Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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3

Ereinion was Finwë. 

Manwë smiled down at him, wispy hands caressing his face and setting his hair fluttering in the breeze. Valinor spread below them, green and gold and silver and utterly lush with life. Treelight shone in the distance, Ezellohar bright. 

They were safe. They were free. The Noldor had followed him here, and here they would stay. Pride welled up in Finwë’s chest, tears fell from his face as he gazed up at the King of Arda. 

“Let this be a symbol to all who see it of my love for thee,” the wind whispered. “Let this accompany thee throughout all the days of thy duty, and let it be a comfort in the darkness and the light.”

“Hail, Finwë Ñoldóran,” Ingwë shouted, and the crowd around Máhanaxar upon Taniquetil cheered. It was the first day of his Kingship, and he was glad. 

...

Tirion was slow to rise, but she did, and as soon as was reasonable, he married. Míriel Þerindë was stunning, scarlet dress embroidered in gold and silver trees, silver hair caught in a net of pearls, face radiant with a smile just for him. 

…

Míriel caught his hand, face beaded with sweat and voice roughened from her cries. Finwë’s wrist ached from how tight she gripped him. Panting, in the space between contractions, she told him: “I fear for him,” and “I cannot stay, you must let me go” and “You must love him for both of us” and “Marry her.” And Finwë’s heart ached with sorrow he thought he had left behind, even as he gathered his son in his arms. 

…

Again he married, Indis golden and bright and happy. Fëanáro, young and frowning and impossibly burdened, still occupied the majority of his thoughts. 

…

A thousand thousand names and faces and problems swirled past, every day under the light of the Trees presenting a new problem, a new puzzle, a new thought. Repairs to the old started being more common than new buildings, innovations made to ensure things lasted. And around him grew his family, large and fractious but beloved all the same. 

…

He stood within the circle of thrones of Máhanaxar with Ingwë and Olwë and the heads of the most prominent Houses and Guilds in all three of their cities. Manwë stood before them, voice soft as he spoke of reconciliation, of reform, of repentance, of reparations. 

Finwë eyed the shadowy figure lurking at Manwë’s shoulder with suspicion. Melkor met his eyes, and Finwë shuddered, the familiar and unforgettable feeling of the Dark Rider passing in the shadows around Cuiviénen dripping down his spine. Melkor smiled, and Finwë supposed it was meant to be comforting, but he could see only gleaming teeth, and hear only the horrific sound of his own mother’s choked off screams. 

…

He was not blind to the influence of Melkor’s whispers among his people. He was not blind to the tension between his sons. 

But what was he to do? 

He was helpless in the face of the Valar’s lack of understanding. 

A sword was raised against a vulnerable throat, and Nolofinwë’s silence spoke a thousand thousand words.

And Finwë wanted to scream, thrashing against the very crown that forced him to hold his tongue.

…

He stood firm, spear familiar in his hands, the warm wood of the doors solid at his back. Melkor strode forward, great hammer held loose in his grip. “Little Ñoldóran,” Melkor whispered, smile full of teeth. “Step aside.”

Finwë merely shook his head, defiant.

They danced in the courtyard, his spear flashing in the light of the torches, Melkor was a dark shadow as his warhammer beat great rents into the earth as Finwë dodged his blows. And then, a feint, a hooked ankle, and Finwë was on his back, on the ground, gasping.

Pain, and fear, and then nothing.

Ereinion was Fëanáro.

He stood before the Valar in stupefied silence as memories of his father’s life washed over him, his own eldest son holding his arm to keep him upright. Tears streamed down his face, and he felt numb, and cold, and small. He was Ñoldóran, and it was so dark, and he was so angry. 

And Manwë had the audacity to look upon him with pity!

…

He was no stranger to grief, but Míriel Þerindë had been gone so long that that wound was mostly scarred over. His father’s death was fresh, bleeding, a weight that carved out a hole in his chest and sat that, dense and impenetrable. He held the memories of Finwë tight, oscillating between gratefulness for having them, and resentment that Finwë was not here to tell him himself.

There wasn’t enough time to mourn; he could only set his grief aside and act.

Only in the privacy of his rooms could he linger in it, and weep.

…

He gathered his sons around him, and together they swore unending vengeance upon Melkor – no, Moringotto. It settled around his throat, a strangling vine that promised dire consequences should he fail.

…

The slaughter was unintentional, but he hardened his heart against the lingering cries of dying Teleri and Noldor. From the deck of a swan-ship, the sea air gusted, the smell of salt and metal and danger meeting his nose as he cleaned his sword of blood. Nelyafinwë stood, back straight at his side, giving him a moment of quiet as his son organized their host for their move north. Blood was smeared on his son’s cheek, like a lover’s kiss, and Fëanáro knew his heir would never desert him – blood bound them twice over now.

