Heavy is the Crown by Elrond's Library  

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10

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The years passed, each more difficult than the last, but Ancalagon the Black had been struck down, Thangorodrim had fallen, and Melkor captured and held until he could return to Aman. The Silmarils were in Eönwë’s custody, and Ereinion didn’t know how to feel about that yet.

It was difficult, in the final stages of a continent-spanning war, to find moments for intimacy with Tyelpë. There was always something either of them could be doing. It was one of the myriad things that if they did not carve out time, little by little, it would simply never come. 

So when the note came, hastily scrawled in Tyelpë’s messy hand, Ereinion looked with resignation at his pile of papers and the maps spread over the command tent’s table and the collection of various secretaries and commanders seated there, all working diligently. Ereinion sighed. Muttered under his breath, “Excellent timing,” then stood and swept out of the tent without a word. 

Fionkenë fell into step at his left shoulder with a murmured, “Highness,” and Ereinion nodded. 

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Ereinion said back, quiet. He held her gaze meaningfully, and she just nodded, a grin growing over her usually stern features.

“Heard and understood, Highness.”

The six that made up his guard had, in the decades spent at his side, become accustomed to saying a lot while not saying much at all. An intricate system of codes and phrases for various actions Ereinion could take, and the level of privacy he might wish for, if necessary.

All of which to say, he wouldn’t be disturbed. Fionkenë would ensure it. 

The sun was setting in the west as he ducked into his tent, leaving Fionkenë at the entrance to while away the time until her shift ended. The tent was large, larger than most for all that only three people – his valet, Cecetion, Tyelpë, and himself – regularly slept there. A hanging separated the space into two rooms. He blinked quickly, adjusting to the dimness, and found Tyelpë pouring a pail of steaming water into the simple tub in the front room. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Ereinion said, laughing quietly. He held up the note between two fingers. “ ‘Your Lord requests the privilege of your discretion at your earliest convenience?’ My Lord? And if I had been busy?”

Tyelpë smirked, and shrugged. “You would have ignored me, and I would have gotten to enjoy this hot bath all on my own, even if it meant you’d whine about missing out later.”

“I do not whine.”

“You do when it’s about getting clean,” Tyelpë retorted with fondness. “You do when I do that thing with my fingers you like—”

“Oh, fuck off, I do not whine,” Ereinion laughed, with no heat behind it at all. 

Tyelpë grinned. “Come on, before the water cools.”

Ereinion crossed the room into Tyelpë’s space, tilting his head up for a kiss. Tyelpë cupped his cheek and kissed him, his other hand working to unbuckle the straps to Ereinion’s breastplate. At this point, he lived in his armor, regardless of how far he was from the front lines, regardless of how much the fighting had died down now that Melkor was captured and impotent in their camp. Better safe than sorry. 

In short order he was sinking into the tub, barely holding back the moan of satisfaction as the heat began to soothe his tense muscles. He started to undo his braids, but Tyelpë gently tapped his hands away and took over, fingers quickly picking the braids apart, his hands sinking into Ereinion’s hair. Ereinion sighed, relaxing into the touch. 

Tyelpë kissed the crown of his head, hands trailing down his neck. “Rinse,” Tyelpë murmured, kissing Ereinion’s ear, then pulled away. “The ash of the Anfauglith makes your hair so dull.”

Ereinion nodded, then dunked his head under the water and scrubbed at his scalp until it stopped feeling quite so gritty. 

“I remember when I first saw you,” Tyelpë mused when Ereinion surfaced again, taking a comb to Ereinion’s hair. “In Nargothrond. Findaráto was showing me the practice rings, the ones on the northern spokes.” Ereinion remembered Tyelpë had been accompanied by Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, but was perversely glad they were not part of Tyelpë’s reminiscing. “You were under one of the skylights, silver hair shining brighter than Telperion, taking a nap of all things. Your hair was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

Ereinion chuckled, taking up the sponge and scrubbing the rest of himself. “In my defense, I had been working hard before I fell asleep.”

“And Findaráto, Vána bless him,” Tyelpë continued, as if Ereinion hadn’t said anything, “went really quiet for a moment, then tip-toed up to you and stole Aeglos from your hand.” Tyelpë laughed. “Ai! The way you shrieked, waking up with your own spear at your throat!”

Ereinion rolled his eyes, smiling. “As I remember, I managed to disarm him and wrestle him down into the dirt with me.”

“Sure,” Tyelpë said, and Ereinion knew he was shrugging from where he was kneeling behind him. “You apologized very prettily, though, when you both stopped laughing.”

