here we go again by lonelyvisitor  

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i've heard about you before

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Fresh off the last ferry for the week from Alqualondë, Finduilas Faelivrin navigated the harborside bustle by bearing toward the tallest Elf she could see.

Gil-galad could not be reliably identified by hair-color. It had been pitch-black when he was a baby, lightened by his adolescence to a strawish blonde that could, at times, seem reddish — and now that he was a large and full-grown former High King it seemed to alternate seasonally between dark and fair. Or even depending on the angle of the Sun, which was equatorially punishing on Ellairë, scruffy old goat-hillock that it had been before their father (for reasons inexplicable) determined to pass his re-embodiment warding vacationers who’d made a wrong turn on their way to the Enchanted Isles.

Today her little brother’s wavy locks were the rich if nondescript brown depicted in most of his official portraiture — though blonde highlights were discernible as Arien shone upon his deep bronze skin.

“He’s an Arafinwëan after all!” Finduilas cried as he barreled toward her. “Gwindor, dearheart, do keep up.”

A pace behind, her husband shifted his grip on the valises and shoved sun-spectacles into his silvered hair. “Rodnor!”

“Dearest sister!” Gil-galad lifted Finduilas by the waist and twirled her about, then did the same to Gwindor and the valises. “Doughtiest brother-in-law! A pleasant voyage, I trust?”

“It doubled as a fishing trip.” Finduilas sloshed a netful of mackerel into the hold of the mule-drawn cart, while her brother shouldered up the luggage. “Assumed—rightfully?—Ada hasn’t adequate provisions. How’s he? Going absolutely insane?”

“Oh yes.” Gil-galad laughed and took up the reins. “I’m making sure of that. Get in, get in!”

Finduilas fanned herself at her brother’s side while Gwindor bumped along in the back. The road up to the guest-house was mercifully lined with oak and wild olive-trees, cool and fragrant, and after an eventful voyage the former Princess of Nargothrond relaxed and remembered the eccentric beauty of her father’s new domain. A bit roughshod, it all was—

Orodreth had fared uneasily enough running a kingdom, and with an inn he was not much better—but the natural charm of the landscape would lend a fine backdrop for the wedding.

Gil-galad, a bridegroom! It was nearly unthinkable; the man had been unwed four millennia in Middle-earth. What changed? Of course Finduilas knew it was more a matter of who had sailed to Valinor at the turn of the Age.

“So when will we meet your Elrond?” Finduilas asked. “We do adore Celebrían, and she alone would have been a marvelous choice—and a cousin, no less—but to hear the talk, this half-Elf is the second coming of Lúthien and Eärendil combined.”

“Isn’t he just that?” piped up Gwindor. “Genetically, one supposes?”

“Indeed.” Gil-galad made a wistful face. “Introductions have been long-delayed, sister mine. They will certainly be made before dinner; I think Elrond’s having a final gown-fitting at the moment. But first I must confide in you something, which you absolutely cannot tell Ada—”

###

Earlier that day, one of Fingolfin’s finest stallions had been spotted speeding down the road from Tirion to the Sea.

Halfway through the journey the horse’s rider noticed a shadow cast down onto the rolling plains through which he passed. A great eagle soared the skies above—Manwë sending a messenger, of course, to bless his favored son’s reunion with his scion.

Fingon laughed at the lovely portent and urged along his steed.

Yet when he arrived at the rundown quay that promised passage to the Island of Ellairë, his feathered friend had beaten him there. Having descended from the skies this proved not to be an eagle at all, but an Elf wearing mechanical wings—a second cousin, as was statistically likely.

“Celebrimbor?” Fingon squinted as his horse turned back toward Tirion. “You’re going to Ellairë?”

“Hullo. And I don’t think either of us is.” Celebrimbor was wearing goggles; he rucked off the straps that secured his aluminum feathers to his arms. “Seems we’ve missed the boat.”

This was kind of him to say, for Fingon supposed he might have continued flying. Just as Celebrimbor had observed, a rather overburdened vessel could be seen on the water, receding from view toward the eastern horizon.

“Next ferry will be here before you know it,” called an old Teler fishing from the end of the pier. “Won’t be but a week, I should think.”

“We haven’t got that kind of time!” Fingon had begun stripping off his riding-clothes, and forgotten completely about Celebrimbor’s wings. “Fancy a swim, cousin?”

“Fancy a lift?”

This mellifluous offer came from a sloop that had appeared around the curve of the cove. Its mainsail bore the unmistakable insignia of snake devouring snake, and casting off a mooring its golden captain nimbly trod ashore across the rope.

“Finrod!” Celebrimbor smiled and embraced him.

Fingon could not repress his vexation. “You’re going to Ellairë too?”

Finrod’s bow betrayed no reaction to this abrupt greeting. “I am an honored uncle of the betrothed—two of them.”

“But the invitation—”

Immediate family only, Fingon was recalling, unsure if uncle or great-uncle truly qualified.

“Was strangely delayed, didn’t you find?” Finrod held out a hand. “Welcome aboard, cousins.”

###

“I’m sorry, but you’ve done what?”

In his good nature Gil-galad had carried his sister’s luggage upstairs to the family suite, and now extended it to explain himself for the third or fourth time.

“I have invited my three potential sires to the wedding! Elrond’s got both his parents here, and even Celeborn’s sailed from across the Sea now, so Celebrían will have hers—”

Not this again, thought Finduilas: the issue of Gil-galad’s blood parentage had been tedious in the First Age, and only grown more so in the Fourth.

“Rodnor, you’ve got two fathers already, and Ada and Lord Círdan will both be there. Bit greedy, isn’t it, to insist on a third?”

