Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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8

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The Hosts of the West were slowly pushing north, splitting to rush through the mountain passes. It was risky, they all knew, but if they could just get through the pass and reassemble on the plains of the Anfauglith – green again as Ard-galen once was, but it wouldn’t last, not for long – then they had a chance. 

Maybe. 

Hopefully.

Which is how Ereinion found himself at the head of an army comprised of a mix of Amanyarin soldiers and former Fëanorians, riding a Amanyarin palfrey – a gift from his grandfather – through the valley on the east side of the Sirion, between the Ered Wethrin and the Echoriad. Ahead of them, the river split into two around an island, lush and green, a spot of life incongruous with its surroundings. Great white stones rose from the summit, walls encircling, but all in ruins.

“Did you ever see it, before Minas Tirith fell?” Ereinion asked quietly. 

Tyelpë nodded. “Once. I rarely had the opportunity to come west, but I was sent to represent Himring and Himlad shortly after Finduilas’ birth.”

Ereinion nodded, heart aching. “I miss her.”

“As do I,” Tyelpë murmured. “I miss Gildor, even if sending him east was the right thing to do.” He sighed, biting his lip. “I miss Finrod, too. Despite knowing he is alive again, on the other side of the sea, I miss him.”

Ereinion sighed softly. “As do I,” he echoed in a whisper. “So do I. They say Lúthien and Beren buried him here.” 

Tyelperinquar leaned to cross the distance between their horses, cupping Ereinion’s elbow gently, offering as much comfort as he felt he could in public. “Would you like to go across, and see?”

“We don’t have time,” Ereinion said automatically. 

“We have time enough to climb to the citadel.”

Ereinion pursed his lips. 

“The sun won’t set for another few hours. You have commanders who know when to halt the march, and how to set up a camp.” Tyelpë said, quietly. “The horses are swift enough that we will catch up with the host before it is truly dark.” A pause. “And it may do us both good, to lance this grief before we do battle.”

Ereinion grimaced. “I … I do not wish them to see me …” It was a token resistance – they had never paid much mind to what Ereinion’s guard saw; they were all sworn to secrecy, and had become almost friends over the long years. Tyelperinquar shot him a look that withered the protests in his throat. “No, you’re right. Yes, let’s.”

In short order, they were encouraging their horses over the low-lying river, their boots barely wet by the time they made it across. The mighty Sirion was slow, polluted and fetid. But Tol Sirion rose above them, green and dotted with white niphredil and golden poppies and red seregon, all fragrant in the warm air.

The path was overgrown, once they found it. Ereinion let his eyes flow over the land, and up the hill to the ruins of Minas Tirith, the tower that had been his father’s first attempt at a stronghold. 

The irony of it all would have been comical, had it been anyone else, in any other situation. Felagund, building his own tomb. Felagund, forced to abandon the works of his hands to the Shadow. Felagund, returning in secret and falling anyway, for love.

Ereinion tried not to let the bitterness of Felagund’s choice well up in his heart, more days than not. When he was not being charitable, or kind, the anger and betrayal choked him. Finrod had abandoned him, abandoned Gildor, abandoned Ereinion’s mother and his people and his king and all responsibilities.

Now, though, climbing through the ruins of a tower destroyed by the power of Lúthien’s Song, the rocks shattered in unnatural forms, dark shadows on the walls and the stones that did not move that might look like people, or orcs, or wolves.

Ereinion could only feel the sorrow pervading this place, thick like syrup.

He dismounted at the edges of the citadel, where the foundations of the walls still stood, strong and silent. “Wait here,” he commanded his guard, his loyal six. “We’ll shout if we need you.”

“We’ll be watching.” Fionkenë said grimly. She hadn’t liked his insistence on going with only Tyelperinquar into the ruins of Minas Tirith, indeed had argued vehemently against it. She was glaring still even as he turned and strode away. 

In the end, they ended up following the flowers. 

Ereinion could hear, on the edges of his perception, echoes of Song in the air, snatches of bright Melody and the occasional note of shadowy Discord that lingered in the cracks between stone and mortar. Bees as long as his thumb flitted from flower to flower, fuzzy bodies covered in orange pollen, dancing in the wind despite their size.

