Ereinion Rising by dalliansss  

It is a starless night at the Forest of Brethil, and a thick silence lay over the settlement of the Haladin. It had been a tense few days ever since the local healer had made the declaration that the chieftain, Lady Haleth, was nearing the end of her life, and that she would very likely not see the coming winter. Ereinion, her only peredhel son, had stayed with her tirelessly ever since that spring morning she had found it impossible to get up.

Haldan, Ereinion’s cousin, had temporarily moved into Haleth and Ereinion’s homestead with his family to help around. His wife and children minded the chores, so Haldan and Ereinion could take turns taking care of Haleth. Just the other day, the wisewoman of the Haladin had come over and gave Haleth the customary Last Prayers.

Ereinion had not slept for days. He stayed by his mother’s side, religiously, almost fanatically, wiping her down, changing her clothes, using his strength to turn her over so he could clean the festering sores that had sprouted down her back and the backs of her legs. Haldan helped him, and Haldan’s wife prepared herbal solutions to clean out the sores. The children were sometimes sent to fetch this and that.

But tonight, that starless night, Ereinion knew as surely as he knew the beat of his heart that his mother would not make it through the morning.

He holds her gnarled, worn hands and presses them to his face. Crystalline tears have been flowing from his eyes non-stop, and feels as if he is being torn apart as he sits there by her bedside. The years had not been kind to Haleth. She had aged and grown weak, her hands and fingers losing their strength to tremors, while Ereinion remained perpetually under the light of spring. He had stopped aging a long time ago, Ereinion. And to the Haladin he was both a spectacle and a quiet touch of horror – his elven lineage showing itself at last and manifesting itself in half cruelty against the scrutiny of the residents of the settlement. 

It is at midnight that Haleth goes. A quiet, rattling intake of breath– and Ereinion feels her depart her shell of a body, her spirit leaving for wherever it is that the Edain go when they die. A fresh wave of tears escapes Ereinion’s stormcloud gray eyes, and he weeps over his mother’s yet-warm corpse, the sound of his grief waking his cousin and his wife.

By morning, Haleth’s body had been washed clean and wrapped in a white shroud. Ereinion had refused the women who would have done the task, taking on the work himself– cleaning his mother’s body, combing her grayed-out hair, putting her into her best purple dress with the gold hems. He even put her earrings on for her, and he and Haldan put her on the bier, where the white shroud was finally spread out to cover her. 

By midday, Ereinion, Haldan and four other men shouldered Haleth upon her bier toward the mound that she had prepared years prior for her own funeral. It is Ereinion and Haldan who put her body into the mound, and it is Ereinion who seals the mound closed as the mourning songs of the Haladin rise to the air around everybody there present, like smoke.

==

Ereinion reads the words upon the yellowed parchment for the nth time. The letters are Tengwar, the script elegant, and within the four pages of that ancient letter he rereads Caranthir Lord of Thargelion’s words: words that explain who he is, and how Ereinion came to be – from Caranthir and Haleth’s unexpected and brief love affair, when she and the Haladin had stayed at Thargelion. The words recount the birth Ereinion cannot remember; that he had been born at Rerir Castle with Caranthir present, and that, as the days went by after his birth, his parents had sat down and discussed many things, and came to a decision.

Ereinion never knew what his father looked like. All he has are descriptions from Haleth, and the indisputable knowledge that he had inherited Caranthir’s auburn hair, the splash of freckles across his nose, and his stormcloud gray eyes. Everything else was Haleth’s: the shape of his face, his hands. The rounded ears of an Adan, not the pointed ears of an Elf. Those ears that gave Ereinion a very difficult childhood here at the Forest of Brethil, which the other children used to accuse his mother of lying and to invalidate Ereinion’s own parentage. He had grown up believing his father was an ordinary elven bannerman, at least until he turned eighteen and Haleth deemed it was time to let him know the truth.

