Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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5

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He had been called on to settle a dispute between three minor lords regarding grazing rights on common pasturage. This wouldn’t have been a problem, necessarily, had there been enough land on Balar to support their flocks, but it was a small island. The Noldor lords were being stubborn and the Falathrim lord was trying her best, but the Falas had had a different system in the days before it fell. 

Ereinion himself had no great experience dealing with these particular Noldorin lords, nor any idea himself what might be done about the rights to common pasturage they seemed to disagree on. But Nolofinwë’s memories showed him that this had been a common problem with these two particular lords, and helpfully showed him the right precedent from both Finwë and Nolofinwë’s times as king. All left the meeting grumbling, but satisfied. The Oath he had sworn lay peacefully around his throat, warm and soft.

Dusk was swiftly falling into night, the sky turning purple, the clouds pink and orange. Ereinion sighed, a smile dancing on his lips as he walked back to the main settlement and Círdan’s house. Tyelperinquar shot him an amused glance. “What is the sigh for, arimelda?”

“Can I not be happy?” Ereinion asked, turning to walk backwards to face his lover, arms held out as if to embrace the world. “Can I not take pleasure in a job well done, in the fresh summer air and the glory of a colorful sunset and my love at my side?”

Tyelpë smiled. “I suppose you may,” he teased. “But if we’re late for dinner again Círdan will be wroth.” 

“If you make us late for dinner again,” Ereinion scoffed. “I’m always perfectly on time.”

“Oh, fuck you, no you’re not.”

“You want to test that theory?” Ereinion winked. “I bet I can suck you off and still get us back in time for dinner.”

Tyelperinquar glared. It was halfhearted, though, Ereinion could tell, and he laughed when Tyelpë sighed forcefully and wordlessly left the path to find a suitable and discreet tree.

But before he could disappear into the trees after him, he heard a voice from down the path. “Noldóran!” 

Ereinion let his shoulders drop in momentary disappointment before softly calling into the shadows, “Tyelpë, come back.” Tyelperinquar emerged, hands busy redoing a half-undone braid. To his raised and expectant eyebrow, Ereinion huffed. “Duty calls.”

The runner was Ferendis, an elleth he knew from Nargothrond, calling from the top of the path – Ereinion and Tyelperinquar were in the slight valley between two hills. “Noldóran!” she repeated, her breath coming in short bursts. “The Havens are burning!”

Ereinion didn’t hesitate. He ran. He could hear Tyelperinquar’s feet beating a staccato rhythm behind him, but he paid his lover no heed. 

Ferendis ran at his side, telling him all she knew. “They’re flying banners,” she huffed. “Red banners.” Ereinion increased his pace. “Círdan is readying ships.”

“Aid or arms?” he asked, glancing at her.

“Both.”

Ereinion grimaced. 

They all crested the final hill. Before them lay the docks, which was a hive of activity, of torches and running soldiers in dulled armor and noise. Círdan’s house, the estate they shared as coexisting rulers of Balar was nestled amongst the dunes, dark and empty. And in the distance, the smoke stained the sky black, obscuring the emerging stars. And from the north, the red glow of a distant fire, the faint echo of screams carried over the water. 

It wasn’t the first time he had seen homes burning, but it galled him all the same. Alqualondë’s beaches were overlaid with the burning ruins of Angrod’s fortress, destroyed in the Dagor Bragollach, which were overlaid again by Losgar, and again by his own memory of Brithombar burning. 

He came back to himself as Ferendis peeled off, muttering something about getting her own armor. Círdan was already at the docks, organizing people into boats. A dozen were already on the water, heading towards the Havens. “What do we know?” Ereinion said, not bothering to disguise how out of breath he was by the time he approached Círdan’s side. “How long?”

“The fires started less than a quarter of an hour ago, my Lord,” Círdan said quickly, etiquette efficient and entirely for the people around them. “If I may suggest getting Aeglos, and I’ll be able to put you on the next boat.” 

Ereinion nodded once. He grabbed Tyelperinquar’s wrist and dragged him to the side to let Círdan do what he did best, his own eyes scanning the crowds for his valet, Cecetion. “Will you come with me?” Ereinion asked, not releasing his lover. 

