Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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6

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Ereinion gave it a week before confronting Tyelperinquar about what had happened in the Havens. 

He had barely seen his lover since they returned to Balar, survivors in tow. Tyelperinquar was avoiding their shared rooms and sleeping even less than usual, from what Ereinion could tell. He had not joined them for the communal dinners the various leaders of Balar hosted. Instead he, reportedly, had been busy at the island’s forges, turning out blade after blade from their dwindling supply of steel. 

So Ereinion, taking advantage of his scheduled meetings finishing early, donned a nondescript cloak with a deep hood and walked inland, where the forges lay outside the main town so as to keep houses from burning or being bothered by the smoke and the noise. He knew Fionkenë, the head of his guard, was following him. It was her job, as much as Ereinion might wish to have this conversation in complete privacy. No, the cloak was not for her. It was, like many things, for everyone else. 

Some part of him yearned for the days of his youth, where he could just ride out alone onto the plains of the Talath Dirnen and think. To race Gildor across the land, and deliberately check his horse at the last moment to be able to listen to his little brother exalt in his victory, because it was never about winning. To find a friendly tree to sit under and weave flowers together into tiny crowns for the sparrows and crows and nightingales.

Instead he was far from the home of his youth, which was lost; he was alone, with his brother sent far over the mountains in the east and safe; he was the leader of a fractured people being slowly driven into the sea by a foe so dreadful he shuddered to remember him; and his lover was hurting. 

The stroke of a hammer rang out, a rhythmic clanging akin to bells, heralding Tyelperinquar’s presence before Ereinion rounded the stone wall that demarcated the bounds of the forge. 

Tyelperinquar, braids bound high and covered in a scarf, shirt sticking to every muscle of his back with sweat from the heat of the forge, seemed to consider the white-hot future blade in his gloved hands, then quenched it. His back was to the entrance, and so Ereinion watched, listening to the sounds of his lover breathing and the crackling of the flames. 

“I know you’re there, Ereinion,” Tyelperinquar said neutrally, still showing Ereinion his back. “You may as well come in.”

Ereinion entered, wordlessly hanging his cloak on the hooks for that purpose, then the mithril circlet, then stripped off his tunic and hung that as well. Tyelperinquar cleared off a section of the worktable, brushing wood shavings into his hands and tossing them into the fire. 

This was familiar. Tyelperinquar knew Ereinion liked to perch, seated on a table or a window casement when he visited Tyelpë in his forge – anywhere tall and out of the way, so that Ereinion might watch his lover at work at his craft.

So Ereinion sat on the worktable, legs crossed, on the table and leaned back to lounge against the wall. He deliberately left his posture open and relaxed, calm and nonconfrontational. He waited, watching Tyelperinquar putter around the forge, picking up after himself, putting his tools and apron and gloves back in their appropriate places. 

“Don’t you have other things you need to do?” Tyelperinquar muttered as the silence stretched on. He tore the scarf that bound his braids back off his head, and mopped his face with it.

“No.”

“The King’s business never ends,” Tyelperinquar muttered sourly.

“I left it at the door,” Ereinion lied. “It’s just us.” A pause. “I am worried about you.”

Tyelperinquar’s eyes were fathomless, deep and full of pain. “Why?” he said, voice cracking.

Because you haven’t been home. Because I miss you. Because the slaughter at the Havens was horrific. Because I want to hold you and be held. Because we both lost something there. Because I love you. He said none of that. Instead, he said lightly, “Do I need a reason to worry about my lover?”

Tyelpë grimaced. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with me.”

“I am, though. I wish you wouldn’t push me away, Tyelpë.” Another pause, and very deliberately Ereinion pushed. “I wanted to be there for you, after Ambarussa died.”

Tyelperinquar blinked. “Why? They were Fëanárioni; they don’t deserve your pity.”

Ereinion frowned. “They were people,” he says, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “They were your family.”

“‘Your blood doesn’t matter to me,’” Tyelperinquar quoted back, voice harsh. He was pacing now, shoulders stiff. 

Ereinion shook his head, frowning. He fought for control, to separate out his own impulses from Fëanáro’s deep-seated need to not be misunderstood and Nolofinwë’s instinctive defensiveness. “Tyelpë, don’t take my words out of context. You say, over and over, that people should not be measured by the legacies of their families, and yet you persist in thinking that I, I who have seen your family at their best and at their very worst, both in memory and with my own eyes, that I will hold you accountable for the actions of your uncles.” 

“Everyone else does!”

“I am not everyone! I am your melotorno and your lover. I gave you my heart long ago, and I would hold yours – all your pains and your sorrows and your joys, if you’ll just let me. Trust in me. Trust in us, what we’ve built together.” He was leaning forward now, palms up, beseeching. 

Tyelperinquar stopped pacing, and just stared at Ereinion’s hands.