Haleth had given him an ornate, lacquered chest that could buy out the entire settlement of the Haladin. Inside was the letter, some gold and precious stones. An inheritance. Enough to sustain him for a few years, if peace could be had for a long time in Beleriand. The contents of the chest could buy him a good, big farmland and let him erect a manor thereat, and still have change to spare. Alongside the chest, too, Haleth had given him a magnificent spear of unmistakable elven craft, made from mithril and steel. Aeglos was the name of the spear, so Caranthir’s letter explained, commissioned from his own brother Curufin, Ereinion’s uncle. In the letter, Caranthir wrote down his hope that Ereinion would learn to wield Aeglos, to defend and keep himself safe.

==

A month after Haleth’s death, Ereinion sits down to write a will. He grants his mother’s homestead to his cousin Haldan’s children. The well-kept furniture there he distributes among them equally as well. What precious stones and coins Haleth had, he will give also to his cousin’s family. 

By now, Haldan had rightfully taken his place as chieftain of the Haladin. By right, of course, the chieftaincy should have gone to him, Haleth’s son, but Haleth had raised him not to expect the chieftaincy, saying that something else was waiting for him beyond the Forest of Brethil. And, after Ereinion was old enough to read his father’s letter, he understood what his mother meant.

“But what do you mean you’re giving us Aunt Haleth’s homestead?” Haldan asks during the rainy afternoon that they sit down after a day’s work, first by the farms, and next patrolling their borders. “This is your house. This is your home.” Haldan looks stricken. 

Ereinion cups his hand over his cousin’s own. “I cannot stay here in Brethil forever. Look at me. I have not aged for a long time, looking perpetually twenty-six. I have no place here anymore.”

“We’re your family!” Haldan cries out. “We are still here! And when Mara and I are gone– your nephew and niece will still be here. Their children will still be here. Our entire family is here, you cannot do this.”

“But it is done,” Ereinion says gently, and as he watches Haldan by the light of the lamp, he sees even now the wrinkles that dig subtler but deeper gouges on his cousin’s face. He sees the same ravages of Time already at work, irreversible, like how he had seen it slowly creep up on Haleth and spring its gentle trap. And Ereinion knows, for his own sanity, that his time in Brethil is over. It had been over the moment Time stopped touching him. 

Haldan pulls his cousin into a hug. He sobs into Ereinion’s auburn hair– he, this tall and strong Adan, weeping like a child. Ereinion cannot help but weep too, as he clings to his cousin. That loved, familiar presence. Already ending the moment it had begun. 

“Everything I leave here when I go, goes to you and yours,” he says. “Do not make it harder than it is for me, Haldan. I pray you.”

Haldan scrubs the tears from his eyes with a fist. Ereinion looks at him, committing everything of him to elven memory that does not fade.

==

He leaves Brethil on a moonless night. No ceremony. No farewells, except to Haldan and his family. Ereinion packed everything of value to him in a mountain pack which he then carried on his own shoulders and back, and using Aeglos as a walking stick, he leaves Brethil for the last time, taking a southern path. He is alone, and the road ahead is dangerous, he knows. He has never ventured out of Brethil before this. Brethil had sheltered him, and it is there he lived out his childhood and youth. But now, everything that made Brethil home had gone. 

The journey is long, and tiring. He travels by daylight, staying close to roads but not too close, and always within reach of the mighty river Sirion. Once the sun begins to set, Ereinion does his best to look for a safe camp, never risking too big a campfire. If he is lucky and there are trees to be had, he camps up, up at their strong branches. 

~*

He is twelve when he falls ill.

Haleth had assumed it had been an unlucky picking of mushrooms, as Ereinion had then only complained of stomach pains, and he had gone to the toilet more times than usual. She boiled leaves and made him drink the resulting tea – and this remedy had been trusted by the Edain even before their great houses had migrated westward, seeking better lives. 

