Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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7

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Ereinion was holding open court, making himself available to the problems and concerns of the people of Balar, when news of the ships came.

Lindaerlinn was a quiet mariner, their brown eyes nervous as they approached Ereinion. They had adjusted to sea-life well, after spending their entire life cooped up in the encircling mountains of the Crissaegrim. They bowed upon reaching the table Ereinion had set himself up at. 

“Come, sit,” Ereinion said, smiling invitingly. “What brings you here, Lindaerlinn?”

“News from the Alphien, Noldóran,” they said even as they sat. Ereinion poured them a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and pushed it towards them. “The captain sent me ahead. She’s keeping everyone aboard for a spell, to give you time before the rumors start.”

Ereinion raised his eyebrows. “That serious?”

Lindaerlinn nodded, then took a scrap of paper out of their coat pocket and handed it to Ereinion. They sipped at the proffered water while Ereinion read.

Swan-ships from Aman. Flagship claims to have three hundred or more in fleet. Host of at least a hundred thousand, leaders Arafinwë Noldóran and Maia Eönwë. Two days.

Ereinion blinked. Read it again. And a third time.

“You outraced them to warn me?” Ereinion asked once he could be sure his voice was steady.

Lindaerlinn nodded. “Aye, Noldóran. We, that is, the crew of Alphien thought it worth it to try. No one likes going into a squall blind.”

Ereinion nodded. “This is more like a hurricane,” he muttered, and Lindaerlinn huffed a laugh, then covered their mouth, looking embarrassed. “Thank you,” he continued. “You can tell the Alphien that their attempt is sincerely appreciated, as is the warning, and will be remembered. And your captain needs not hold the crew from shore leave; I’ll have an announcement by day’s end. But if you would be so kind as to wait to speak of this as you return to your ship, it would make my job that much easier.” 

Lindaerlinn nodded, shot him a shy smile. “As you will, Noldóran, so shall it be.” They downed the last of their water, and left with a small bow before disappearing out of the hall. 

Ereinion sighed.

Valinor.

Valinor was sending an army.

This was going to be a logistical nightmare.

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The morning sun was bright overhead, white clouds scudding across the blue expanse of sky. The breeze was gentle, whispering softly as it picked at the hems of their clothes. Birds wheeled overhead, riding unseen thermals. 

Ereinion stood on the deck of Círdan’s ship, hands clasped together behind his back, watching the Amanyarin delegation begin to cross the expanse between their ships so that they might play politics before the entirety of the host landed. Tyelperinquar stood at his side, close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. 

Even dressed in his best, even with Finwë’s crown on his brow, even with Círdan and Tyelpë and Oropher at his side, even with a boat full of his own mariners and soldiers, he was nervous. 

“Last chance to hide below,” Ereinion whispered in Sindarin, glancing at Tyelperinquar with mischief in his smile. Oropher chuckled.

Tyelpë only rolled his eyes. “Uncle Arafinwë has already seen me,” he whispered back. “Can’t run away from duty.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Ereinion said sardonically. 

The first of the delegation stepped onto the ship, and Ereinion schooled his face into something more politic – closed off, blank, attentive. Their eyes met across the deck, Finwean grey to Finwean grey. 

Arafinwë looked so similar to the last time Fëanáro had seen him – his clothes practical but sturdy and well-made; his golden hair caught in a myriad of small braids and tied away from his face; pearls and gold studding his ears. But the weight of responsibility now hung heavy around his shoulders. A sword hung from his waist, and Ereinion immediately cataloged how unfamiliar his grandfather held himself with it. And upon his brow lay a mithril circlet with a colorless gem, an echo of the one Ereinion wore. Not exactly a copy, but close enough to signal its ancient inspiration. 

Half of the job of being King, Ereinion had quickly realized, was in assuming the shape that was expected of the position. It was the mannerisms, the diction of a worldly education, being seen to be loyal and steadfast and calm and patient and fierce in turns. It was wearing the right clothes, assuming the correct symbols, each in imitation of the original patriarch, Finwë, whose shadow was so long. But Arafinwë was trying to imitate that which Ereinion had, and some part of him thought less of Arafinwë for it. 