And there, in the courtyard before the ruins of the tower, a cairn, white stones covered in green earth and golden poppies. Ereinion took a deep breath as he approached. 

Finrod lay there, in this place that had been stripped of its beauty and then made beautiful again, where the world had changed, where Ereinion had lost so much. 

Grief, keening and sharp, suddenly knifed through him, as it had when he had learned of Mídhíril’s death when Nargothrond fell, compounded by the memories of the unprocessed griefs of five other kings. He fell to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Tyelperinquar steadied him, holding his shoulder, running his hands over his practical braids that kept his silver hair close to his scalp, letting Ereinion lean against him. Ereinion had cried like this, when news of Finrod’s death came to Nargothrond too. But being here, in this place, and knowing that he was alive again, just far away and unable to be a source of comfort, hurt. 

It hurt so much.

Grief could strangle as much as an Oath could.

“It’s funny,” Ereinion said, once the tears had run their course. He felt worn out, like a wrung-out rag, but clearheaded and clean for the first time since accepting the crown. They had all – excepting the one – held Finrod Felagund in great affection, and it was both painful and cathartic to see his father through the eyes of many, just as it was painful and cathartic to let himself cry for the losses all six of them had suffered. 

“What is, arimelda?” Tyelpë murmured.

“Perhaps Felagund did have a measure of foresight, naming me Scion of Kings.”

Tyelperinquar laughed in that quiet way he did, as if he were afraid of startling the bees. “Perhaps.”

They stayed there, quiet and breathing, for a while. Shadows stretched steadily across the ground.

“Tyelpë,” Ereinion said suddenly, looking up at his lover. “If I do not survive this war—”

“Don’t talk like that!” Tyelperinquar said, sharp and fierce. “You will. You must.”

Ereinion raised an eyebrow, kept his voice calm. “There have been seven Kings within the past seven hundred years, Tyelpë. Those are not good odds.” Tyelperinquar grimaced. Ereinion continued, “I need you to promise me to destroy the crown when I’m dead. I have no heir, I won’t have a son, and it won’t matter. This curse ends with me. Cast it into the crags of the earth, melt it down, I don’t care. Just get rid of it. No one else should be burdened with this.”

Tyelperinquar frowned. “The Noldor have never not had a king,” he protests. 

“Make a different crown for Gildor, if you must. We cling to the vestiges of a past that did not exist, of a system that we tell ourselves is given to us by the Valar and thus Eru Ilúvatar, but it is not! Ingwë and Finwë and Olwë built it, built it all, and convinced everyone to treat it as fact that they were destined to rule. This right to kingship, this – none of it should ever have come to me, a bastard son of the Third House. The object itself is nothing. The crown is nothing. It is just metal, and stone, and memory.”

“It is a symbol—”

“It is a curse, an affliction, a parasite with a singular host!” Ereinion cried out, frustrated. “It is confusing, Tyelpë! It haunts my dreams and intrudes on every thought and decision. My desire for you is muddled by yearning for women I have never met. My dreams are dark with shadow and the memories of dying over and over and over, and yet I live. I know the Foe’s face in all his guises and I – I am afraid, so afraid that if you allow another to take this burden, they will not be strong enough to withstand it. It is too heavy for one mind to bear!”

“Ereinion! Breathe, arimelda. Breathe. I will do it. I understand now. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Ereinion let himself be held, wishing it were safe enough to remove his mail and his gambeson. He wanted, desperately in that moment, to hear Tyelpë’s heart, strong and steadfast, under his ear. He settled for pressing his face into Tyelpë’s neck, breathing in the scent of his hair and sweat.

“Thank you,” Ereinion murmured instead. “Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for not making me bear this alone.”

His predecessors had been so alone. Turgon wishing for Elenwë; Fingolfin for Anairë, Finwë for Míriel and Indis in turn; even Fëanáro had had the occasional desire for Nerdanel’s wisdom. And none of them satisfied, all dead or left behind or driven away. 

At least he had Tyelperinquar. At least he had him.

He hoped he would not inadvertently drive him away.