Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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9

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Thangorodrim rose in the distance, dark and jagged. 

Their push north had slowed significantly as the years of war went on. They had mimicked Nolofinwë and Maedhros’s strategies from the earliest days, setting the siege in a loose arc and tightening it step by bloody step. 

They were so used to looking north that it was an honest surprise that anything came out of the south. 

But there was Lindaerlinn, the mariner now a runner between Ereinion and Arafinwë’s camp on the west side, and Oropher, Círdan, and Ingwion’s to the east. They were panting, their brown eyes bright and nervous, as Fionkenë announced them. 

Ereinion, Arafinwë, Nerdanel, and several of their commanders had been reviewing supply audits, but now all their eyes were fixed on Lindaerlinn. 

“Noldóran, my Lords,” Lindaerlinn said, bowing. “A host. An Eldarin host approaches from the south.”

“From the south?” Ereinion and Arafinwë asked together. Ereinion shot Arafinwë a withering look – they had quickly realized the easiest way not to step on each other’s toes was to only respond when addressed as Noldóran by members of their own hosts. Lindaerlinn was Ereinion’s; this was Ereinion’s problem. Arafinwë gestured, palms up in a silent apology. Nerdanel huffed a quiet laugh, irreverent as only one as ancient and respected as she could be. Ereinion turned back to Lindaerlinn. “Whose banners are they flying?”

Lindaerlinn blinked, then recovered themselves. “There were two, Highness. Prince Eärendil’s six-pointed star on blue, and the Fëanorian’s eight-pointed star on red.”

Ereinion took a deep breath. Hope bloomed. 

Lindaerlinn continued. “I know not whether the lost princes are among them, Highness, but—”

Ereinion nodded, smiling to hide his unease. “Thank you. How are you always the one bearing news of reinforcements, Lindaerlinn?”

They laughed a little, bright as spring. “I don’t know, Highness. I must be lucky.”

“Would you run to the forges and ask Lord Celebrimbor to join me by the southern edge of camp?”

“Aye, Highness.” They bowed, hand over their heart, and turned on their heel to exit the tent.

Ereinion closed his eyes for a beat, then two. Made a snap decision. “Lady Nerdanel, would you join me? The rest of you, finish the audits. Any discrepancies we’ll deal with tomorrow.”

Nerdanel looked shocked for a moment at being addressed, then nodded and stood. Ereinion raised an eyebrow at Arafinwë, almost daring him to protest, but he shook his head slightly, then turned back to the slate tablet and continued his calculations.

Nerdanel was often quiet around him, and Ereinion wary of his – Fëanáro’s – memories around her. He had been filled with such resentment for her, after the Darkening, and Finwë’s fondness for her could not outweigh that visceral hatred of Fëanáro. So he had kept his distance, letting her advise Arafinwë and fighting his own mind to treat her as she deserved, free from the past that he dragged behind him like a stone.

He left the tent, Aeglos in hand, Fionkenë following at a comfortable distance. Nerdanel matched his shorter pace, sword at her hip, mouth tight. 

“Do you hope, my Lady,” Ereinion murmured as they made their way through the camp, dust clinging to their boots, “for any particular outcome here?”

She shot him a glance, green eyes filled with something unnameable. “I do, though the odds are not in my favor.” She grimaced, then sighed. “If they are here, I will leave for them. You would do well not to hinder me.”

Ereinion nodded, unsurprised. “You are not one of mine. But I will make your excuses to Arafinwë.”

“He knows,” she muttered. “This was always my condition for coming here. Valariandë may have been beautiful, once, but the one I might have wished to explore it with is sundered from me, and all I see is blood and ash and dust,” she kicked at the ground, sending up a puff of aforementioned dust and ash of the Anfauglith. 

“It is a terrible thing, that you could not have seen this land in the days of the Watchful Peace,” Ereinion said, smiling. “Ard-galen in all its green, Barad Eithel’s grand monuments, Himring’s austere grace. You would have loved Nargothrond, I think. A great assemblage of Noldor and Sindar and Casari stonework and engineering.”

She nodded. “Tyelperinquar has shown me some of his memories of your family’s halls.” 

“Has he? Good.”

“He loves you.” She glanced at him as they approached the southern edge of their camp, a tense line of Amanyarin infantry facing outward, and the line of unfamiliar mounted cavalry just beyond. “I would be remiss if I didn’t threaten you just a little, to not break his heart.”

“As is a grandmother’s prerogative,” Ereinion nodded, chuckling. “I know he does. And I wouldn’t dream of it.” He knew the strength of her arm already. No need to test it on his own flesh.

“Good,” she said simply, then fell silent, and a half step behind him, as they passed the line. 

Ereinion watched as two riders in the middle of the Fëanorian cavalry kicked their horses into a trot into the space between their lines, then dismounted in unison around the middle and continued the rest of the way on foot. Ereinion stood still, letting them come to him. 

They were lean, yes, but who wasn’t these days? They moved well, tall and strong, with the grace of experienced fighters and dancers. They wore no heraldry, their armor nondescript and serviceable for travel and riding. These were not, however, the Fëanárioni that Nerdanel would have hoped for. They were identical in face and build, except for how each styled his dark hair. One wore his hair long, braids tight to the scalp for travel and battle like Ereinion and so many others wore, and carried twin swords on his hips. The other had cut his hair short, like the Men of their host, and bound it out of his eyes with a thin strip of dark cloth. This one carried only one sword, and a great axe upon his back. 