Behind him was Ingwion, High King Ingwë’s eldest son. Finwë had many memories of him in both social and political settings. He, too, adorned himself in gold, with purple gems in his circlet and about his ears, with the same style of practical clothing. He seemed a bit more relaxed, a bit more familiar with the weapon at his hip. As he smoothed out his tunic, he looked up, and Ereinion followed his gaze.

One of the birds, a falcon, dived from where it had been circling, and for one mad half-second, Ereinion thought the bird would shatter its neck against the deck, but no. In the space of a blink, the bird grew, unfolding itself into a form Ereinion recognized only because Finwë, too, had had many dealings with the Herald of Manwë. Eönwë landed lightly on the deck beside Arafinwë, and gave both Ingwë and Arafinwë a shallow bow. 

Nothing for it.

Ereinion strode forward, and pointedly did not bow. “Hail and well-met,” he said in perfect, fluid Quenya, “Arafinwë, King of the Noldor in Aman, Ingwion, Prince of the Vanyar in Aman, and Eönwë, Herald of Manwë Súlimo. I, Ereinion, High King of the Noldor in Valariandë, welcome you to the Anaryullë and hope your sea journey was not too arduous.”

Eönwë bowed shallowly. “Hail and well met, High King Ereinion. My Lord Ulmo of the Waters was with us. The journey was fair.”

Ereinion nodded, smiling politely. “That is well. And these are my companions,” he gestured as he spoke, “Círdan, though you may know of him as Nowë Unbegotten, Lord of the Isle of Balar; Oropher, Lord of the Sindeldi of Lestanórë, called Doriath, which is lost; and Tyelperinquar Rundamírion, Lord of Himlad which is lost.” Each of them bowed as he named them, faces ranging from easy and open to guarded and hesitant.

Arafinwë spoke, his voice soft. “Well met, all of you.” But Ereinion knew he had caught the absence of Tyelperinquar’s ataressë, his eyes curious as he regarded his nephew’s son. And Ereinion had caught, and ignored, the long stare Arafinwë had given him. He was sure Arafinwë had already guessed they were related – probably already knew he was Finrod’s child – but he wasn’t about to bring it up. 

Arafinwë was his blood, but he did not know him. Better to start whatever relationship they may have on equal footing, as Kings of the Noldor, then with Ereinion as the subordinate. Better to avoid, if possible, the question of jurisdiction between them.

“Shall we adjourn?” Ereinion held out his arm to gently urge the group into motion. “I find conversations such as this much eased by a cup of tea, don’t you agree?”

A gamble, but not a very high stakes one. He knew already that the two Eldar in front of him had been partial to Finwë’s blends. Ereinion didn’t have many resources at his disposal, nor the complexity of flavor available in Aman, but he would offer what he had. 

Such luxuries would likely be rare indeed, if they had come, in fact, to make war against Morgoth.

Arafinwë smiled, bright and golden like the sun. Ereinion felt his own smile almost falter – he looked so much like Findaráto like this. His father had given his smiles freely, open and trusting and always happy to hear Ereinion and Gildor and Finduilas chatter away about a hundred little, inconsequential things. 

“Indeed,” Arafinwë said, polite as could be. “We would be pleased to accept your hospitality.”

What followed was the sharing of history and news and many, many cups of tea. 

In turns, Arafinwë and Ingwë told of Elwing’s flight, of Eärendil’s journey to the Máhanaxar, of the call to arms, of Olwë’s construction of their fleet. Aman had been emptied, the Noldor and the Vanyar and a small number of Teleri uniting to be soldiers and support both in the war Elwing had called them for. Eönwë had excused himself from the rituals of tea and conversation by shifting back into the form of a falcon, perching on Arafinwë’s shoulder, listening intently and occasionally nibbling at Arafinwë’s ear. Ereinion had no doubt that the Maia was speaking with both of the Amanyarin commanders in ósanwë, which was decidedly rude, but it wasn’t a fight he wanted to have.

And then in turns, Ereinion, Círdan, and Oropher spoke of the wars in Beleriand, with Tyelperinquar acting as translator for Oropher since he spoke only a little Quenya, and Arafinwë spoke only a little Sindarin. They spoke of the crossing of the Helcaraxë, of the splintering of the House of Finwë, of the Great Siege, of the Long Peace and the Dagor Bragollach, of the daring of Beren and Lúthien, of the feuds between the House of Fëanor and Doriath, of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and its overwhelming loss, of the Kinslayings at Doriath and the Havens of Sirion.

