you’re right. Yes, let’s.”

In short order, they were encouraging their horses over the low-lying river, their boots barely wet by the time they made it across. The mighty Sirion was slow, polluted and fetid. But Tol Sirion rose above them, green and dotted with white niphredil and golden poppies and red seregon, all fragrant in the warm air.

The path was overgrown, once they found it. Ereinion let his eyes flow over the land, and up the hill to the ruins of Minas Tirith, the tower that had been his father’s first attempt at a stronghold. 

The irony of it all would have been comical, had it been anyone else, in any other situation. Felagund, building his own tomb. Felagund, forced to abandon the works of his hands to the Shadow. Felagund, returning in secret and falling anyway, for love.

Ereinion tried not to let the bitterness of Felagund’s choice well up in his heart, more days than not. When he was not being charitable, or kind, the anger and betrayal choked him. Finrod had abandoned him, abandoned Gildor, abandoned Ereinion’s mother and his people and his king and all responsibilities.

Now, though, climbing through the ruins of a tower destroyed by the power of Lúthien’s Song, the rocks shattered in unnatural forms, dark shadows on the walls and the stones that did not move that might look like people, or orcs, or wolves.

Ereinion could only feel the sorrow pervading this place, thick like syrup.

He dismounted at the edges of the citadel, where the foundations of the walls still stood, strong and silent. “Wait here,” he commanded his guard, his loyal six. “We’ll shout if we need you.”

“We’ll be watching.” Fionkenë said grimly. She hadn’t liked his insistence on going with only Tyelperinquar into the ruins of Minas Tirith, indeed had argued vehemently against it. She was glaring still even as he turned and strode away. 

In the end, they ended up following the flowers. 

Ereinion could hear, on the edges of his perception, echoes of Song in the air, snatches of bright Melody and the occasional note of shadowy Discord that lingered in the cracks between stone and mortar. Bees as long as his thumb flitted from flower to flower, fuzzy bodies covered in orange pollen, dancing in the wind despite their size.

And there, in the courtyard before the ruins of the tower, a cairn, white stones covered in green earth and golden poppies. Ereinion took a deep breath as he approached. 

Finrod lay there, in this place that had been stripped of its beauty and then made beautiful again, where the world had changed, where Ereinion had lost so much. 

Grief, keening and sharp, suddenly knifed through him, as it had when he had learned of Mídhíril’s death when Nargothrond fell, compounded by the memories of the unprocessed griefs of five other kings. He fell to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Tyelperinquar steadied him, holding his shoulder, running his hands over his practical braids that kept his silver hair close to his scalp, letting Ereinion lean against him. Ereinion had cried like this, when news of Finrod’s death came to Nargothrond too. But being here, in this place, and knowing that he was alive again, just far away and unable to be a source of comfort, hurt. 

It hurt so much.

Grief could strangle as much as an Oath could.

“It’s funny,” Ereinion said, once the tears had run their course. He felt worn out, like a wrung-out rag, but clearheaded and clean for the first time since accepting the crown. They had all – excepting the one – held Finrod Felagund in great affection, and it was both painful and cathartic to see his father through the eyes of many, just as it was painful and cathartic to let himself cry for the losses all six of them had suffered. 

“What is, arimelda?” Tyelpë murmured.

“Perhaps Felagund did have a measure of foresight, naming me Scion of Kings.”

Tyelperinquar laughed in that quiet way he did, as if he were afraid of startling the bees. “Perhaps.”

They stayed there, quiet and breathing, for a while. Shadows stretched steadily across the ground.

“Tyelpë,” Ereinion said suddenly, looking up at his lover. “If I do not survive this war—”

“Don’t talk like that!” Tyelperinquar said, sharp and fierce. “You will. You must.”

Ereinion raised an eyebrow, kept his voice calm. “There have been seven Kings within the past seven hundred years, Tyelpë. Those are not good odds.” Tyelperinquar grimaced. Ereinion continued, “I need you to promise me to destroy the crown when I’m dead. I have no heir, I won’t have a son, and it won’t matter. This curse ends with me. Cast it into the crags of the earth, melt it down, I don’t care. Just get rid of it. No one else should be burdened with this.”

Tyelperinquar frowned. “The Noldor have never not had a king,” he protests. 

“Make a different crown for Gildor, if you must. We cling to the vestiges of a past that did not exist, of a system that we tell ourselves is given to us by the Valar and thus Eru Ilúvatar, but it is not! Ingwë and Finwë and Olwë built it, built it all, and convinced everyone to treat it as fact that they were destined to rule. This right to kingship, this – none of it should ever have come to me, a bastard son of the Third House. The object itself is nothing. The crown is nothing. It is just metal, and stone, and memory.”

“It is a symbol—”

“It is a curse, an affliction, a parasite with a singular host!” Ereinion cried out, frustrated. “It is confusing, Tyelpë! It haunts my dreams and intrudes on every thought and decision. My desire for you is muddled by yearning for women I have never met. My dreams are dark with shadow and the memories of dying over and over and over, and yet I live. I know the Foe’s face in all his guises and I – I am afraid, so afraid that if you allow another to take this burden, they will not be strong enough to withstand it. It is too heavy for one mind to bear!”

“Ereinion! Breathe, arimelda. Breathe. I will do it. I understand now. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Ereinion let himself be held, wishing it were safe enough to remove his mail and his gambeson. He wanted, desperately in that moment, to hear Tyelpë’s heart, strong and steadfast, under his ear. He settled for pressing his face into Tyelpë’s neck, breathing in the scent of his hair and sweat.

“Thank you,” Ereinion murmured instead. “Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for not making me bear this alone.”

His predecessors had been so alone. Turgon wishing for Elenwë; Fingolfin for Anairë, Finwë for Míriel and Indis in turn; even Fëanáro had had the occasional desire for Nerdanel’s wisdom. And none of them satisfied, all dead or left behind or driven away. 

At least he had Tyelperinquar. At least he had him.

He hoped he would not inadvertently drive him away.

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Thangorodrim rose in the distance, dark and jagged. 

Their push north had slowed significantly as the years of war went on. They had mimicked Nolofinwë and Maedhros’s strategies from the earliest days, setting the siege in a loose arc and tightening it step by bloody step. 

They were so used to looking north that it was an honest surprise that anything came out of the south. 

But there was Lindaerlinn, the mariner now a runner between Ereinion and Arafinwë’s camp on the west side, and Oropher, Círdan, and Ingwion’s to the east. They were panting, their brown eyes bright and nervous, as Fionkenë announced them. 

Ereinion, Arafinwë, Nerdanel, and several of their commanders had been reviewing supply audits, but now all their eyes were fixed on Lindaerlinn. 

“Noldóran, my Lords,” Lindaerlinn said, bowing. “A host. An Eldarin host approaches from the south.”

“From the south?” Ereinion and Arafinwë asked together. Ereinion shot Arafinwë a withering look – they had quickly realized the easiest way not to step on each other’s toes was to only respond when addressed as Noldóran by members of their own hosts. Lindaerlinn was Ereinion’s; this was Ereinion’s problem. Arafinwë gestured, palms up in a silent apology. Nerdanel huffed a quiet laugh, irreverent as only one as ancient and respected as she could be. Ereinion turned back to Lindaerlinn. “Whose banners are they flying?”