Ereinion searched their eyes as they approached, and knew they were watching him back. “Hail, strangers from the south,” Ereinion greeted in Sindarin with what he hoped was a friendly smile.

The pair bowed low. “Hail, High King Gil-galad,” the one with longer hair replied, voice grave. “I am Elrond Peredhel, and this is my brother, Elros. We are the sons of Eärendil of the House of Fingolfin and Elwing of the House of Elu Thingol,” and then, half a moment of hesitation, “And Maglor and Maedhros of the House of Fëanor.” Ereinion blinked, and raised his eyebrows slightly, but did not interrupt. After an expectant pause that did not resolve, Elrond continued, “We and our people,” at this, he gestured at the rows and rows of silent Fëanorians at his back, “would offer our swords in service of destroying the Enemy, if you will have us.”

“Welcome and well met, Elrond Peredhel, Elros Peredhel,” Ereinion greeted, his smile warm. “This is Nerdanel Mahtaniel, come with the forces of Aman.” The twins bowed neatly at the waist, though not before Ereinion caught a look of faint surprise on Elros’ face. “It is good news indeed that you live. We had no news, and presumed you dead or worse.”

Elros smirked. “Inauspicious beginnings do not inauspicious ends make,” he said. “We have been well cared for, never fear that. Maedhros and Maglor did all they could to raise us well, these past forty-odd years.”

“Are they here?” Nerdanel asked bluntly. Ereinion didn’t mind the interruption, though he had intended to ask in a more circumspect manner. He recognized several faces in the Fëanorian lines, guards from Himring Fingon had known, members of Fëanáro’s household, even some old acquaintances of Finwë, in ancient days. But no Maglor, no Maedhros.

Elrond shook his head, dark eyes guarded. “No, Lady Nerdanel. They have abdicated their responsibilities to the House of Fëanor in Beleriand to me, their named heir by adoption. I made the decision to come north without them.” A pause. “In truth, we knew not whether you,” a flick of his bright amber eyes to Ereinion, “would demand their deaths for the deaths they have caused. I deemed the risk too great for them.”

Ereinion shook his head immediately. “I would not, for they would not be the only slayers of kin among our hosts. We have absorbed the remnants of a few Fëanorian hosts before, and we will do so again. I would be a fool to dismiss fresh soldiers willing to join us here. Though you know your people best, and I would appreciate your assistance with utilizing them to their best effect.”

The twins both smiled, relaxing slightly. “That is well,” Elros said. “Is there some area of your camp where we might pitch our tents while you all talk? This looks too tense,” he gestured at the lines of soldiers that stood before and behind him. 

Ereinion nodded, and he began explaining the rough layout of their camp to Elros, and where the new Fëanorians could fit, thinking on the fly about the various factions and allegiances and which would be least likely to come to blows. Elrond and Nerdanel stepped away slightly, talking in quiet whispers that Ereinion studiously ignored.

And then Tyelperinquar arrived, his hair and tunic still damp from whatever efforts he had made to clean himself up.

Elrond watched Tyelperinquar approach with curious eyes. Ereinion merely smiled. “Thank you for coming,” he said with warmth once he got close enough. “Apologies for tearing you away from the forges.”

Tyelpë shook his head. “It is all right, Highness. Haruni,” he greeted his grandmother, smiling, then turned back to Ereinion. “You would not ask for me if it were not important.”

“Indeed. I thought you might like to meet our newest allies. This is Elrond Peredhel, and his brother Elros, sons of Eärendil and Elwing, Maedhros and Maglor.”

Tyelperinquar seemed to only now notice the Fëanorian stars on the heraldry of the host behind the twins. “Ah.”

Elrond flashed a grin. “Nice to meet you at last, Cousin Celebrimbor.” Tyelpë just blinked. Elrond met his gaze evenly, suddenly serious. “We know you’ve distanced yourself from the First House, but it seems right to offer to you the leadership as Head of House, being the eldest of us that are left.” 

Tyelperinquar whirled on Ereinion and hissed in Quenya, “If you knew about this, I hate you.” Ereinion just chuckled and shook his head as Tyelpë huffed and turned back to the twins, saying in Sindarin, polite as could be, “No, thank you. I left that House long ago and I intend to stay out of it, if I can.”

Ereinion only caught Nerdanel’s minuscule wince because he was looking for it.

Elros elbowed his brother, grinning, and switched to Quenya, accent thick and very much like Tyelperinquar’s, and Ereinion’s when he wasn’t paying attention. “I told you you couldn’t get out of it that easily,” he laughed. 

Elrond just shrugged. “It was worth asking.”

His twin rolled his eyes. “I’ll catch up with you later. Logistics are calling.” He bowed politely to Ereinion, then again to Nerdanel, who had been watching with amusement. “Pleasure meeting you all.” Then he was marching back to the rows of mounted soldiers. 

Ereinion turned his attention back to Elrond, and continued in Quenya. “Well, this should be fun.”

Elrond just smiled, eyes shifting from a bright amber to a deep brown. Ereinion had seen Elwing’s eyes do the same, so he knew it wasn’t a trick of the light. If there had been any doubt of the identity of the twins, that was assuaged. “We must find our joys where we can. With any luck, we will get to know each other very well indeed.”