However, on the third day, Ereinion’s fever still had not broken, and worse, angry red rashes had started appearing everywhere on his lanky, skinny body. Haleth had been terrified, and she summoned all the wisemen and wisewomen of the Haladin. More herbs and leaves were boiled, and also certain tree barks. Ereinion was in delirium. One of the wisemen whispered that it was time for the Last Prayers, and Haleth had beaten him black and blue out of her homestead with his own walking stick. 

Ereinion lingered in uncertainty until the eighth day, when finally the fever broke, and his eyes cleared, and he began recognizing his mother, his uncle, and his cousin again. And then, he started asking for food. The rashes had mysteriously vanished as they had come and left no scars. 

Haleth had pegged the illness to the evil vapors coming from the north. It is not until years later that she understands that the illness may have been a turning point, because once Ereinion hit twenty-six, it seems as if the world had forgotten him at that age and moved on without him. He had stopped changing, and Haleth knew that her only son was not for her, not for the Edain, but for the Eldar.

~*

At the Mouths of Sirion, there is a hidden port and a small, cleverly concealed town there. Refugees move around to and from Sirion in absolute stealth and secrecy, supervised by the elves of the Falas under the command of Cirdan the Great Mariner. At first, they thought Ereinion was simply an Adan looking for safety, and he was quickly granted passage to the main encampment of the refugees upon the Isle of Balar. 

It is half a day’s sailing from the Mouths to the main settlement at Balar using the small, stealthy boats dispatched from the Mouths. Ereinion left for Balar on an overcast, gray morning, and found himself upon an island teeming with life. Elves of various kindred: Noldor, Avari, Sindar and green elves – all crammed hodge-podge upon this island, doing their utmost to make a peaceful life as well as they are all able, despite the encroaching darkness from the North. 

Ereinion takes his time exploring the quayside, looking at the boats, eventually making his way to the town to look around properly. He discovers many establishments: shops, workshops, smithies, trading houses. But the main driving force of the livelihood of the elves here come from the sea, and though Ereinion knows how to use Aeglos to spear fish from streams and rivers, he knows that he has to learn how to use a net properly and sail a boat. 

==

He looks for Cirdan two days after his arrival at Balar. The Great Mariner is at his shipyard, overseeing some apprentices currently engaged in the building of a bigger fishing boat. Ereinion takes a moment to watch the elves at their labor, nobody looking at him twice except to spare him a courteous greeting, which he returns. Cirdan sees him lingering by the door, and he invites him to his office.

Ereinion sits on a chair and Cirdan takes his place behind his desk. Upon the desk is a map of the continent and the Sundering Sea, and for a moment Ereinion is distracted, looking at the maps and the navigation tools weighing the paper down. 

“What can I do for you?” Cirdan asks. 

He hesitates. He removes the ugly gray hat from his head, exposing his dark auburn hair, presently pinned up in a bun. He wrings the hat briefly between his hands before he meets Cirdan’s gaze. 

“I wonder if one such as I would be welcome here,” Ereinion begins. 

If Cirdan finds the words strange, he hides his thoughts extremely well. Now, he looks at Ereinion properly. He notices, like many others before him, that Ereinion’s ears are rounded and not pointed, and yet, when one deigns to look into those stormcloud eyes, one could see the spark of the Eldar lingering in those dark irises. Cirdan understands the question now. Indeed: one such as he. 

“Why would you not be welcome here among us?” Cirdan chooses to answer with a question. “So long as you come only to seek peace, and value honest work, I do not see why Balar cannot be a new home for you. Judging by your traveling cloak, you have come from a long road.”

Ereinion too, looks to this older elf. He sees a reflection of starlight in Cirdan’s eyes, and the depth of wisdom hiding there. And yet he wonders… suddenly he is conscious of the ancient letter deep within the layers of his clothes, nestled close to his heart, like a lucky charm. 