Lindaerlinn blinked, then recovered themselves. “There were two, Highness. Prince Eärendil’s six-pointed star on blue, and the Fëanorian’s eight-pointed star on red.”

Ereinion took a deep breath. Hope bloomed. 

Lindaerlinn continued. “I know not whether the lost princes are among them, Highness, but—”

Ereinion nodded, smiling to hide his unease. “Thank you. How are you always the one bearing news of reinforcements, Lindaerlinn?”

They laughed a little, bright as spring. “I don’t know, Highness. I must be lucky.”

“Would you run to the forges and ask Lord Celebrimbor to join me by the southern edge of camp?”

“Aye, Highness.” They bowed, hand over their heart, and turned on their heel to exit the tent.

Ereinion closed his eyes for a beat, then two. Made a snap decision. “Lady Nerdanel, would you join me? The rest of you, finish the audits. Any discrepancies we’ll deal with tomorrow.”

Nerdanel looked shocked for a moment at being addressed, then nodded and stood. Ereinion raised an eyebrow at Arafinwë, almost daring him to protest, but he shook his head slightly, then turned back to the slate tablet and continued his calculations.

Nerdanel was often quiet around him, and Ereinion wary of his – Fëanáro’s – memories around her. He had been filled with such resentment for her, after the Darkening, and Finwë’s fondness for her could not outweigh that visceral hatred of Fëanáro. So he had kept his distance, letting her advise Arafinwë and fighting his own mind to treat her as she deserved, free from the past that he dragged behind him like a stone.

He left the tent, Aeglos in hand, Fionkenë following at a comfortable distance. Nerdanel matched his shorter pace, sword at her hip, mouth tight. 

“Do you hope, my Lady,” Ereinion murmured as they made their way through the camp, dust clinging to their boots, “for any particular outcome here?”

She shot him a glance, green eyes filled with something unnameable. “I do, though the odds are not in my favor.” She grimaced, then sighed. “If they are here, I will leave for them. You would do well not to hinder me.”

Ereinion nodded, unsurprised. “You are not one of mine. But I will make your excuses to Arafinwë.”

“He knows,” she muttered. “This was always my condition for coming here. Valariandë may have been beautiful, once, but the one I might have wished to explore it with is sundered from me, and all I see is blood and ash and dust,” she kicked at the ground, sending up a puff of aforementioned dust and ash of the Anfauglith. 

“It is a terrible thing, that you could not have seen this land in the days of the Watchful Peace,” Ereinion said, smiling. “Ard-galen in all its green, Barad Eithel’s grand monuments, Himring’s austere grace. You would have loved Nargothrond, I think. A great assemblage of Noldor and Sindar and Casari stonework and engineering.”

She nodded. “Tyelperinquar has shown me some of his memories of your family’s halls.” 

“Has he? Good.”

“He loves you.” She glanced at him as they approached the southern edge of their camp, a tense line of Amanyarin infantry facing outward, and the line of unfamiliar mounted cavalry just beyond. “I would be remiss if I didn’t threaten you just a little, to not break his heart.”

“As is a grandmother’s prerogative,” Ereinion nodded, chuckling. “I know he does. And I wouldn’t dream of it.” He knew the strength of her arm already. No need to test it on his own flesh.

“Good,” she said simply, then fell silent, and a half step behind him, as they passed the line. 

Ereinion watched as two riders in the middle of the Fëanorian cavalry kicked their horses into a trot into the space between their lines, then dismounted in unison around the middle and continued the rest of the way on foot. Ereinion stood still, letting them come to him. 

They were lean, yes, but who wasn’t these days? They moved well, tall and strong, with the grace of experienced fighters and dancers. They wore no heraldry, their armor nondescript and serviceable for travel and riding. These were not, however, the Fëanárioni that Nerdanel would have hoped for. They were identical in face and build, except for how each styled his dark hair. One wore his hair long, braids tight to the scalp for travel and battle like Ereinion and so many others wore, and carried twin swords on his hips. The other had cut his hair short, like the Men of their host, and bound it out of his eyes with a thin strip of dark cloth. This one carried only one sword, and a great axe upon his back. 

Ereinion searched their eyes as they approached, and knew they were watching him back. “Hail, strangers from the south,” Ereinion greeted in Sindarin with what he hoped was a friendly smile.

The pair bowed low. “Hail, High King Gil-galad,” the one with longer hair replied, voice grave. “I am Elrond Peredhel, and this is my brother, Elros. We are the sons of Eärendil of the House of Fingolfin and Elwing of the House of Elu Thingol,” and then, half a moment of hesitation, “And Maglor and Maedhros of the House of Fëanor.” Ereinion blinked, and raised his eyebrows slightly, but did not interrupt. After an expectant pause that did not resolve, Elrond continued, “We and our people,” at this, he gestured at the rows and rows of silent Fëanorians at his back, “would offer our swords in service of destroying the Enemy, if you will have us.”

“Welcome and well met, Elrond Peredhel, Elros Peredhel,” Ereinion greeted, his smile warm. “This is Nerdanel Mahtaniel, come with the forces of Aman.” The twins bowed neatly at the waist, though not before Ereinion caught a look of faint surprise on Elros’ face. “It is good news indeed that you live. We had no news, and presumed you dead or worse.”

Elros smirked. “Inauspicious beginnings do not inauspicious ends make,” he said. “We have been well cared for, never fear that. Maedhros and Maglor did all they could to raise us well, these past forty-odd years.”

“Are they here?” Nerdanel asked bluntly. Ereinion didn’t mind the interruption, though he had intended to ask in a more circumspect manner. He recognized several faces in the Fëanorian lines, guards from Himring Fingon had known, members of Fëanáro’s household, even some old acquaintances of Finwë, in ancient days. But no Maglor, no Maedhros.

Elrond shook his head, dark eyes guarded. “No, Lady Nerdanel. They have abdicated their responsibilities to the House of Fëanor in Beleriand to me, their named heir by adoption. I made the decision to come north without them.” A pause. “In truth, we knew not whether you,” a flick of his bright amber eyes to Ereinion, “would demand their deaths for the deaths they have caused. I deemed the risk too great for them.”

Ereinion shook his head immediately. “I would not, for they would not be the only slayers of kin among our hosts. We have absorbed the remnants of a few Fëanorian hosts before, and we will do so again. I would be a fool to dismiss fresh soldiers willing to join us here. Though you know your people best, and I would appreciate your assistance with utilizing them to their best effect.”

The twins both smiled, relaxing slightly. “That is well,” Elros said. “Is there some area of your camp where we might pitch our tents while you all talk? This looks too tense,” he gestured at the lines of soldiers that stood before and behind him. 

Ereinion nodded, and he began explaining the rough layout of their camp to Elros, and where the new Fëanorians could fit, thinking on the fly about the various factions and allegiances and which would be least likely to come to blows. Elrond and Nerdanel stepped away slightly, talking in quiet whispers that Ereinion studiously ignored.

And then Tyelperinquar arrived, his hair and tunic still damp from whatever efforts he had made to clean himself up.

Elrond watched Tyelperinquar approach with curious eyes. Ereinion merely smiled. “Thank you for coming,” he said with warmth once he got close enough. “Apologies for tearing you away from the forges.”

Tyelpë shook his head. “It is all right, Highness. Haruni,” he greeted his grandmother, smiling, then turned back to Ereinion. “You would not ask for me if it were not important.”

