Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

1

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.