Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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12

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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