“I will never judge you, Tyelperinquar Rundamírion. You are not your father. You are not your uncles. You carry no stain upon yourself for their deeds.” Ereinion smiled a little, soft and sad. “I will say it as often as you need to hear it, but it is the truth.” 

“I couldn’t save them,” Tyelperinquar said quietly, a lone tear running down his cheek. “I wasn’t enough.”

“What happened, Tyelpë? What didn’t I see?”

Tyelpë shook his head, crossed the space to stand before him. Ereinion kept his hands open and still, as Tyelperinquar gingerly rested his fingers on the pads of Ereinion’s own, barely touching, gentle and hesitant. “I tried to save them,” he whispered. “Ambarussa. They were alone. They raised their swords against me, tried to kill me before they realized who I was, I think.” He shook his head. Ereinion waited. “I tried to tell them, promise them, that they could just walk away, just stop, like I have.” A sniffle, wet, but neither of them moved. “And then Telvo took an arrow to his neck, and Pityo to his back, and I …”

Ereinion nodded. He let his hands trace up Tyelperinquar’s bare arms and pulled him into an embrace, his legs unfolding so he could press them together, chest to chest. Seated on the table like this, he could hook his chin over Tyelpë’s shoulder – he wasn’t tall enough to do so normally.

“He apologized,” Tyelperinquar whispered into Ereinion’s neck. “For it all.”

It would have been better to not do it at all. He had the memories of Fëanáro’s actions at Alqualondë, the sick thrill of blades entering the chests of the Teleri on the quays. There wasn’t much of a difference in the physicality of killing Orcs, Ereinion knew, or even hunting animals, compared to Kinslaying. Flesh was just flesh, meat and muscle and blood were all the same. But it felt different, in the fëa. In some indescribable way, it was different. Was it any wonder that Ereinion favored the spear, as Finwë had wielded, when the memory of a sword in Fëanáro and Findekáno’s hands had so much discord attached to it? Ereinion could hardly imagine why someone would do it twice, let alone thrice. 

And yet.

“May Mandos welcome them into the Halls,” Ereinion murmured, the words rote and ritual and earnestly meant. 

And Tyelperinquar fell apart. 

Ereinion held him, murmuring soothing nonsense as Tyelperinquar shook and sobbed and ruined Ereinion’s shirt. He let his thoughts wander. 

There was a certain level of hypocrisy, a dissonance in what Tyelperinquar claimed was the guiding truth of his life after Nargothrond, and the way he broke.

Oh, he could listen and smile and applaud the stories of Findekáno rescuing Nelyafinwë. He could reminisce with fondness about Huan’s antics. He could talk about Aman in general terms. He extolled the virtues of the Nolofinwean branch and recalled the Mereth Aderthad with relish. It was all part of his story, part of his song, and could not, should not be disregarded.

But in specifics, about his family, about Finwë’s court and Fëanáro’s house and the tensions that pervaded in Formenos, about the slaughter on the beaches of Alqualondë, he spoke not. He cringed and tried to make himself small in Oropher’s presence even as they debated the right course of action, unable to meet the Sinda’s eyes. He hid in the forges, instead of helping resettle the refugees from the Havens of Sirion. 

He continued to carry so much guilt, such shame, a multitude of embarrassments for the actions of Fëanárioni, even as he said that he cared not for them, even as he said he was not part of that House. 

Family was complicated. 

Family was messy.

Ereinion was both part of the greater Finwean brood and outside of it, bastard son as he was. And yet, also the closest to them all, carrier of the memories of their patriarch and all the ones that had followed. 

Was he not also a hypocrite, in searching the memories of his predecessors for guidance and wisdom? In saying he was the King of all the Noldor, and yet he made no effort to ingratiate the remaining Fëanárioni and their partisans? Turukáno’s voice resounded in his mind: ‘the wisdom of his predecessors may always be flawed. He must place his trust in himself first.’ What a load of shit! He could hardly separate himself from them all. He was so young – still fifteen years until his second century – and yet his memory was ancient, stretching back thousands of years. Who was he, Ereinion Inglorion, Gil-galad, as a man alone? Twenty-seven years he carried the crown, and yet the memories of his life before were faint in the wake of all the others. 

He wished the crown had never come to him. Would that many other choices had been made, so that the crown might not have fallen upon his brow. But wishing wouldn’t change the facts of his life. He would carry it, and try. No one would ever be able to accuse him of not trying.

Ereinion pressed a soft kiss into Tyelperinquar’s messy dark hair. He had stopped crying. They were just holding each other, leaning against the other for stability, each the keystone in the other’s arch.

“Better?” Ereinion asked quietly.

Tyelperinquar nodded. “Thank you,” he croaked, voice raw. 

“You’re welcome. I love you.”

“I love you too.”