Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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13

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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.