“Perhaps it is.” Gil-galad sighed. “But I’ve wondered all my life, and now I’ve got significant documentation—”

“Pengolodh found more notes in his rubbish can, then?”

“This is in Ada’s own hand, Finduilas! Apologies, Gwindor.” Striding toward the bookshelves he’d nearly knocked over a potted palm that turned out to be his brother-in-law; one often forgot he was there, in moments of high feeling. “Look.”

Gil-galad flipped open the diary and read:

“‘Year 472, First Age of the Sun. Among the survivors of the Nirnaeth is an infant child that has come into my care, brought to Nargothrond in Nolofinwëan livery, and yet by guardians sworn to silence on his exact provenance—’”

“The oldest rumor there is.” Finduilas was serving herself a large portion of wine. “And knowing Ada he started it himself entirely by accident. Which of course must have been the Nolofinwëan intent, to plant an heir where there was none—and their lot so prone to dying off mid-kingship. But livery does not paternity make! Be glad you were raised in the wiser house, an Arafinwëan—or at least that Ada managed to scrape together wisdom enough to send you away before...everything.” She gestured grimly with her glass. “Poor Fingon, though, he’s been trying to lay claim to you for years...”

“Well, I’ve never spent more than a passing moment with the man—the longing stares have made me uncomfy—but I think it’s time I gave him his chance. Listen, though, it gets more interesting:

“Year 480. Gil-galad has grown into a winsome, kindhearted, undeniably golden-haired lad who charms all in his path. Not a few have said that my son returns to these halls the spirit of our fallen king. I too cannot help but see something of Finrod in him—it is uncanny, for my uncle perished in the pit of Tol-in-Gaurhoth seven years before the boy’s presumed birth. It is said that the fëa of one who wishes to return to the world in haste may come in the form of a newborn child. Yet it is said also that the Enemy takes many shapes—that gold-gleaming Gorthaur before whom Finrod fell in song is the master of shifting form, both his own and that of Elves bred in the pit of Angband, their bodies made crucible for horrors unspeakable. Gwindor has related this, from observations during his own captivity—”

“Beloved!” Finduilas barked a laugh towards her husband, who had now draped himself over a windowsill out of the path of Gil-galad’s pacing. “Did you insinuate to Ada that Rodnor might be the spawn of Great-uncle Finrod and the Dark Lord Sauron?” Gwindor shrugged into his wineglass, and she tsked. “Always getting in the middle of things. You believe this, brother? You are aware that Sauron killed you.”

“Viscerally, sister, and until one theory outweighs the other I believe it just as much the next —listen:

“Year 487. Celebrimbor is so wonderful with Gil-galad. He’s made him a blunted blade set with sapphire, for the boy is as enamored of our Mormegil as his sister—” he winced with apology toward his present company, giving Finduilas the opportunity to roll her eyes and Gwindor to stare vacantly toward the sea—“and fancies himself a great warrior-to-be. The good smith has taken measurements for his first suit of mail and armor, and now G.-g. follows him each morning to the forge, absorbed in his own gift’s construction, and the two of them emerge at the end of the day soot-caked and happy as beetles in bat-guano, kindred spirits they are—oh, if only Tyelpe knew...!”

Finduilas frowned. “Knew what?”

“Well, it does end like that—if only Tyelpe knew, dot dot dot, exclamation point.” Gil-galad snapped the book shut. “But presumably that he’s also one of my potential fathers!”

“I believe that was referring to you both being covered in batshit, or whatever was the phrasing. How in Arda could Celebrimbor be your father?”

“Orodreth always did hold a candle for Curufin’s son,” mused Gwindor. “Erotic overwhelm could be the cause for the ellipsis.”

“Oh, he’s always held a candle for anyone capable, why do you think he went for my mother —Ada dearest!” Finduilas smiled at the disheveled whir of white-blonde who had presently come rushing into the room. “We were just speaking of you.”

Gil-galad clasped the diary behind his back. “Were we? I don’t think so.”

“Linens,” said Orodreth in horror, searching a creaking wardrobe. “I haven’t enough linens. Finduilas, thank the Valar you’re here, there’s been an emergency with candlesticks as well— oh.” He spun around, sighing, and wrangled his children into a teary embrace. “My little ones. Stop growing, would you?”

Finduilas patted his back. “There, there, Orodreth—we are Elves, so I should hope that’s the case. Now what’s the trouble with the candles?”

“Rodnor.” Gwindor spoke from the window, a pigeon alight on his forefinger. “Bird for you.”

“Everything.” Orodreth drew his palms down his daughter’s face while his son extracted himself to take the message. “Everything’s the trouble, as usual, this place is falling apart around me—but my children are home, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

Except by the time he glanced up, quite sentimentally, Gil-galad had managed to disappear. 

###

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Chapter End Notes

If you're keeping track, Fingon is Harry (gay), Celebrimbor is Sam (divorced, the romantic interest of the picture), Finrod is Bill (played by Stellan Skarsgård).

Rodnor is the Sindarinization of Gil-galad's Quenya name, Artanáro. Mormegil ("Black Sword") refers to Túrin, during his time in Nargothrond.

Do not expect the timeline to make sense in this, lol. For contrived purposes Gil-galad was born sometime around the Nirnaeth and sent to live in the Falas sometime before the fall of Nargothrond. These events are only 23 years apart, so, handwave handwave over factoids about elven childhood development.

I realized that I have to give Aipi credit for Gil-galad Saurodion — it seemed to naturally bubble into my head as (one of several) plausible backstory but I think you in fact planted the idea in my brain years ago!!