“My circumstances are complicated,” Ereinion answers. “I…”

He takes out the folded parchment, and offers it to Cirdan. Cirdan blinks in bemusement, but he accepts the letter, and unfolds it. He reads it in silence. Ereinion does not dare to break the silence, choosing to sit in tense quiet, his hands squeezing the gray hat his mother had made for him a lifetime ago.

Cirdan reads each page. Then, when he has perused everything, he folds up the letter again, and sets it upon the map between them. 

“That is quite the history you have there, mellon,” Cirdan begins, his tone kind. “I stand by my answer. There is no reason not to welcome you here at Balar. However, I should remind you to exercise caution about your identity and your roots. There are many here who will not look kindly to a scion of Feanor.”

“I know,” Ereinion says. He drops his gaze onto his hands, and the hat he has been clutching like some lifeline. “I have no intention of making it known, my– my family. My mother has died, and– I have no place left at Brethil, among her people. Perhaps here, with my father’s kindred, I… I am older than I look. I mean. I look like this, but I– I am older.”

Cirdan nods with all the patience and understanding of his long years. “You are welcome here to join us. What shall I call you, mellon?”

Ereinion thinks about it. The name he has known forever– Scion of Kings. It has no place here, if he is trying his hardest to be anonymous. Then…

“You may call me Artanaro.”

==

He stays true to his own promise, Ereinion. He takes up a living as a fisher-elf, finding honest and quiet work among the ports of Balar and the Mouths of Sirion. He learns how to man and sail a boat, how to use a net to catch fish, and how best to haul the multitude of a catch after the period of waiting is over. Sometimes, he does not head out to sea, and instead goes by the mud flats by the Mouths, feeling around for mud crabs with his bare toes before he uses Aeglos to poke them out of hiding, then crouching down and moving quickly to tie up the crabs and then picking them up to toss them into the basket he wears by his back. 

He makes a couple of friends, the most notable of whom are Nemirion and Eredhon, two Sindar who man a fishing boat with him. Life is…slower here, at Balar, where everyone around him is as long-lived as he is. 

It is also at Balar that Ereinion has his first serious brush with love, with an elleth named Aistalle. Their courtship lasted for some years, witnessed by stars and the sea, yet in the end did not ripen into an engagement. They both fell out of love gently, akin to the ebbing of the tide, and they parted amicably and remained friends. Aistalle eventually marries someone else. 

Ereinion keeps his head down even as the news from the mainland becomes graver with each year, until the very air is choked with unseen tension and Cirdan is gone from Balar for days, risking himself back to the Mouths and returning with boats full of fleeing elves. Soon, even the street where Ereinion built his house at, is crowded with new homes and the streets have new faces. 

==

The High Kingship comes to him on what had been an ordinary day. Ereinion had tried his utmost to refuse it, to think of any and all loopholes to come to mind, but the crown of the High King of the Noldor remained stubbornly on his path, immovable by any force. It is with great reluctance that he accepts his calling, and he is crowned with little ceremony and no pomp at all, at his insistence. It is here that Cirdan truly becomes his friend, guiding him through the doubtful early years of his reign. He had learned leadership before, in Brethil, growing up with Haleth as the chieftain of the Haladin, but now, to be responsible for the elves on Balar and at the Mouths who would obey him– it is another matter entirely, and even all his years in Brethil cannot prepare him for everything. 

Once more, he uses his name Ereinion, the name given to him by his mother.

==

He taught Earendil how to catch mud crabs, and when Earendil had grown and had children of his own, Ereinion taught the very young Elros and Elrond how to catch mud crabs as well. Only Elros showed enthusiasm for the lessons, following after him at the mud flats, feeling for crabs with his toes, while Elrond watched them from a safe distance. They were very kind children, taking after their equally kind and warm father. Elros was the elder and more assertive of the two, prone to a burst of temper and mean words whenever he is angered or hurt, while Elrond is the more contemplative and kinder of the two.

