Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

4

Long nights in council with Círdan coordinating rule of the Isle of Balar and its fractious peoples often ended in cups of tea.

“He talked about you all the time,” Ereinion murmured to himself, into the quiet. He was curled up in the crook of Círdan’s ragged yellow couch, a cup of hot tea cradled between his hands. They had run out of wine a long time ago, but alcohol could be made with just about anything if one had a strong enough stomach. He himself didn’t consume alcohol much these days, the memories too large, too prone to overwhelming him if he let mere drink disorient him. 

“Who?” Círdan asked, sitting cross-legged before the fire, building it up. 

He blinked, coming back to the present. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken. “Finwë. He missed you.”

Círdan looked back at him, eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that, child?”

Ereinion rolled his eyes, but then Círdan called most people children, Unbegotten as he was. He knew Círdan wasn’t being condescending. “I thought I told you. He’s rattling around in my head, or his memories, at least.” He nodded at Finwë’s crown sitting on the desk, a glorified paperweight holding down letters from Amon Ereb and the Havens and scouting reports. “It was … blessed, or perhaps cursed, when it was made.”

Círdan hummed. He twisted to face Ereinion properly, then said something in a form of Quenya so old Ereinion as himself could not decipher it. But his mouth opened and he responded with the ease of habit that was not his, tongue forming words he didn’t know he knew. Ereinion covered his mouth with his hand, frowning. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Círdan said, Sindarin modern and comprehensible. “Do you know what we just said?”

“You greeted me … ‘I see you by the waters of Cuiviénen.’ And the response, ‘May the stars watch over us both,’ I think.” Now that he was thinking about it, he could start to pick out root words, sounds that had mutated over time. Though whether that was he as himself, or perhaps Fëanáro’s latent interest in linguistics making those connections, he wasn’t sure. It was unsettling, how automatic his response had been. 

“You have his lisp,” Círdan murmured, looking unmoored. “You’ve never done that before.”

Ereinion nodded his head. “Celebrimbor has that Fëanorian pronunciation, sometimes, when we speak Quenya. We used to laugh at my inability to do it, that I must truly be a scion of the line of Indis because of it.” Ereinion shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant but not sure it was working. It was too easy to let his masks down around Círdan. “It comes easily, now.”

“So,” Círdan said after a long moment. “Is it just Finwë, or all of them?”

“Finwë, Fëanor, Fingolfin, Fingon, and Turgon. Maedhros seems not to have put it on, which I can honestly only be glad for.” Ereinion shuddered. “I’ve seen Morgoth’s face far too often. I don’t relish the opportunity to see it again.”

Círdan scratched at his beard, thinking. “No, I wouldn’t either,” he mused. “No telling what the future holds, unless you’ve also suddenly gained a measure of foresight?” 

“Only patterns of the past. Petty grudges and politics going back thousands of years. Tirion’s library organization scheme. Battle stratagem. The horror and thrill of Kinslaying. The chill of the Helcaraxë. Four separate ways to die horribly by hammer and axe. Entirely too much Nolofinwean-specific family drama. Linguistic drifts, apparently.” 

Círdan nodded, eyes filling with a certain amount of pity that Ereinion both resented and appreciated. “They’ve certainly had a run of it,” he said lightly, sensing accurately that Ereinion did not want to dwell on it. “More tea?” 

“Please.” Ereinion handed over his empty mug as Círdan stood. Thinking about the deaths of his predecessors had gotten easier, but it was still disconcerting. Shifting through his thoughts, he threw out a question. “What do you make of these letters from Amon Ereb? About Elwing’s Silmaril?”

“They’re certainly getting bold,” Círdan grumbled. “They’re your people now, what do you make of it?”

Ereinion shrugged, turning his attention inward. “It came from Maedhros’s own hand, which speaks to his seriousness.” Fingon had always known when Maedhros used a secretary. “He doesn’t say it outright, but he is threatening violence.” There had been a phrase Maedhros had used that Fëanor had shouted during the slaughter at Alqualondë that had triggered a memory. “If Elwing doesn’t respond, the threat will become more obvious before it escalates.” Fingolfin had once been on the receiving end of an exceedingly polite letter that boiled down to You should rethink your response to me because you’re being fucking stupid and I know Finwë did not raise a stupid son. Maedhros was a politician in addition to a warlord, but Beleriand had made him straightforward and blunt. “But I think we have time.”

Círdan handed him a fresh cup of tea. “I concur. Less time than we’d like, but time.”