Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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2

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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.