Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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11

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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.

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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.