“What else was I supposed to do? There were guests in Nargothrond’s halls.”

“We didn’t know you were his child,” Tyelpë mused. “I was so confused.”

Ereinion tilted his head back, straining to meet Tyelpë’s eyes. “It all worked out, meldanya.”

A kiss to his forehead, featherlight. “What a journey to get here, though.”

Ereinion hummed, nodded. “I’m ready to switch, if you wanted to wash?”

Tyelpë shook himself, as if a simple motion could bring himself back to the present instead of walking the paths of memory. “Yes, I did. Let me braid your hair first.” It wouldn’t take long, the single three stranded braid. Ereinion kept his hair shorter than most Eldar, falling to his mid-back as opposed to Tyelpë’s black, thigh-length tresses. 

Tyelpë washed quicker, now that the water was cooling, but Ereinion tended to Tyelpë’s hair with the same methodical care. He pressed little kisses and touches to Tyelpë’s ears, his neck, his shoulders, wherever he could reach. 

“The look on your face,” Ereinion mused, smiling, thinking of the past since his lover had brought it up, “when I proposed sharing melotorni braids.” Tyelpë groaned. “You looked like a fish, gaping with your mouth open like that. I think I could have counted all your teeth.”

“I thought you were drunk!” Tyelpë protested. “It was your hundredth Begetting day celebration.” 

Ereinion chuckled. “Hundred and third. Had to push it back because, well, everything happened.” He had spent his hundredth on the road to Barad Eithel to attend Fingon’s coronation with Finrod and Gildor and Gwindor and Edrahil and many others, the Dagor Bragollach a memory but not a distant one by any stretch of the imagination. Tyelperinquar had arrived with the refugees from Himlad only four years beforehand, but that was enough. “And in fairness to you, I was drunk. But I knew what I wanted,” another kiss, “and I’m still grateful you accepted. Grateful you’re still with me, despite everything.”

Despite the actions of their fathers. Despite the fall of Nargothrond and the Falas and abandoning Balar. Despite the pressure of the crown on Ereinion’s brow. Despite the war.

Tyelpë twisted, catching Ereinion’s next kiss on his lips. When they broke away, Tyelpë looked up at him with something heavy in his eyes. “You keep saying you won’t abandon me, Ereinion. I hope you know I won’t do so either.”

“I know,” Ereinion whispered. “I know.”

For once, he was purely on his own, with no memory to guide him. Only Finwë, of his predecessors, had had a spouse to share the burden of the crown with, but only in peacetime. The rest, kings during war, had been alone. Children, yes, which Ereinion would forever lack, but there was always an amount of honesty that a father would not share with his child, in the service of bearing hardship so that the child may not have to. It was not a lack of trust. It was merely habit, an instinct to protect. 

Tyelpë was not his spouse. They would not marry until this war was over, and even then maybe not. There might be advantages to having Tyelpë as his Prince-Consort, but Ereinion was hesitant to bind Tyelpë to the institution of the crown like that, in small part because of the politics of it all, but mostly because he was sure Tyelpë would not be happy in that position. He was determined to keep all their options as open as possible. 

But even thinking the phrase “after the war” and letting himself dream of the future, letting himself hope to face down Morgoth as the victor, had been so far fetched as to be impossible. And now that “after” was fast approaching … 

“You’re thinking too hard, aren’t you.” Tyelpë said, now out of the bath and drying himself off. “Come to bed, arimelda.”

Ereinion closed his eyes. Nodded. If there was one thing he had learned from bearing the burden of the memories of five dead kings, it was to live in the moment.

---

It was dark when Fionkenë roused them. Ereinion was awake and alert at her tentative touch, propping himself up on one elbow to meet her wide brown eyes. Tyelpë grumbled, curling his arm tighter around Ereinion’s belly to keep him close. 

“Highness,” she whispered. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Ereinion nodded, whispering back, “What is it?”

“The Lords Elrond and Elros Peredhel are outside. They say it is urgent, and they will not wait until morning.”

“Is Cecetion back?” 

“Yes, as of about an hour ago. I can send him in.”

“Do. Tell the Lords Peredhel that I’ll be there shortly.”

Fionkenë nodded, rose, and left. He could hear her voice, softly waking Cecetion in the other half of the tent, then departing. 

Ereinion tapped twice on Tyelpë’s arm. Tyelpë, sleepy and only half-awake, made a soft noise of protest but withdrew his arm. Ereinion slipped out of bed, kissed his lover’s cheek, whispered, “I love you, meldanya,” then came through to the other side of the tent. 