…

The swan-ships burned. Ambarto – no, he had rightfully earned her true name for him – Umbarto burned. 

…

Battle was exhilarating, and Fëanáro rode hard, leaving his host behind. The Oath thrummed under his skin, urging him on, urging him forward, ever forward towards the lost parts of his fëa. Shadows rose around him, whips and swords and great hammers wreathed in flame raised against him. 

…

His hröa was a ruin, and no Song from Kanafinwë’s skilled repertoire could heal him. Blackness rose behind his eyes. He looked into Nelyafinwë’s eyes and spoke as flames licked at his extremities, “Do not put it on, not yet” and “Swear to me you will get them back” and “I cannot stay, you must let me go.”

And then, relief as something released in him, and darkness.

Ereinion was Nolofinwë. 

Memory overwhelmed him. He sat, leaned against Turukáno’s chest, reeling all over from the deaths of his father, of his brother. Decades of introspection and mourning Finwë while trudging across the Helcaraxë seemed wiped away in the face of knowing his father’s thoughts. Maedhros knelt before him, searching his eyes. “You saw,” he said, not a question. 

A memory flashed, a conversation under the stars on a stolen ship that Nolofinwë himself never had, never witnessed.

Nolofinwë nodded, ignoring the stares of his family and all their lords in the hall by the Lake. “I saw,” he said. 

“Them both?”

Nolofinwë nodded.

Maedhros only smiled. He stood, holding out his left hand to help Nolofinwë to his feet. “May Finwë’s wisdom guide you, Ñoldóran.” The empty space that Fëanáro took up lay between them, unacknowledged and heavy. 

…

Barad Eithel rose steadily. Hithlum flourished. Letters flew across the land. A great siege arced over the green lands and began to tighten, step by bloody step. 

He took the lessons Finwë had taught him, in life and in death, and organized a great feast. 

People were more agreeable, he knew, with full bellies and hearts full of song.

…

He stood on the walls of his city, breathing in the brisk dawn air. Ard-galen was green and lush and stretched for leagues before him. The wind picked up his hair, gentle and comforting. For this moment, at least, he was content. 

Findekáno joined him, frowning. “Turukáno is gone,” he said without preamble. “Vinyamar is empty.”

“How?” Nolofinwë demanded. Please, he thought, let them not be dead! Memories of the battle they had fought upon their arrival on these shores flashed through his mind, the bloody and rent body of his youngest son cradled in his arms.

“Disappeared in the night,” his eldest son muttered, snorting derisively. “At least, that’s what the trees say. I could find no living soul between Ivrin and the sea.” 

…

Ard-galen was burning.

He could lose himself in the battles he led, defending Barad Eithel and Hithlum, the sharp motion of sword and shield, leading the Songs that supported them all. It was only in the quiet moments, the lull between waves of Orcs and worse, that he could let himself feel. 

Despair and grief had never quite left him, but they were overwhelming now, an inferno. He had to do something, anything, to end this.

…

And Morgoth came, black armored and carrying that same heavy warhammer that had destroyed his father’s hröa so completely. He wasn’t hubristic enough to think he could win; he knew he was coming here to die, there was no other way this could go, and yet, he had to try. 

One strike, dodge.

Parry, two.

No time to think. Three, and roll.

Four, the roar of agony echoing through the mountains.

Exhaustion dragging at his limbs, five.

A flinch, then six.

At first, he thought Morgoth was playing with him, but now he harried him in earnest. He stumbled, falling onto his back. Looking up at his death, he wasn’t sure if he was before the Gates of Angband or before the Gates of Formenos, and he grit his teeth in one last defiance. 

Seven.

He grinned savagely at the scream Morgoth let loose, and closed his eyes as the hammer raised. And he hoped, in those final thoughts, that Findekáno would not see this. 

Then darkness, only darkness.

Ereinion was Findekáno. 

Maedhros knelt before him now – and again, and again – searching his eyes as he emerged from the deluge of memory. He would not shame himself by accepting the memories that seemed to come with Finwë’s crown before the entirety of the Noldorin court, but his brother was gone, his sister gone. Maedhros knew, and so there they were. 

“I’m fine,” he muttered, voice cracking.

“It’s all right not to be,” his cousin said quietly.

…

The coronation went as well as it could, though the guest list was sharply curtailed by the price they had paid in defense of the north. So many dead, and with that came a thousand thousand problems.

But he had his allies. He could lean on his cousins, his father’s nobles . Maedhros was still here. Finrod had arrived, bringing his sons – silver-haired and wide-eyed – to meet him, to meet them all. It was good to see things were prospering enough in the south for there to be children amongst them once again.

…

News was rarely good, but messengers flew between them all regardless.

And then Finrod was dead. Nargothrond in turmoil. And Maedhros, suspiciously, was not answering his letters. 