==

Ereinion is away at Balar when the Third Kinslaying happens. The elves of the havens are stretched thin, and many know the horror of facing the bloodthirsty Noldor led by the Sons of Feanor. Still, as King, Ereinion mustered what help he could, and with Cirdan they sailed to the Mouths hoping to rescue as many as they could. 

The town was razed to the ground. Bodies floated by the quayside and even drifted out to sea, and the water red with their blood. Ereinion urged his ship toward land, and he looked in vain for Elros and Elrond, but he never found them. Elwing and the Silmaril had vanished as well.

Ereinion stayed and helped give the bodies what honorable burial could be spared. He did not discriminate, may they be Sindar or Nargothrondrim or Gondolindrim or Feanorian. Every dead he ordered buried with dignity. 

He has nightmares of the dead bodies floating out to sea for some weeks. For the first time, he understood deeply why Caranthir sent him away to be raised by his mother among her folk.

Such wanton death, and hate, and anger.

==

When the War of Wrath comes, Ereinion and Cirdan are among the war council summoned by Eonwe. They sit with the commanders of the Forces of the West, but Ereinion never makes any further introduction of himself, save that he is recognized as High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth. He gives proper deference to Paramount Prince Ingwe of the Vanyar and High King Arafinwe of the Noldor in Valinor. Arafinwe – Finarfin on these shores – he never looks straight in the eyes as far as he could help it. 

==

Ereinion is among the elves that surround Maedhros and Maglor when their thievery of the Silmaril becomes known. But, as always, he hangs back, and from the fringes of the crowd he sees them – his father’s brothers, worn by years of struggle and grief, prepared to die by the blades of the Host of the West. 

He says naught, even when Eonwe lets Maedhros and Maglor go. He watches them go. He wonders, briefly, that if there had been a chance– a proper chance to make himself known to them – would they have recognized him? Haleth had always said he looked after his father more. But maybe they would not have recognized him, nor believed he is who he says he is. Maedhros and Maglor were too far gone. 

==

The fat, calico cat purrs loudly as she kneads biscuits onto Ereinion’s lap. It is a bright summer afternoon in Lindon, and there is a high wind blowing in across the sea from the west. The high windows of his palace here are open, and Ereinion can taste the salt in the air. 

He pets the cat with his beringed right hand. The cat purrs even more. He has four more cats with him in his private study: a ginger tabby is asleep on the couch yonder; a black cat is curled up on the carpet. A white one with a little stub of a black tail is asleep by his book shelf. A gray tabby is presently grooming itself atop some pile of books. 

Ereinion leans back on his high-backed chair. He has the beginnings of a mild headache, but it is to be expected– he spent all morning working on the monstrous pile of petitions Elrond left for him yesterday. He endeavored to finish them all today. There is one important matter left here, which he decides he can put off tomorrow: the petition of his cousin Curufinwe Telperinquar to move east to a realm called Eregion, following after Galadriel and Celeborn, who relocated there a year prior.

The High King sighs to himself. The calico cat finally has had enough of affection, and leaves his lap. It trots off to join the black cat on the carpet, curling up beside it under a patch of sunlight.

A knock on the door distracts Ereinion from contemplating the cats. He straightens up in his chair just as Elrond enters the room, bearing a tray of tea things and snacks. 

“I thought you might be hungry,” Elrond says. He places the tray on another table. “The kitchens baked some honey cakes.”

“Mmm,” Ereinion hums. 

“I have also received news that we might be receiving a guest from Numenor within the week,” Elrond continues as he readies the tea.

“Numenor?” Ereinion repeats.
“Yes,” Elrond says. He serves his king the tea first. 

“Interesting,” Ereinion says. “It has been years since the Edain were helped to migrate there.”

Elrond nods. He pours himself a cup now, slices some honey cake, and sits by one of the chairs just across Ereinion’s own. 

“Is it a descendant of Elros, then?” Ereinion asks him.

“Maybe,” Elrond replies. 

The High King takes up his fork and gets one chunk of honey cake. He eats. 

“It should be interesting, then.”

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