They pored over maps, Ereinion pointing out key areas as they spoke. It was a bleak picture, the one they painted with their words, of lands lost, of factions upon factions, of death, death, death.

And then began the strategies. Numbers discussed, supply chains organized. The lay of the land, its capability for harvest, its mountain passes and its choke points, the locations of major cities and fortresses now overrun by Morgoth’s forces that they might take and hold and garrison again. What was known about Morgoth’s forces, their estimated numbers and the dread monsters that had been bred in the dark.

Ereinion had no experience riding over these lands, nor in directly fighting the massive armies of Morgoth, but Nolofinwë did. Findekáno did. Oropher did, having spent much time among the marchwardens of Doriath. Círdan knew the coasts like the back of his calloused hands. Tyelperinquar knew the eastern reaches, having spent a good portion of the Long Peace traveling between Himlad, Amon Ereb, Thargelion, and Himring to spend time with each of his uncles.

It was dark by the time they finished, plates of bread and fresh fish empty of all but crumbs. 

Ereinion was exhausted. Everyone was. But it had been a very productive session, and the vast majority of the problems had solutions that had been easily found among Aman’s vast supplies or wealth of labor-power, or else were problems they would all face together, like clean water shortages and a lack of fresh vegetables. 

Ingwion excused himself with a bow. The first part of their plan hinged on his forces making safe the port city of Eglarest, directly north, then sweeping west to retake Barad Nimras and Brithombar. The sooner he could establish that foothold, the sooner the rest of the fleet could land after months at being at sea, and he was eager to rest. Eönwë went with him, perching on his shoulder and preening himself. 

Oropher and Círdan also left not long after, murmuring their own excuses.

Which left only Arafinwë, Tyelperinquar, and himself around the table. Tyelperinquar raised an eyebrow as the door closed.

“I would have thought you would go back with Ingwion, Uncle,” he said bluntly.

“Why?” Arafinwë asked mildly. He removed his circlet, placing it carelessly on the table before him. He loosened the tie that held his hair back, letting his braids fall over his shoulders and into his face. He relaxed into his seat, letting his shoulders drop. Shedding the formality of Kingship to be a person again, amidst family.

Ereinion envied his ability to just let go. He doubted Arafinwë was plagued by the same dark dreams, the same racing thoughts, the same doubts about his own personhood. This King sitting across the table from him, with soft hands and a soft voice and no battle experience at all, bringing fresh supplies and fresh soldiers and the grace of the Valar with him … Ereinion was furious at the injustice of it all, yet desperate enough for this help, for himself and for his people, that he would bite his tongue and bear it.

They shared a title, yes, but certainly not the same experience.

Tyelperinquar shrugged, tense. “Plenty to do.”

“Would you rather I left, Curvo?”

Ereinion closed his eyes and counted. One, two—

“Don’t call me that!” Tyelperinquar hissed, fists clenched. “I left that name behind a long time ago.”

“Ah, yes,” Arafinwë was so calm. “Rundamírion. She’s here, by the way. Rundamírë. Nerdanel too.”

The anger deflated out of Tyelperinquar so quickly it might be comical if it were any other subject. “Ammë and Haruni both?” he asked, voice suddenly small. “Not for the fighting, surely?”

“No. Rundamírë is for the engineers. Nerdanel is …” Arafinwë shrugged, smiling ruefully. “Nerdanel is for her sage advice, and earthwork projects should we need them.” A pause, delicate, before adding, almost as an afterthought: “And for her sons. She would not be left behind again.”

Ereinion snorted, a decidedly unkingly noise. “If you think Nerdanel can talk some sense into Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë, I wish you both all the luck the stars can provide. Like as not, our contact with the Fëanárioni is limited.”

Arafinwë regarded him steadily. “If it is in my power to give her that opportunity, I will.” A pause. “I, too, wish I had better news for you, Ereinion, to restore to you ones who love you.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “And who exactly do you think I’m yearning to see, Arafinwë?”