Cecetion was already laying out a fresh set of clothes – a plain white shirt, equally dark leggings, knitted socks, a long quilted gambeson in blue, a grey cloak with a deep hood. The crown. He looked up as Ereinion entered. “Will Lord Tyelperinquar not be joining?” he asked quietly.

“He’s asleep,” Ereinion murmured back, just as quiet. The camp around them was never truly silent, but in this space, this sanctuary, it was as quiet as it could get. He slipped the shirt over his head, and pulled on the leggings. “He’ll appreciate the rest.”

Cecetion nodded. “Shall I help with your hair?”

Which was a polite way of noticing that Tyelpë had ruined it. Ereinion nodded. “If you would.”

They worked together, Ereinion braiding Tyelpë’s melotorno braid under his right ear with the ease of habit, while Cecetion wove the first of three braids close to his scalp. Warriors braids for a wartime king.

He wondered, Cecetion’s fingers tugging his hair into order, what Elrond and Elros could want from him. And so late at night, too. The young lords were able commanders, ruthlessly polite, and never asked for special treatment despite being connected to most of the major noble and all the royal Houses of both Eldar and Atani in Beleriand. They were determined, and fair, and took their duties seriously.

The twins were chatting amicably with Fionkenë, stances relaxed and open, but when Ereinion stepped out of his tent and into the cool evening air, they stiffened and stood up a little straighter. In the eerie synchronicity they shared, they knelt as one, on one knee with their heads bowed low, holding the position. Ereinion blinked; he was used to them being a little more casual with him, as most were who were welcome in the command tents.

“Rise, Lords Peredhil,” he said, laying his hands on their stiff shoulders. “Surely whatever this is does not require such formality.”

Elrond spoke, voice smooth despite the hint of nerves Ereinion could hear. “High King Gil-galad, we would have you hear a petition on behalf of the House of Fëanor.” He paused, and when Ereinion held his eyes and did not respond, he continued. “Maedhros and Maglor would ask for a private audience.”

Ereinion took a deep breath, casting his eyes up to the sky. Eärendil’s ship hung overhead, bright and low. “I think I see why you did not want to wait for morning,” he said on the exhale. “They’re here?”

“Aye, Highness,” Elros said. “In Elrond’s tent.”

Ereinion raised an eyebrow at Elrond, who met his eyes impassively. They were green today, deep as an emerald in the lamplight. “Have you informed Nerdanel yet?”

Elrond shook his head. “They arrived after dusk. Elros will fetch her before dawn.” He shrugged. “They did not wish to disturb her rest.”

But they would disturb his, which meant this was not just a social visit. Ereinion hummed. “This is about the Silmarils.” He said, not a question.

Elrond nodded.

Ereinion considered them both. “You know them best as they are now. What solution would you have me propose?”

They glanced at each other, ósanwë flashing between them. “We believe,” Elros said slowly, “the Oath would be fulfilled if they could lay hands on them all. But we also think you could demand them to give them up again, after the Oath is fulfilled, so Eärendil could continue his appointed purpose,” he gestured at the sky. “And satisfy Eönwë’s desire to bring them back to Valinor.”

“You think they’ll accept that?” Ereinion frowned, sorting through Fëanor’s memories for the exact wording of their Oath. “If it even works. The duration clause is ... expansive.” He switched to Quenya. “‘Death we will deal him ere Day’s ending, woe unto world’s end’ and all that.”

Elrond tilted his head slightly, birdlike. “Should we be worried that you know what their Oath entails?”

Ereinion laughed through his nose. “Worried, no.” If the Fëanárioni hadn’t told them, Ereinion was sure they’d know before daybreak. “They’re not the only ones bound by Oaths to Eru; I know exactly how heavily they can weigh on the fëa.” Elrond’s eyes flicked up to the mithril circlet on Ereinion’s brow as Ereinion gave them a weary smile, a little self-deprecating. “Let’s see what they have to say for themselves, then.”

---

When the obeisances and introductions were done, weapons pointedly left near the entrance, and the five of them sitting on every available surface – except Elros who merely shrugged and sat on the ground at Elrond’s feet – Ereinion considered the pair of Fëanárioni.

Fingon had been the last of Ereinion’s predecessors to see Maedhros and Maglor, in the lead-up to what would become the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Both had been fit and healthy then, hope in their eyes and determination in every step.

They had both lost weight, not unsurprising, and the shadows under their eyes and their demeanor betrayed their exhaustion. Maglor had gained a few new scars, his raven-dark hair braided simply. Maedhros had gained a few new silver streaks in his own short-cropped russet hair – if there were new scars, they had joined the legions of others from his time in Angband. They both sat on Elrond’s cot, watching Ereinion with impassive gazes. 