“Indeed. I thought you might like to meet our newest allies. This is Elrond Peredhel, and his brother Elros, sons of Eärendil and Elwing, Maedhros and Maglor.”

Tyelperinquar seemed to only now notice the Fëanorian stars on the heraldry of the host behind the twins. “Ah.”

Elrond flashed a grin. “Nice to meet you at last, Cousin Celebrimbor.” Tyelpë just blinked. Elrond met his gaze evenly, suddenly serious. “We know you’ve distanced yourself from the First House, but it seems right to offer to you the leadership as Head of House, being the eldest of us that are left.” 

Tyelperinquar whirled on Ereinion and hissed in Quenya, “If you knew about this, I hate you.” Ereinion just chuckled and shook his head as Tyelpë huffed and turned back to the twins, saying in Sindarin, polite as could be, “No, thank you. I left that House long ago and I intend to stay out of it, if I can.”

Ereinion only caught Nerdanel’s minuscule wince because he was looking for it.

Elros elbowed his brother, grinning, and switched to Quenya, accent thick and very much like Tyelperinquar’s, and Ereinion’s when he wasn’t paying attention. “I told you you couldn’t get out of it that easily,” he laughed. 

Elrond just shrugged. “It was worth asking.”

His twin rolled his eyes. “I’ll catch up with you later. Logistics are calling.” He bowed politely to Ereinion, then again to Nerdanel, who had been watching with amusement. “Pleasure meeting you all.” Then he was marching back to the rows of mounted soldiers. 

Ereinion turned his attention back to Elrond, and continued in Quenya. “Well, this should be fun.”

Elrond just smiled, eyes shifting from a bright amber to a deep brown. Ereinion had seen Elwing’s eyes do the same, so he knew it wasn’t a trick of the light. If there had been any doubt of the identity of the twins, that was assuaged. “We must find our joys where we can. With any luck, we will get to know each other very well indeed.”

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The years passed, each more difficult than the last, but Ancalagon the Black had been struck down, Thangorodrim had fallen, and Melkor captured and held until he could return to Aman. The Silmarils were in Eönwë’s custody, and Ereinion didn’t know how to feel about that yet.

It was difficult, in the final stages of a continent-spanning war, to find moments for intimacy with Tyelpë. There was always something either of them could be doing. It was one of the myriad things that if they did not carve out time, little by little, it would simply never come. 

So when the note came, hastily scrawled in Tyelpë’s messy hand, Ereinion looked with resignation at his pile of papers and the maps spread over the command tent’s table and the collection of various secretaries and commanders seated there, all working diligently. Ereinion sighed. Muttered under his breath, “Excellent timing,” then stood and swept out of the tent without a word. 

Fionkenë fell into step at his left shoulder with a murmured, “Highness,” and Ereinion nodded. 

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Ereinion said back, quiet. He held her gaze meaningfully, and she just nodded, a grin growing over her usually stern features.

“Heard and understood, Highness.”

The six that made up his guard had, in the decades spent at his side, become accustomed to saying a lot while not saying much at all. An intricate system of codes and phrases for various actions Ereinion could take, and the level of privacy he might wish for, if necessary.

All of which to say, he wouldn’t be disturbed. Fionkenë would ensure it. 

The sun was setting in the west as he ducked into his tent, leaving Fionkenë at the entrance to while away the time until her shift ended. The tent was large, larger than most for all that only three people – his valet, Cecetion, Tyelpë, and himself – regularly slept there. A hanging separated the space into two rooms. He blinked quickly, adjusting to the dimness, and found Tyelpë pouring a pail of steaming water into the simple tub in the front room. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Ereinion said, laughing quietly. He held up the note between two fingers. “ ‘Your Lord requests the privilege of your discretion at your earliest convenience?’ My Lord? And if I had been busy?”

Tyelpë smirked, and shrugged. “You would have ignored me, and I would have gotten to enjoy this hot bath all on my own, even if it meant you’d whine about missing out later.”

“I do not whine.”

“You do when it’s about getting clean,” Tyelpë retorted with fondness. “You do when I do that thing with my fingers you like—”

“Oh, fuck off, I do not whine,” Ereinion laughed, with no heat behind it at all. 

Tyelpë grinned. “Come on, before the water cools.”

Ereinion crossed the room into Tyelpë’s space, tilting his head up for a kiss. Tyelpë cupped his cheek and kissed him, his other hand working to unbuckle the straps to Ereinion’s breastplate. At this point, he lived in his armor, regardless of how far he was from the front lines, regardless of how much the fighting had died down now that Melkor was captured and impotent in their camp. Better safe than sorry. 

In short order he was sinking into the tub, barely holding back the moan of satisfaction as the heat began to soothe his tense muscles. He started to undo his braids, but Tyelpë gently tapped his hands away and took over, fingers quickly picking the braids apart, his hands sinking into Ereinion’s hair. Ereinion sighed, relaxing into the touch. 

Tyelpë kissed the crown of his head, hands trailing down his neck. “Rinse,” Tyelpë murmured, kissing Ereinion’s ear, then pulled away. “The ash of the Anfauglith makes your hair so dull.”

Ereinion nodded, then dunked his head under the water and scrubbed at his scalp until it stopped feeling quite so gritty. 

“I remember when I first saw you,” Tyelpë mused when Ereinion surfaced again, taking a comb to Ereinion’s hair. “In Nargothrond. Findaráto was showing me the practice rings, the ones on the northern spokes.” Ereinion remembered Tyelpë had been accompanied by Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, but was perversely glad they were not part of Tyelpë’s reminiscing. “You were under one of the skylights, silver hair shining brighter than Telperion, taking a nap of all things. Your hair was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

Ereinion chuckled, taking up the sponge and scrubbing the rest of himself. “In my defense, I had been working hard before I fell asleep.”

“And Findaráto, Vána bless him,” Tyelpë continued, as if Ereinion hadn’t said anything, “went really quiet for a moment, then tip-toed up to you and stole Aeglos from your hand.” Tyelpë laughed. “Ai! The way you shrieked, waking up with your own spear at your throat!”

Ereinion rolled his eyes, smiling. “As I remember, I managed to disarm him and wrestle him down into the dirt with me.”

“Sure,” Tyelpë said, and Ereinion knew he was shrugging from where he was kneeling behind him. “You apologized very prettily, though, when you both stopped laughing.”

“What else was I supposed to do? There were guests in Nargothrond’s halls.”

“We didn’t know you were his child,” Tyelpë mused. “I was so confused.”

Ereinion tilted his head back, straining to meet Tyelpë’s eyes. “It all worked out, meldanya.”

A kiss to his forehead, featherlight. “What a journey to get here, though.”

Ereinion hummed, nodded. “I’m ready to switch, if you wanted to wash?”

Tyelpë shook himself, as if a simple motion could bring himself back to the present instead of walking the paths of memory. “Yes, I did. Let me braid your hair first.” It wouldn’t take long, the single three stranded braid. Ereinion kept his hair shorter than most Eldar, falling to his mid-back as opposed to Tyelpë’s black, thigh-length tresses. 

Tyelpë washed quicker, now that the water was cooling, but Ereinion tended to Tyelpë’s hair with the same methodical care. He pressed little kisses and touches to Tyelpë’s ears, his neck, his shoulders, wherever he could reach. 