Ereinion could tell Arafinwë was picking his words carefully. “I regret now my decision to leave Findaráto as my regent in Tirion. He spoke of you and Gildor with great affection, and hoped we would meet.” 

Ereinion blinked. “It’s been eighty years since Findaráto fell,” he said, incredulous. “The Doom was very clear. ‘There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies and find little pity.’ There is no world in which Námo Doomsayer has released him already from the Halls!”

“I lie not. Never about this. Not about him.” Arafinwë shook his head. “The Princess Lúthien bargained for him before she passed out of the Halls in the way of the Secondborn, or so he says.”

Ereinion exchanged a look with Tyelperinquar.

“So you knew Ereinion this whole time,” Tyelperinquar muttered. 

Arafinwë nodded. “And many other things besides.”

“Like what?”

“That you two are melotorni, for one.”

Ereinion snorted, ducking his head. “We’re well past that,” he muttered into his chest.

Tyelperinquar rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were flushed slightly. “The customs of Aman are not as strict, here in Valariandë,” he explained diplomatically. “But that was accurate, yes, when Findaráto left us.”

Arafinwë only hummed, considering. Ereinion thought the silence comfortable. He had no intention of hiding his lover, of dismissing him for political expedience or personal discomfort. Let Arafinwë wonder what happened behind closed doors, if that was what he wished to do. Ereinion didn’t care.

“And Gildor?” Arafinwë asked, tactfully changing the subject.

Ereinion inclined his head. “Artaresto suggested, before Nargothrond fell, that we split up, reasoning that we were safer apart than together. It was prudent, in those days. Mídhíril, our mother, stayed. Tyelpë and I went west, to the Falas and Círdan. Gildor went east, seeking Artanis and her husband. I have not sent for him,” Ereinion, anticipating the next question, shook his head. “I cannot not send my messengers through Fëanárioni held lands without risks I cannot afford. Even if he was found, I would not want him here, this close to danger.”

Arafinwë nodded. “I understand.”

Ereinion’s heart ached. He missed his mother, dead and burned; his brother, far away and hopefully safe; his cousin Artaresto, who – having taken leadership of Nargothrond instead of Ereinion because he had been true-born and not a bastard – died facing down a dragon alone.

Tyelpë reached out and squeezed his knee under the table, brief and grounding.

“Is that … the original?” Arafinwë asked, nodding at Ereinion – no, at the circlet still on Ereinion’s brow.

Ereinion nodded slowly. Here it was. If Arafinwë was going to make a claim on the Kingship of all the Noldor on both sides of the sea, it would be here and now. “It’s been repaired and refitted a few times, but yes, it is the original.”

Arafinwë only smiled, easy and relaxed. “My father always hated it, I think. Would have rather had something by Fëanáro’s hand.”

Ereinion shook his head before he could stop himself, memories of a different life oppressively present. “He never minded the crown as an object; it was Manwë’s gift to him. He just hated the pressures it put on the brood.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Arafinwë asked sharply.

Tyelperinquar touched his elbow, and Ereinion blinked. “Oh, I did it again, didn’t I?” He laughed, a little self-deprecating. “Apologies, Arafinwë.”

“What–”

“Finwë’s crown was cursed by Manwë, Uncle,” Tyelperinquar interrupted. “Probably all three of the original crowns, but Olwë and Ingwë haven’t died so it’s an impossible hypothesis to test. Ereinion carries all the memories of all his predecessors. All of them.”

Arafinwë stared at Ereinion. 

“So if you were intending to ask for it back – and I do understand, it was your father’s, you may have the stronger claim to it – but know it comes with a price. Never mind the impracticalities, and that the Noldor of Valariandë will not, at this point, consent to be ruled by someone who has not bled with them yet.”

Never mind his own Oath to Eru Ilúvatar, a permanent weight that writhed around his throat, which could not be forsworn. 

Arafinwë shook his head slowly. “It is an awful burden you have taken, Ereinion. I was not – am not – interested in laying any claim on Valariandë.” He bit his lip, eyes welling with pity and admiration. “I do not wish to–” a laugh, exhaled through his nose. “Tirion is quite enough for me. I was merely surprised to see it.”