Ereinion broke the silence, letting his Quenya take on Fëanor and Finwë’s thick accent and diction. “Do you have a preference for the language we use here?”

Maglor blinked, startled, but Maedhros only smiled slightly and responded in kind, “Not at all, Ñoldóran.”

Ereinion nodded. “The Head of the House of Ñoldóran-Emeritus Fëanáro has presented a formal petition on your behalf to myself as High King of the Noldor of Valariandë,” he said, keeping his expression neutral, a politician’s mask. “I would hear your petition, Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, and if it within my power, do what I can to find a solution.”

“We thank you, Ñoldóran, for being willing to hear our petition,” Maedhros said, bowing his head briefly. “And apologize for the late hour.”

“Forgiven,” Ereinion said easily, shrugging with one shoulder. He kept his hands loose in his lap, open and relaxed, nonthreatening, attentive. “We’re all aware the business of the Ñoldóran is constant, I’m sure.”

Maglor huffed a laugh, looking rueful. “Very aware, Ñoldóran,” he murmured, his voice still half a song as it was in his youth. “Even so, we appreciate it.”

“There is rumor,” Maedhros said, shooting Maglor a look. “That the Silmarilli are somewhere in this camp.”

Ereinion let the silence build. He would make Maedhros say it, spell out exactly what he wanted and what he meant to do about it. 

Maedhros nodded sharply. “We understand the situation is complex, with the forces from Aman here. But our Oath demands a solution, in peace or through violence. We have tried to forswear the thing, but alas,” a shrug, arms held out slightly in a gesture of resignation, as if asking for understanding, “the Allfather does not lightly let go of those bound to Them.”

Ereinion considered the pair. “I’m very aware of the terms of your Oath,” he said simply. 

Maedhros hummed. “So you have seen it.”

Ereinion dropped Fëanor’s voice. “What, you thought I spoke like this naturally?”

Maglor laughed, bell-like. Even Maedhros smirked. “Not at all. A clever parlor trick, Nolofinwë used to say.”

Ereinion sighed. “Indeed, one he only pulled on Fëanáro’s sons, and on Findekáno only the once to scare him after that stunt he pulled during the Dagor Aglareb.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “A Nolofinwean sense of humor that could only be gained by surviving the Helcaraxë, it seems.”

“What are we missing?” Elros muttered from where he was seated at Elrond’s feet. 

“I told you the crown was cursed,” Maglor said. “Did you think I meant that as a metaphor?”

“To be fair, Atya, you live and breathe metaphor, simile, and alliterative verse like you do air,” Elros retorted. 

“Woe on the poet, to be forever misunderstood!” Maglor slumped dramatically. “In this instance, I did mean it literally.”

Elrond turned a thoughtful eye to Ereinion. “All of them?”

Ereinion nodded. “From the day Finwë was crowned by Manwë Súlimo to when Turukáno unkinged himself and gave it to Itarillë Tyeleptalëa for safekeeping.”

“And before Maedhros abdicated?”

“I never swore that Oath,” Maedhros said as Ereinion shook his head. “Didn’t have time, before, and then after, well. I abdicated as soon as I was able.”

“I see,” Elrond murmured, and smiled. His eyes shifted color as Ereinion watched him, green to blue to golden, going distant. “It will end with you, the last whose realm is fair and free between the mountains and the Sea.”

Ereinion stared. Everyone was staring at Elrond. 

He blinked, coming back to himself. “Apologies,” he muttered. Elros just reached up and captured Elrond’s hand, squeezing it. 

“No need to apologize,” Ereinion said. “Saves me the effort of trying to convince you to be my heir, if my brother cannot be found in the East.”

Now everyone was staring at Ereinion.

“We are very off topic,” Ereinion stated, refusing to explain himself. “And I’m sure you both have spent the last five centuries attempting to puzzle out a solution to the predicament Fëanáro set for us. I have all of Nolofinwë and Findekáno’s thoughts about it, and my own. And given that violence has historically been on the table – and seems to still be an option you two are considering, despite how well that’s gone in the past – I’d like to think that if we work together, a more peaceful solution can be found.”

“Yes, Ñoldóran,” Maglor nodded, leaning forward. Maedhros’s eyes tightened. Ereinion suddenly understood – it had been Maglor’s idea to come here, like thieves in the night, to sue for peace. Maedhros did not think it was possible; he was indulging Maglor.

Ereinion was willing to try to prove Maedhros wrong. “Now, your sons have proposed a solution …”