“The look on your face,” Ereinion mused, smiling, thinking of the past since his lover had brought it up, “when I proposed sharing melotorni braids.” Tyelpë groaned. “You looked like a fish, gaping with your mouth open like that. I think I could have counted all your teeth.”

“I thought you were drunk!” Tyelpë protested. “It was your hundredth Begetting day celebration.” 

Ereinion chuckled. “Hundred and third. Had to push it back because, well, everything happened.” He had spent his hundredth on the road to Barad Eithel to attend Fingon’s coronation with Finrod and Gildor and Gwindor and Edrahil and many others, the Dagor Bragollach a memory but not a distant one by any stretch of the imagination. Tyelperinquar had arrived with the refugees from Himlad only four years beforehand, but that was enough. “And in fairness to you, I was drunk. But I knew what I wanted,” another kiss, “and I’m still grateful you accepted. Grateful you’re still with me, despite everything.”

Despite the actions of their fathers. Despite the fall of Nargothrond and the Falas and abandoning Balar. Despite the pressure of the crown on Ereinion’s brow. Despite the war.

Tyelpë twisted, catching Ereinion’s next kiss on his lips. When they broke away, Tyelpë looked up at him with something heavy in his eyes. “You keep saying you won’t abandon me, Ereinion. I hope you know I won’t do so either.”

“I know,” Ereinion whispered. “I know.”

For once, he was purely on his own, with no memory to guide him. Only Finwë, of his predecessors, had had a spouse to share the burden of the crown with, but only in peacetime. The rest, kings during war, had been alone. Children, yes, which Ereinion would forever lack, but there was always an amount of honesty that a father would not share with his child, in the service of bearing hardship so that the child may not have to. It was not a lack of trust. It was merely habit, an instinct to protect. 

Tyelpë was not his spouse. They would not marry until this war was over, and even then maybe not. There might be advantages to having Tyelpë as his Prince-Consort, but Ereinion was hesitant to bind Tyelpë to the institution of the crown like that, in small part because of the politics of it all, but mostly because he was sure Tyelpë would not be happy in that position. He was determined to keep all their options as open as possible. 

But even thinking the phrase “after the war” and letting himself dream of the future, letting himself hope to face down Morgoth as the victor, had been so far fetched as to be impossible. And now that “after” was fast approaching … 

“You’re thinking too hard, aren’t you.” Tyelpë said, now out of the bath and drying himself off. “Come to bed, arimelda.”

Ereinion closed his eyes. Nodded. If there was one thing he had learned from bearing the burden of the memories of five dead kings, it was to live in the moment.

It was dark when Fionkenë roused them. Ereinion was awake and alert at her tentative touch, propping himself up on one elbow to meet her wide brown eyes. Tyelpë grumbled, curling his arm tighter around Ereinion’s belly to keep him close. 

“Highness,” she whispered. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Ereinion nodded, whispering back, “What is it?”

“The Lords Elrond and Elros Peredhel are outside. They say it is urgent, and they will not wait until morning.”

“Is Cecetion back?” 

“Yes, as of about an hour ago. I can send him in.”

“Do. Tell the Lords Peredhel that I’ll be there shortly.”

Fionkenë nodded, rose, and left. He could hear her voice, softly waking Cecetion in the other half of the tent, then departing. 

Ereinion tapped twice on Tyelpë’s arm. Tyelpë, sleepy and only half-awake, made a soft noise of protest but withdrew his arm. Ereinion slipped out of bed, kissed his lover’s cheek, whispered, “I love you, meldanya,” then came through to the other side of the tent. 

Cecetion was already laying out a fresh set of clothes – a plain white shirt, equally dark leggings, knitted socks, a long quilted gambeson in blue, a grey cloak with a deep hood. The crown. He looked up as Ereinion entered. “Will Lord Tyelperinquar not be joining?” he asked quietly.

“He’s asleep,” Ereinion murmured back, just as quiet. The camp around them was never truly silent, but in this space, this sanctuary, it was as quiet as it could get. He slipped the shirt over his head, and pulled on the leggings. “He’ll appreciate the rest.”

Cecetion nodded. “Shall I help with your hair?”

Which was a polite way of noticing that Tyelpë had ruined it. Ereinion nodded. “If you would.”

They worked together, Ereinion braiding Tyelpë’s melotorno braid under his right ear with the ease of habit, while Cecetion wove the first of three braids close to his scalp. Warriors braids for a wartime king.

He wondered, Cecetion’s fingers tugging his hair into order, what Elrond and Elros could want from him. And so late at night, too. The young lords were able commanders, ruthlessly polite, and never asked for special treatment despite being connected to most of the major noble and all the royal Houses of both Eldar and Atani in Beleriand. They were determined, and fair, and took their duties seriously.

The twins were chatting amicably with Fionkenë, stances relaxed and open, but when Ereinion stepped out of his tent and into the cool evening air, they stiffened and stood up a little straighter. In the eerie synchronicity they shared, they knelt as one, on one knee with their heads bowed low, holding the position. Ereinion blinked; he was used to them being a little more casual with him, as most were who were welcome in the command tents.

“Rise, Lords Peredhil,” he said, laying his hands on their stiff shoulders. “Surely whatever this is does not require such formality.”

Elrond spoke, voice smooth despite the hint of nerves Ereinion could hear. “High King Gil-galad, we would have you hear a petition on behalf of the House of Fëanor.” He paused, and when Ereinion held his eyes and did not respond, he continued. “Maedhros and Maglor would ask for a private audience.”

Ereinion took a deep breath, casting his eyes up to the sky. Eärendil’s ship hung overhead, bright and low. “I think I see why you did not want to wait for morning,” he said on the exhale. “They’re here?”

“Aye, Highness,” Elros said. “In Elrond’s tent.”

Ereinion raised an eyebrow at Elrond, who met his eyes impassively. They were green today, deep as an emerald in the lamplight. “Have you informed Nerdanel yet?”

Elrond shook his head. “They arrived after dusk. Elros will fetch her before dawn.” He shrugged. “They did not wish to disturb her rest.”

But they would disturb his, which meant this was not just a social visit. Ereinion hummed. “This is about the Silmarils.” He said, not a question.

Elrond nodded.

Ereinion considered them both. “You know them best as they are now. What solution would you have me propose?”

They glanced at each other, ósanwë flashing between them. “We believe,” Elros said slowly, “the Oath would be fulfilled if they could lay hands on them all. But we also think you could demand them to give them up again, after the Oath is fulfilled, so Eärendil could continue his appointed purpose,” he gestured at the sky. “And satisfy Eönwë’s desire to bring them back to Valinor.”

“You think they’ll accept that?” Ereinion frowned, sorting through Fëanor’s memories for the exact wording of their Oath. “If it even works. The duration clause is ... expansive.” He switched to Quenya. “‘Death we will deal him ere Day’s ending, woe unto world’s end’ and all that.”

Elrond tilted his head slightly, birdlike. “Should we be worried that you know what their Oath entails?”

Ereinion laughed through his nose. “Worried, no.” If the Fëanárioni hadn’t told them, Ereinion was sure they’d know before daybreak. “They’re not the only ones bound by Oaths to Eru; I know exactly how heavily they can weigh on the fëa.” Elrond’s eyes flicked up to the mithril circlet on Ereinion’s brow as Ereinion gave them a weary smile, a little self-deprecating. “Let’s see what they have to say for themselves, then.”