…

It took a trip to Himring himself to understand. And Maedhros, clever and cunning and ruthless, talked him in circles until he conceded responsibility of punishing Celegorm and Curufin to Maedhros’ hand. 

And Maedhros, clever and cunning and ruthless and for the first time in centuries hopeful, drew him into plans for a great Union, a final push, a way to end this once and for all. 

And the memories of three deaths at Morgoth’s hands rattled in his mind, and above all he wanted to live, to let this curse end with him.

…

Unlooked for, unexpected, did Turukáno take the field of battle, bolstering their meager showing in the west even as they waited for the signal to come from Maedhros’s host in the east. Hope, hope for them all bloomed, and he cried out a glad greeting: Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie'n aurë! The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come! 

And around him, a joyful chorus: Auta i lómë! The night is passing!

…

He had seen this one before – or not him, but Fëanáro, and it still galled him to know so intimately his half-uncle’s madness and death. The Balrog took down his guards, one by one, axe swinging in his hands with brutal efficiency. And he stood strong for as long as he could, though fear clenched his heart like ice. 

He did not see the whip.

He stared up at the Balrog in defiance, grinning through the pain of his flesh burning, burning, burning under his armor. He had the satisfaction of knowing this Captain of Angband needed help in slaying him, even as the axe sped towards his head.

Darkness, then.

Ereinion was Turukáno. 

Was it better or worse, to know how his family had mourned him when he had followed the word of Ulmo into the mountains? Was it better or worse, to know that his father and his brother had both died thinking that his sister was still alive, safe behind the white walls of Ondolindë? Was it better or worse, to know that his father had loved him despite his absence, that his brother had cheered to see him again?

It looked exactly as he had seen it last, carried by Sorontar with his father’s body. Turukáno had sent the circlet back to Barad Eithel, and to Findekáno, with the Great Eagle. He sent no messages beyond that, deeming the secret of Ondolindë too great still, even from his own brother and King.

This time, Lómion had retrieved the rent and broken crown from the field scattered with corpses, in the midst of their retreat. He had repaired it, seamless and perfect.

He hadn’t been sure the memories that had overtaken his father would still be there.

And though it was overwhelming, and though it was terrible to behold, he was glad to have them.

…

Ulmo’s messenger arrived, in familiar armor that barely fit him, bearing a shield too large for him decorated with a familiar device. He had left them in Vinyamar, and so Tuor was a welcome guest, despite his unsettling message.

…

And then Itarillë married, and he was glad.

…

Her peredhel son was perfect, Eärendil Ardamírë, golden-haired and bright and happy. And Huor’s final words to him echoed, ‘from you and from me a new star shall arise,’ and he thought now he understood.

…

His sister-son was missing for a long time. When he returned peace settled in his heart again, despite the unease and tension between Lómion and Itarillë. He came from the mountains, he said, but something about him was different, changed, and he was not sure he believed his heir.

Tuor warned, time and time again, that it was time to abandon Ondolindë. Tuor’s voice echoed with the might of a Vala behind it, but he would not heed it.

He had built so much, his family was happy and growing and his people were safe, safe behind these walls that he had built, behind the mountains in the place set aside for them. He did not want to leave. There was no other place for him in Beleriand than the one had had built, an echo of Tirion, a memory of happier times.

So he did not.

…

Betrayal! Lómion’s black eyes were alight with fey and feral glee as dragons of flesh and dragons of bronze and Balrogs and wolves and a thousand thousand Orcs poured over the mountains. But, coward and craven as he was, he sped away instead of confronting Turukáno before the Tower of the King.

Itarillë begged him to leave with her, to escape. But he would not. He looked out on his city, and knew he had built his own tomb long ago. There was nowhere else for him to go.

But the crown had to leave. “Tell the next bearer of this thing,” he said, knowing she would not need to, he would hear him just fine, whoever it might be, “that the wisdom of his predecessors may always be flawed. He must place his trust in himself first.”

Ereinion was all of them at once, and himself.

Tyelperinquar knelt before him, gripping his forearms. Ereinion blinked, seeing Maedhros’s red hair overlaid thrice over before blinking the memories away again. 

“Are you okay?” Tyelperinquar whispered, realizing Ereinion was again aware of the world. 

Ereinion shook his head mutely, overwhelmed.

His lover reached up, and thumbed away the tears that coursed down his cheeks. Ereinion leaned into the touch. “I wish,” he murmured, eyes closed, “I wish I could take the same comfort they did, in knowing exactly how their fathers loved them so. How it tore at them to make decisions they did not want to make but had to for the sake of our people.” 

He felt rather than saw Tyelperinquar sit beside him and gather him into his arms. His hand shook as he roughly lifted the crown off his head, collapsed into Tyelpë’s broad chest, and let himself sob.

Chapter End Notes

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