“Should I?”

“I want you with me,” Ereinion said, finally looking over at Tyelperinquar. His hair was falling out of its braids, his shoulders slumped with resignation, his head ducked and not meeting anyone’s eyes. Ereinion shifted his grip on his wrist to lace their fingers together. “Of course I do. But …”

Tyelperinquar bit his lip, then released it. “Red banners can only be Maedhros.”

“Your blood doesn’t matter to me, Tyelpë. Only your willingness to stand at my side. That’s all that matters. You know this.”

Ereinion could see the mix of anxiety, fear, and political calculation in his eyes. Then his expression smoothed out, a shuttered mask that betrayed nothing, his eyes fixed on a point behind Ereinion’s left shoulder. “I’ll go where I’m bid, my Lord,” he said softly as Cecetion came trotting up, arms full with two heavy bags, multiple swords hanging from his belt, and Aeglos, its long spearhead sheathed in leather, strapped to his back. 

Ereinion frowned, but let the politic answer stand. Time enough for an interrogation after. 

Cecetion forwent any pleasantries and got straight to work. “I knew I’d find you both together, my Lords,” he said, his voice firm and matter of fact as he lowered the bags to the ground at their feet. “Thank you for proving me right.”

“Wouldn’t dare do otherwise,” Ereinion said wryly. He and Tyelperinquar started donning the armor Cecetion had brought in their bags, Cecetion helping with deft hands to secure buckles and straps and ties. Cecetion was a former guardsman from Nargothrond, but Glaurung and the resulting fires and smoke had ruined his lungs. He could and would fight if he had to, but today it wouldn’t be necessary. There were enough people already heading across to the Havens. 

Despite their best efforts, Ereinion and Tyelperinquar were on some of the last boats going across the Bay. It was slow going, with the wind against them. The darkness of the night was thick with smoke, the sounds of battle steadily growing louder.

They were maybe halfway across the Bay, darkness turning the waters inky black when the familiar light of a Silmaril appeared, bright with captured and preserved Treelight. Ereinion sucked in a sharp breath – it had to be Elwing, but she was far from the Havens, up on the cliffs to the west of the settlement.

What was she doing out there?

Why had she unveiled the Silmaril, with the Sons of Fëanor so close?

Only Finwë had memories of the Silmarilli; they had been lost by the time Fëanáro had accepted the crown. Finwë’s thoughts had been tinged with pride and paternal love at first, which had twisted into confusion, then annoyance, then rage as the split between his sons had gaped into a chasm. 

Ereinion had seen it himself, once, at Elwing’s wedding to Idril’s son, Eärendil. He understood, viscerally, why Fëanáro had been so distraught at losing them, in the terror and confusion of the world changing so profoundly. He understood the desire to hoard them – the Silmaril was beautiful, and it magnified Elwing’s own beauty, her hair dark and iridescent under the light like a raven’s wing, the last jewels of Gondolin sparkling on her ears, Ereinion’s father’s grand necklace draped around her neck. That had been a day of joy. 

He watched the light of the Silmaril blink on the cliff, limning the shape of its bearer.

And then, Elwing plummeted into the sea.

Ereinion lurched forward with half a shout caught in his throat, but where could he go? He was on a boat in the middle of the sea.

They were too late.

He met Tyelperinquar’s eyes, bright in the darkness with a sliver of the light of the Trees he had been born under, a shadow of the brilliance of a Silmaril. His mouth was set in a stubborn line, bracing himself, but his eyes betrayed his anguish.

Ereinion knew he was probably making the same face.

An inhaled breath from the head of his guard, Fionkenë, at his side, barely noticed above the sound of waves splashing on the hull. Ereinion followed her eyes – titanic hands with slender fingers rising swiftly out of the water – Ereinion’s memories helpfully supplied him the name of Uinen, Lady of the Sea – cupping something. A great white sea bird was tossed into the air, the Silmaril bound with the Nauglamír around it’s – her – neck. She flew west, and disappeared into the clouds and smoke.