When the obeisances and introductions were done, weapons pointedly left near the entrance, and the five of them sitting on every available surface – except Elros who merely shrugged and sat on the ground at Elrond’s feet – Ereinion considered the pair of Fëanárioni.

Fingon had been the last of Ereinion’s predecessors to see Maedhros and Maglor, in the lead-up to what would become the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Both had been fit and healthy then, hope in their eyes and determination in every step.

They had both lost weight, not unsurprising, and the shadows under their eyes and their demeanor betrayed their exhaustion. Maglor had gained a few new scars, his raven-dark hair braided simply. Maedhros had gained a few new silver streaks in his own short-cropped russet hair – if there were new scars, they had joined the legions of others from his time in Angband. They both sat on Elrond’s cot, watching Ereinion with impassive gazes. 

Ereinion broke the silence, letting his Quenya take on Fëanor and Finwë’s thick accent and diction. “Do you have a preference for the language we use here?”

Maglor blinked, startled, but Maedhros only smiled slightly and responded in kind, “Not at all, Ñoldóran.”

Ereinion nodded. “The Head of the House of Ñoldóran-Emeritus Fëanáro has presented a formal petition on your behalf to myself as High King of the Noldor of Valariandë,” he said, keeping his expression neutral, a politician’s mask. “I would hear your petition, Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, and if it within my power, do what I can to find a solution.”

“We thank you, Ñoldóran, for being willing to hear our petition,” Maedhros said, bowing his head briefly. “And apologize for the late hour.”

“Forgiven,” Ereinion said easily, shrugging with one shoulder. He kept his hands loose in his lap, open and relaxed, nonthreatening, attentive. “We’re all aware the business of the Ñoldóran is constant, I’m sure.”

Maglor huffed a laugh, looking rueful. “Very aware, Ñoldóran,” he murmured, his voice still half a song as it was in his youth. “Even so, we appreciate it.”

“There is rumor,” Maedhros said, shooting Maglor a look. “That the Silmarilli are somewhere in this camp.”

Ereinion let the silence build. He would make Maedhros say it, spell out exactly what he wanted and what he meant to do about it. 

Maedhros nodded sharply. “We understand the situation is complex, with the forces from Aman here. But our Oath demands a solution, in peace or through violence. We have tried to forswear the thing, but alas,” a shrug, arms held out slightly in a gesture of resignation, as if asking for understanding, “the Allfather does not lightly let go of those bound to Them.”

Ereinion considered the pair. “I’m very aware of the terms of your Oath,” he said simply. 

Maedhros hummed. “So you have seen it.”

Ereinion dropped Fëanor’s voice. “What, you thought I spoke like this naturally?”

Maglor laughed, bell-like. Even Maedhros smirked. “Not at all. A clever parlor trick, Nolofinwë used to say.”

Ereinion sighed. “Indeed, one he only pulled on Fëanáro’s sons, and on Findekáno only the once to scare him after that stunt he pulled during the Dagor Aglareb.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “A Nolofinwean sense of humor that could only be gained by surviving the Helcaraxë, it seems.”

“What are we missing?” Elros muttered from where he was seated at Elrond’s feet. 

“I told you the crown was cursed,” Maglor said. “Did you think I meant that as a metaphor?”

“To be fair, Atya, you live and breathe metaphor, simile, and alliterative verse like you do air,” Elros retorted. 

“Woe on the poet, to be forever misunderstood!” Maglor slumped dramatically. “In this instance, I did mean it literally.”

Elrond turned a thoughtful eye to Ereinion. “All of them?”

Ereinion nodded. “From the day Finwë was crowned by Manwë Súlimo to when Turukáno unkinged himself and gave it to Itarillë Tyeleptalëa for safekeeping.”

“And before Maedhros abdicated?”

“I never swore that Oath,” Maedhros said as Ereinion shook his head. “Didn’t have time, before, and then after, well. I abdicated as soon as I was able.”

“I see,” Elrond murmured, and smiled. His eyes shifted color as Ereinion watched him, green to blue to golden, going distant. “It will end with you, the last whose realm is fair and free between the mountains and the Sea.”

Ereinion stared. Everyone was staring at Elrond. 

He blinked, coming back to himself. “Apologies,” he muttered. Elros just reached up and captured Elrond’s hand, squeezing it. 

“No need to apologize,” Ereinion said. “Saves me the effort of trying to convince you to be my heir, if my brother cannot be found in the East.”

Now everyone was staring at Ereinion.

“We are very off topic,” Ereinion stated, refusing to explain himself. “And I’m sure you both have spent the last five centuries attempting to puzzle out a solution to the predicament Fëanáro set for us. I have all of Nolofinwë and Findekáno’s thoughts about it, and my own. And given that violence has historically been on the table – and seems to still be an option you two are considering, despite how well that’s gone in the past – I’d like to think that if we work together, a more peaceful solution can be found.”

“Yes, Ñoldóran,” Maglor nodded, leaning forward. Maedhros’s eyes tightened. Ereinion suddenly understood – it had been Maglor’s idea to come here, like thieves in the night, to sue for peace. Maedhros did not think it was possible; he was indulging Maglor.

Ereinion was willing to try to prove Maedhros wrong. “Now, your sons have proposed a solution …”

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It was a glad day, when Morgoth was finally removed from the camp, taken on his way to Aman to be judged by Manwë Súlimo and the rest of the Valar. Eönwë assured them that Manwë would not be lenient again, but some part of him – well, Finwë, really, but Fëanor and Fingolfin too – did not trust in the Valar’s idea of justice. 

Nevertheless, Ereinion felt like he could breathe for the first time in weeks, despite the the issue of the Fëanárioni and their Oath lingering since that late night conversation. 

While on a much larger scale, the task of cleaning up after a battle was familiar. Pyres continued to burn, Fëanorians and Orcs separated before their ashes could mix, and the trenches they had dug to hold the lines were refilled, covering the bodies of Elda and Man in mass graves. Armor and weapons were gathered, repaired or melted down for scrap. The healers worked diligently. Patrols tracked down roving bands of escaped Orcs, werewolves, even Balrogs that slipped between their lines to the north and east, fleeing the rising water table. 

Ulmo’s wrath was terrible to behold. The entire continent was breaking apart around them, chasms suddenly rending the earth, the rivers slowly becoming brackish as the sea rose and the land sank. By all reports, the Falas, Talath Dirnen, Nevrast, Dor-lómin, and most of Doriath’s forests were already underwater. The Narog and the Sirion were just gone, and so the main sources of their drinking water were also gone. They would have to move east, and soon. 

And yet, they had made it this far, to the end of this campaign the survivors were calling the War of Wrath, with only minimal questions of jurisdiction between the lords and leaders of the greatest army to ever march in Arda. The ease with which they had gotten along, all those decades ago on the Anaryullë, had been carried forward, united in the singular purpose of defeating the Dread Foe once and for all. 

And yet, in the issue of Maedhros and Maglor, things got muddled.

The last two sons of Fëanor were in Beleriand before the Amanyarin hosts had arrived, so by all rights and established precedent, they should have been Ereinion’s problem to solve. 

But they, of course, came seeking the end of their Oath, and the two Silmarilli, wrested from Morgoth’s crown ere it was made into the collar of his shackles, were not in Ereinion’s possession. They were in Eönwë’s, and there the issue began, and ended. 