He refrained from uttering a blessing to speed Elwing’s fëa to the Halls, if the bird was, in fact, Elwing. Somehow. He would not wish that fate upon her prematurely. It was an ill-omen, to beseech Námo Doomsayer before someone’s death.

The next few hours were a haze of the unfamiliar yet all too familiar process finishing a battle, the Fëanorian forces turning tail and running. 

Then came the tedium of cleaning up after a battle, Ereinion directing scouting parties to secure the borders, directing some to heal the wounded survivors, and yet more to catalog the dead and begin the process of preparing bodies for burial. He tasked several to look for Elwing’s twin sons, to comb the beaches and the cliff and her home for them. As much as he might wish, he couldn’t look for the little twins himself. 

And throughout, he walked among his people, being available, being seen as steady and steadfast and calm even though his heart ached to see so much blood, so much death.

This was yet another price of the crown, he mused. Never a person, only a symbol. Never allowed to grieve with his people, he could only provide ruthless efficiency in service to them.

“What are we to do with the Fëanorian dead?” someone asked timidly.

Burial practices were a major division between the Sindar and the Noldor, and even within factions of the Noldor, the customs varied. The Sindar tended to bury their dead among their forests, returning to the trees which succored them. Survivors of the Helcaraxë preferred to be buried on the plains, where the sun could warm the ground and the ice could never touch them again. 

“A pyre,” Ereinion said shortly, sighing. The resulting smoke would be visible for miles, would attract the attention of Orcs or worse. And yet, that was their way. He was King of the Noldor, and that meant all the Noldor. “Spread the word. Take from the winter stock of wood, and any houses that are damaged beyond repair. We have time to replenish the stock before winter comes again.”

“Aye, Sire,” the elleth nodded and ran off. He placed her only as she left – a former follower of Celegorm, who like so many others had stayed in Nargothrond.

He had lost Tyelperinquar amidst the rush. But he was walking through the ruins of the Havens of Sirion, searching for survivors and being present, when he found his lover again. Ereinion hung back for a long moment, watching.

There he was, kneeling in the dirt between two bodies. He had pulled one of the pair into his lap, was speaking quietly, smoothing back his messy red hair as the figure shuddered, then went limp. Tyelpë leaned down and pressed a kiss to Ambarussa’s forehead. 

Tyelperinquar straightened, and glanced behind him, meeting Ereinion’s eyes. His own eyes were dry, but his chin wobbled with the effort of suppressing his tears. “Dead,” he whispered, as Ereinion came up to kneel on one knee at Tyelpë’s side. 

The mismatched set of Ambarussa lay there – one scarred, one tattooed, both tall and strong and so familiar despite Ereinion himself having never met them. Littlest and Last of the Fëanárioni, and yet Fëanáro had not regarded them with much fondness in the end, their fealty to him confused with their love given to Nerdanel, whom Fëanáro had loathed with fierce passion until his death. Now they were just broken and bloodied corpses, hröa empty of fëa from their attempt to destroy this last foothold of Beleriand. 

“Tyelpë,” Ereinion murmured, soft and tender. 

“Don’t.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was firm. He took a shuddering breath in, then let it out in a gust. “It can wait.” He lifted Ambarussa off his lap gently, and stood. Ereinion followed him, searching his face in the darkness. “There are too many eyes, Highness.”

Somehow the sound of his lover using his title felt like a slap. 

He wished, oh how he wished, he could offer the kind of comfort Tyelperinquar could accept. The crown, with its plain mithril and its colorless gem and its burden of a thousand thousand memories stood between them. An unfathomable gulf, a burden he could not free himself of. 

“As you say,” Ereinion said with a nod. The business of ruling comes first, always. “A pyre is being prepared. Or would you rather them buried?”

“They did not want to burn,” Tyelperinquar muttered. “Not again.” Tyelperinquar looked around, then beckoned to a passing soldier. “With your permission, I’ll take care of them myself,” he said, bowing. 

Ereinion blinked. Nodded. He knew he had been dismissed, polite as could be.

So he turned to leave his lover to his grief, again ruing the distance their roles put between them.