“I met with them, Herald, and offered to negotiate on their behalf,” Ereinion said calmly, heart thudding in his chest as he faced down the Ainu in their grand command tent, their council table between them. Eönwë frowned, his fana like that of an Elda with falcon’s wings protruding massively from his back. Ereinion continued, attempting to keep his tone diplomatic, “I would appreciate if you would listen to their case, before you make such a drastic decision.”

“The Silmarilli will go to the West, Noldóran of Valariandë,” Eönwë said, voice musical and emphatic. He tilted his head to the side, bird-like and strange. “They lost the right to them, to the Light which we hold most precious, with their many and merciless deeds at Alqualondë, at Doriath, at the Havens.”

“They are Dispossessed,” Ereinion argued. “Did I not swear in your master’s name and to uphold mercy for the downtrodden, and protect those who would look to me for succor? They are mine to judge, and I cannot do so with the Oath they swore wrapped around their necks like a strangling vine.” He knew how it felt, even briefly, and Maedhros and Maglor both had been weighed down by it, their eyes dull despite the sliver of Treelight. 

“They are not yours to judge,” Eönwë said, voice neutral. “I claim that right, on behalf of the King of Arda.”

Ereinion blinked.

“If they wish to relieve themselves of their dreadful oath, as you so claim, then they will come back with the Amanyarin hosts, and present themselves to Máhanaxar to be judged.”

“Absolutely not,” Elrond spat.

“Yes, Lord Peredhel,” Eönwë said, implacable. 

And so it went, back and forth. Any attempt at compromise was met with the rock wall that was Eönwë’s authority, or rather, his authority to act on behalf of his Lord and Master, Manwë Súlimo, from which Ereinion derived his own right to rule, and, as such, was subservient to Manwë’s will. And Eärendil was far above them, unable to be heard without Eönwë’s cooperation.

Ereinion left that meeting frustrated, with Elrond at his side fuming. Ereinion caught Elrond’s elbow and hissed, “Don’t you dare do anything rash.” 

“They should know we failed!” Elrond hissed back.

Ereinion shook his head. “Arafinwë will hear me. Ingwion was friends with Maedhros once. Let me appeal through them first.”

Elrond pursed his lips so tight they went bloodless. “Fine,” he finally spat out. “This will end in blood otherwise.”

Didn’t he know it.

Ereinion left him in search of his grandfather. 

And if he went to each of the guards assigned to Eönwë’s camp who called him Noldóran, and adjusted their rotations so they were only present during the day, well. They were his people. 

The crown was dripping in blood – he may not have wielded the blade, but he himself had sent thousands to their deaths already. His predecessors hundreds of thousands more. The weight on his fëa was already saturated, the fabric of his being stained so thoroughly that it could accept no more dye. 

These guards were under his protection, and if he could do something for them, he would. Violence would be done. He could lessen the impact on his own, slightly. 

The Fëanárioni were under his protection, too, but he could not save them from themselves.

Arafinwë was implacable, Ingwion impassive.

“Why do you want to be the one to take responsibility of them, Ereinion?” Arafinwë asked. “It would be best, politically, if we all delegate this up.”

“They are Noldor of Valariandë,” Ereinion said, trying to keep himself from shouting at his grandfather. “I thought we agreed they were my people, my problem. Don’t ask me to change this in the final hour.” Ereinion was losing his patience. “Besides, we were abandoned by the Valar during the Flight; they ceded their authority over my people with the Doom of Mandos. If Manwë wanted authority here, he should never have abandoned these lands to his brother.”

“Careful, Ereinion,” Ingwion said quietly. “You border on blasphemy.”

Ereinion cast him a baleful look, “You weren’t there.”

“Neither were you.”

He was, in a sense, and he knew Fëanáro’s feelings about it were clouding his mind. He didn’t care.

“I grew up under the Doom,” Ereinion spat. “I know it in my bones, in my heart, in my fëa. We will never be free of it, but we must – we must try! We must strive. I am asking for your help, my Lords, on the strength of our friendship, and the friendship you both once had with Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë. We can circumvent this, the deaths that will come of this if—”

“Ereinion.” Arafinwë cut him off. 

Ereinion leaned back on his heels, hands clenched in fists behind his back. “Arafinwë,” he acknowledged, voice tight.

“Your heart is in the right place.”

Ereinion glared. “But you’ll do nothing.”

Arafinwë looked at Ingwion, then back to Ereinion. “Not nothing. If they surrender, and come with us, do not think I would lightly abandon them to the Valar’s mercy. I and many others would dedicate ourselves to advocating for them. If you came with us, we could do it together. We,” he gestured to Ingwion, “are thinking of the politics of Aman, where the Valar are political actors, with their own inscrutable aims. You know this. And as such, we cannot dismiss Eönwë’s claim to Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë’s future as easily as you may wish.”

He knew. He had just dared to hope.

“Then I have done what I could. May Mandos welcome them into the Halls, and all those who stand in their way.” The pair of them flinched as Ereinion bowed, and stalked out of Arafinwë’s tent. An ill-omen, it was, to beseech Námo Doomsayer before someone’s death. 

But there would be deaths.

He knew it, sure as Beleriand was breaking apart.

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Ereinion and Tyelperinquar followed the noise – the outraged cries, the screams of pain – that erupted late in the night, some days later.

Tyelperinquar was tense by his side, and Ereinion wished, on some level, to spare him the sight he knew would be on the other side of the wall of people they were pushing themselves through. But he would not ask Tyelperinquar to stay back. His lover would not want him to protect him that way.

They entered a clearing. There was Maedhros, a small chest tucked under his right arm, great sword holding the swiftly gathering crowd at bay, eyes blazing with white fire behind his grey eyes. And at his back, wielding twin cavalry sabers, was Maglor. Their blades were, as expected, dark with blood, gleaming in the torchlight. The crowd parted again, and across the way, framed by Maglor’s swords, was Arafinwë. And behind him, Nerdanel.

“Kanafinwë Makalaurë,” Arafinwë called, “Nelyafinwë Maitimo.” Ereinion winced, he knew Maedhros’ thoughts about his amilessë. Bad move, Arafinwë. “Lay down your swords and surrender yourselves to—”

“—To the justice of Beleriand,” Ereinion cut Arafinwë off in Sindarin. One final attempt. He had to try.

Arafinwë shot him a scathing look. Ereinion simply raised an eyebrow, before turning his attention back to the Fëanárioni before him. “Maedhros, Maglor, your Noldóran demands you remand yourselves to the custody of the Crown of Beleriand.”

Maglor glanced behind him, lowering his swords slightly. Before he could say anything, Maedhros hissed something under his breath, and Maglor settled deeper into his guard instead.

Ereinion stepped forward, into the open space between the crowd and the pair of Kinslayers. He was within reach of Maedhros’s blade, and he already knew his guard was fuming behind him. “Come on,” he said lowly. “Don’t make them drag you back to Valinor. We’ve all lost enough. Let it end.” 

Maedhros looked him in the eye, and Ereinion knew that look. How horrible, to contrast the look in Maedhros’s eyes with the bright spark of a gleeful child, excited to see his grandfather under the cherry trees of Míriel Þerindë’s gardens. How horrible, to know how he had looked in hope, and love, and happiness, before the Nirnaeth and the Oath had truly broken him. It was the look of a dead man, whose body had not yet caught up to the fact that it was dead. 

And then, Eönwë dived down from the sky with a shriek, shedding his bird fana for that of an Elda in a blink. Ereinion stepped back, before Eönwë hit him with the massive wings sprouting from his back. “Let it end,” he repeated, voice echoing with Power. “Let them go.” He gestured at the crowd, which quickly parted. “Leave this camp, sons of Fëanor. Do not count on the mercy of the Valar again.”

Ereinion met Nerdanel’s eyes from across the clearing. Her face had lost all color, and she was gripping Arafinwë’s arm. Tyelperinquar was mirroring her, reaching for Ereinion. 

Nobody spoke.

Maedhros nodded, once. Did not sheathe his blade. Began to walk. Maglor followed him, eyes wide.

Nerdanel cried out their names. Maedhros did not look back. Maglor did, searching the crowd for a brief moment. He did not find her, and turned away at Maedhros’s word. 

Ereinion watched, defeated.

Tyelperinquar was stiff at his side. “I should—”

“Elrond is already following them,” Ereinion said under his breath, catching sight of the Peredhel on the edges of the crowd that was slowly dispersing, entertainment done. There were more than a few angry looks cast in the direction the Fëanárioni had gone. Ereinion patted his lover’s hand, still wrapped around his upper arm. “Stay. Comfort your Haruni.” Tyelperinquar nodded, squeezed his arm, and peeled off. 

Arafinwë was already talking to Eönwë, neck craned back to meet Eönwë’s eyes. Ereinion turned back to his guards, the pair of them opening their mouths in unison. Ereinion raised a hand, forestalling their scolding. “I know. Not here.”

Fionkenë scowled. “Highness,” she jerked her head behind them. “You’re wanted.”

Ereinion closed his eyes. Took a fortifying breath, then turned and approached Arafinwë and Eönwë.

Arafinwë’s expression was dark, the mask of politics breaking under the force of his fury. “What was that?”

Ereinion raised an eyebrow. “Noldóran of Aman, we have spent the last forty-two years seamlessly addressing the issue of jurisdiction. I have repeatedly claimed the Fëanárioni as my own, and that claim has repeatedly been dismissed. I asked you then, and I ask now, do you intend to claim leadership of the Noldor of Beleriand and strip me of my right to rule?”

Arafinwë scowled. 

Eönwë spoke, voice low. “He is not claiming anything. Though I must ask, Noldóran of Beleriand, what you intended to do with them, had they surrendered to you?”

Ereinion scoffed. “You don’t get to ask. Tend to your dead.”

He spun on his heel, stalking through the camp. Fuck this, he thought to himself. Fuck this, fuck the Third Theme and fuck all its Singers. Self-righteous bastards. 

In the crowd, he spotted Lindaerlinn, the mariner turned runner turned secretary. Ereinion beckoned him over, and they fell into step with him. “Summon the commanders that intend to stay in Beleriand. Tell them I want to accelerate our move east, and to come with opinions of feasibility.”

“Aye, Highness.”

Elrond and Elros had disappeared from the camp, and their commanders had heard neither hide nor hair from them since Maedhros and Maglor had come for the Silmarils. 

Ereinion didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

Companies of soldiers and civilian camp followers – the support staff of launderers, engineers, secretaries, cooks, bakers, healers, and a myriad others – were departing daily, caravans of wagons and walkers stretching into the distance. It would still take weeks to get everyone on the road. 

Smaller parties had been dispatched, to follow the roads south, to go into the deep forests, warning the smallest farmsteads and the half-empty towns of the rising waters, and encourage their resettlement into the lands of the east, or else depart for Valinor.

Ereinion remained, the dust of the Anfauglith at his feet and Angband in the distance. Tyelperinquar remained, helping where he could. Keeping himself busy, so he might not have to think about the last of his family’s fates.

Ereinion’s anger had dissipated, somewhat, in the intervening days before Arafinwë approached him. The command tent was empty besides himself when Arafinwë entered. For the first time in years, Arafinwë was without armor, his tunic finely made but plain, elegant but understated. 

“Noldóran,” Arafinwë said, bowing deeply at the waist and holding it, speaking to the ground. Ereinion recognized the form, the significance, the effort it took to swallow Arafinwë’s pride. “I would apologize, if I may.”

“I will hear it,” Ereinion said, surprised. 

Arafinwë rose, hands clasped low in front of him. He met Ereinion’s eyes, Finwean grey to Finwean grey, and nodded. “I overstepped my authority – we overstepped, as guests on these shores. Your anger is justified. The system we had was working, and I broke it. I recognize it, and apologize.”

Ereinion closed his eyes, could feel some of the remaining dregs of anger flow out of him. “Thank you,” he murmured, opening his eyes again. “Apology accepted.”

Arafinwë smiled, a little twitch of his lips that reminded Ereinion most of Finrod. “It may gladden you to know that Herald Eönwë intends to depart with Ingwion and the bulk of the Amanyarin forces, and those that intend to go West, as soon as Olwë’s mariners can come for them.”

“And yourself?” Ereinion asked, noting the absence. He was glad, relieved, even. Eönwë was an capable commander, the Maiar under his command fierce and able warriors and healers. But he was not Elda, he was not Secondborn. He did not bleed the same. The events of the past weeks, coupled with memories of the Valar’s inaction and betrayal of Finwë, did not endear himself to Ereinion any more.

“With your permission,” Arafinwë shrugged, “I would stay for a time – a short time. Seek my daughter, and meet her Sinda husband. Seek your brother, Gildor, if you think he would like to see me. Aid you, if you wish for it, in building foundations.”

“Is your wife not missing you?” Ereinion raised an eyebrow. 

Arafinwë shook his head, chuckling. “It is for her sake I would find Artanis, or at least news of her well-being. Eärwen would be more wroth with no news.”

Ereinion hummed. “We’ll have to adjust the groups going east, then. How many will accompany you, Haru?”

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The earth had finally stopped shaking itself apart. Ulmo and Ossë and Uinen and Aulë were appeased. All the land that had ever been affected by the wars against Morgoth, subject to the Dread Vala’s corrupting influence, was beneath the sea.

And so the building of yet another capital city of the Noldor could begin.

Mithlond would not be a copy of Tirion, sprawling over the top of a hill, as Finwë had built. It would not be a Barad Eithel, built into the cliffs and heavily fortified to withstand just one foe. It would not be a Gondolin, cut off from the world and constantly only one famine away from utter destruction.

No, Mithlond would take all of the best parts of them all: Gondolin’s plumbing; Barad Eithel’s reliance on switchbacks and a distinct lack of stairs; Tirion’s expansive gardens and markets. It would incorporate the designs of the Sindar, the Nandor, and the Secondborn. It would be by the sea, accessible to trade with the newly-formed Númenor and the rest of the world.

It would take the work of centuries to finish.

The Foe was defeated. For the first time in a thousand years, the world could relax.

They had time.

Elros, accepting a new crown from Eönwë, acting on behalf of Manwë Súlimo, with his Choice of mortality, stayed for a while. He organized his own people and their own mass-migration faster than Ereinion would have thought possible. When it was time for Elros to depart, Elrond stayed behind, his own Choice a sundering deeper than a mere parting.

So Elrond threw himself into the work, begging Ereinion for a position to keep him too busy to dwell in anticipatory grief. Ereinion named him his Herald, delegated him act as his representative to the Sindar, Nandor, and Fëanorians, and promised him to take it all back if it became too much.

Círdan established for himself a small settlement at Harlindon, the cove deep and protected and perfect for his chosen craft. His ships populated the new Gulf of Lhûn, darting across the waters.

Oropher disappeared with a significant number of surviving Sindar into the forests of Eriador, his young son at his side.

Arafinwë lingered in hope.

The city was half-built. Ereinion held court under pavilions of repurposed canvas tents, the sound of hammers and chisels and industry all around him.

A tall nís swept into the courtyard, imperious, tall and golden. She gently held the arm of a silver-haired Sinda, stern and beautiful and obviously pregnant, though Ereinion could tell at a glance the grip was only to project unity of purpose, and not to give support. Ereinion met her eyes as she approached, and he immediately turned to one of his secretaries. “Send for Noldóran Arafinwë, fast as you can.”

“Aye, Highness,” Lindaerlinn murmured.

Ereinion stood, meeting his father’s sister and her husband with open arms. “My Lady Galadriel, my Lord Celeborn. Welcome to Mithlond, and well-met!”

Only Celeborn looked startled to be so addressed, though he covered it well as they dipped into shallow bows. “Well-met, Noldóran Gil-galad,” Celeborn said, voice even. “We were glad to hear the rumors of your victory on the field against the Foe. Congratulations.”

Ereinion inclined his head, accepting it. “Not alone, but yes, we prevailed. I am merely happy to not have had to emulate my predecessors in one-on-one combat.” He looked up at Galadriel. “My Lady, your father, the Noldóran of Aman, lingers on these shores. Will you see him?”

She chuckled, her voice deep and melodic. “Eager to see him off, Highness?”

Ereinion shook his head, picking his words carefully. “Not at all. He is welcome company, and an able competitor in both wordplay and chess.”

Galadriel laughed, her smile crinkling her eyes at the corners, and the sun seemed to shine a little brighter in the wake of her amusement.

“I should hope so,” Arafinwë called, approaching from behind the new arrivals. “You beat me often enough, grandson.”

Galadriel frowned, her smile disappearing like clouds drawing over the sun. Celeborn glanced up at her, but her eyes were roving over Ereinion’s face as if trying to read something obscured by wave and wind and time. There, at the edges of his mind, unfamiliar ósanwë, pressing and unwelcome.

Ereinion took pity on her confusion, even as he rebuffed her. He bowed slightly, hand to his heart in the Sindarin style. “Inglorion, my Lady. Though rumor will have assigned me many sires.”

“Ah.”

Ereinion nodded. “Do not let me keep you from a reunion far too long in the waiting,” he murmured as Arafinwë finally joined them. “Excuse me.”

Arafinwë reached out, gently clasping Ereinion’s shoulder even as he turned away. “We’ll have to get together, all of us, soon. Besides, I’m sure they’ll be staying for your wedding.”

“Go for the green,” a familiar voice murmured, from over Ereinion’s shoulder.

Ereinion’s heart jumped into his throat, and then adrenaline and the habit of decades – or perhaps centuries – of war had him reacting without thought, standing, hands reaching to subdue. The speaker blocked him, backing up, eyes wary but still mirthful.

Tyelpë sat, watching, hands still full of fabric samples. They had been deep in the throes of wedding planning. Something Ereinion had far too much experience in, for all that he was not himself married. Yet. Finwë had been a significant influence in the plans for the weddings of all of the brood that had married, before the Darkening.

Ereinion stared, recognizing their guest. “Gildor Inglorion, you ass!” he yelled. “You almost sent me to Mandos!”

Gildor just laughed, and held out his arms. Ereinion gathered his brother in his arms and squeezed tight, burying his face in the crook of Gildor’s neck. Gildor rubbed soothing circles into Ereinion’s back.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Ereinion whispered.

“What, and miss your wedding?” Gildor sounded incredulous. “Absolutely not. I came as soon as I could. It just took a while, for the rumors to make their way far enough east for me to hear of it.”

Tyelperinquar joined their hug, pressing a kiss to Gildor’s forehead and then the crown of Ereinion’s head. “Welcome back, Gildor,” he whispered. “You have been dearly missed.”

“I missed you too, Tyelpë,” Gildor said fondly. “Now, you’ll both have to tell me everything, because it’s obvious I missed quite a lot since I left Nargothrond. Especially since the majority of rumors seem to be painting you as a son of Uncle Fingon, or even Uncle Orodreth.”

Ereinion leaned back, gently breaking their embrace. “So much,” he laughed a little wetly, overwhelmed with happiness. “ You’ve missed everything.”

Tyelperinquar laughed, voice rough with overuse, as he and Ereinion stole away from the largest feast he had seen, with his own eyes and his predecessor’s memories both. Seemingly everyone had been invited to his wedding celebration, and everyone had come up to one or both of them to extend their congratulations and well-wishes and give gifts.

“What’s so funny, husband mine?” Ereinion asked, noticing as he spoke just how hoarse his voice was as well.

“I thought we’d never get away! That dawn would come before they let us go.”

Ereinion was delirious with joy. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He didn’t know when the last time he had felt this happy, the last time any of them had been this happy. Certainly in Finwë’s time as Ñoldóran, before the Darkening. He hoped that if, despite his best efforts, there was another bearer of Finwë’s crown after him, that they would look at this moment of joy and hold it close, instead of drowning under the weight of so much pain and so many deaths.

Ereinion shook his head, pulling Tyelpë closer to his side. “I’m just glad it went as well as it did.”

Tyelpë nodded. They walked side by side through the dark halls Mithlond’s palace, still half under construction, to their rooms. The wind blew through the open windows, spring air cool and scented with magnolia blossoms.

“Ereinion,” Tyelpë caught his hands, facing him in the dim light of their sitting room.

Ereinion raised an eyebrow, looking up into Tyelpë’s eyes. “What’s wrong, arimelda?”

“A long time ago, an Age ago, I swore an Oath of fealty to you, as the Lord of Himlad,” Tyelpë said, softly, hesitantly. “And you promised …”

Ereinion nodded. “To release you, whenever it is too much of a burden.” Ereinion searched his husband’s face. “Is it time?”

“It has not been a burden,” Tyelpë said, smiling slightly. “But we are about to swear to each other, in marriage, and I hoped that … that would be enough.”

Ereinion grinned. Leaned forward and kissed his husband’s cheek, and whispered in his ear, “Tyelperinquar Rundamírion, Lord of Himlad and Mithlond, I, Ereinion Artanáro Inglorion, release you from your Oath of fealty to the Crown of Beleriand.”

Tyelpë shuddered, then sighed, and collapsed into Ereinion’s arms. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you, husband mine.”

Ereinion hugged him tighter. “Of course.”

Tyelpë pulled away, grasping his hand and pulling him towards their bedroom. “Come on. I would greet the dawn a married man.”

Ereinion rolled his eyes, smirking. “We have a few hours left before the dawn of the rest of our lives.”

“Auta i lómë,” Tyelpë grinned, winking. “Out of the Shadow, and into the light.”

“Aurë entuluva,” Ereinion murmured, laughter on his lips as he followed his husband to bed.

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