#legrin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dialux · 2 years ago

Note

Yeah also the name of the spear, Aeglos, is a also the name of a flower that only grows a little to the South of Finduilas’s grave!

-@outofangband

Okay fine, twist my arm why don’t you

...

When Gil-galad is still young, his parents pack up his things and send him to foster with the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. He doesn’t question this, not even to complain or ask when he’ll see them again. But Gil-galad does ask his father, once, the night before he is to leave: “What should I say I got from my parents, if someone asks?”

And Orodreth smiles, and Orodreth says, gently, “Do you know the tale of Ilion and Taqualme?”

It is not quite so well-told now as the story of Melian and Thingol or Finwe and Miriel, but Gil-galad has studied under the finest tutors his parents could find in war-torn Beleriand. Of course he knows the story of Ilion and Taqualme: Taqualme, who was captured by Sauron in the days that Sauron dwelled in Utumno, and fled by the skin of her teeth; Ilion who found her and loved her. They went on to marshal an army that besieged Utumno itself well before the Valar ever found the Firstborn. Their son was Ingwe, who was named the King of Kings in blessed Valinor. Gil-galad is himself their descendant through his father’s father’s mother’s mother.

“Good,” says Orodreth, when Gil-galad nods. “When Ingwe was born, Taqualme saw him crowned in gold. That is why she named him as she did. But when you were born... Legrin saw that you were crowned in stars, little one.”

Gil-galad is young, but he is not stupid. He knows who he is: the eldest son, perhaps, but the eldest son of a youngest son; there is a reason why his father rules over a tower and not larger tracts of land like Aegnor and Angrod or Finrod. Finrod might call himself a king but he is king solely by dint of having fled from Fingolfin’s proximity. There will be no crowns for Gil-galad’s head unless everyone else is dead.

“Is that why you are sending me away?” he asks slowly.

Orodreth’s face tightens. “Would you prefer to stay here? You can, you know. If you wish. Your future is your own, no matter what your mother has seen.”

“When I die,” says Gil-galad thoughtfully, “I want them to sing songs of my glory. Do you think I can get that if I- if I stay here?”

For a long moment, Orodreth says nothing. Then-

“If that is what you wish,” he says, “you should go.”

...

And so, Gil-galad goes.

...

He spends a few years at Fingolfin’s court, but he isn’t of Fingolfin’s ilk; Gil-galad just plain doesn’t like him. They are both too dignified to fight regardless of Gil-galad’s youth, but the reality is that he just plain doesn’t agree with most of Fingolfin’s decisions, chafes against Fingolfin’s authority, and is in the process of losing what few vestiges of respect he has left for Fingolfin as a person.

Fingon’s arrival at court is a welcome relief from the constant and simmering tension. He takes Gil-galad on long hunts and shrugs off any of his father’s criticisms without much care. It’s startling, actually, how careless Fingon seems to be: a deliberate contrast to his father, perhaps, and a dangerous one for it. Gil-galad likes him better than Fingolfin though. He doesn’t go around acting like explaining decisions is beneath him.

...

When Gil-galad is very young, his mother takes him and Finduilas to a small meadow. This stands out in his memory later: Legrin had never been a very maternal figure, nor someone with much time to expend on her young children. But she’d taken the time to bring them to a meadow, some distance from Minas Tirith, and to sit next to a rushing stream, and to sing blossoms out of summer-wilted grass.

“A little north of here, it grows tall and sturdy,” she’d said. Her fingers had been long and slender, deftly weaving the branches together into something like a wreath. “When winter comes the leaves fall away and leave behind thick vines and tough roots. Aeglos is very difficult to kill; we often have to sing it out of the way, for it will dull even sharpened steel if we try to chop it up.” She leans down and feathers a hand against Gil-galad’s cheeks. “And it saved my life, time and time over, before I found your father.”

Finduilas had laughed and braided the small white flowers into her hair. Gil-galad’s had not been long enough yet to braid; his mother had placed a crown of the aeglos’ branches and flowers atop his head.

He forgets a lot- too much- of the time he spent with his parents and sister, but this he remembers well: Finduilas’ laughter, and the prick of the thorns of aeglos plant on his scalp. He’d fallen asleep still wearing it and woke to blood drenching his pillow.

...

“My father is very careful,” says Fingon. The wind is high in his cheeks. His eyes are very bright. Gil-galad determinedly does not think on how similar Fingon looks to his father or how similar Gil-galad himself looks to them both: they’re the same eyes, same coloring, the same general facial structure. If Gil-galad becomes a little broader... he’d be their spitting image. “You are right that he is that- perhaps he is too much so! But you won’t get him to change his mind by constantly pointing it out.”

And suddenly Gil-galad dislikes Fingon too.

“I never said he was too careful,” says Gil-galad, and he isn’t sulking, he isn’t. “I said he took the wrong risks.”

“Kingship is gambling. And sometimes losing.”

“Yeah,” says Gil-galad. “But there needs to be some winning in there too, shouldn’t there?”

Fingon stares at him. “You think you could do better,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

Gil-galad lifts his chin. “Don’t you?” he asks, and doesn’t mean it as a question either.

...

For decades and decades, when Gil-galad thinks of his sister, he thinks of that meadow: the crown of thorns, the blood in his hair; her laughter, shining like the gold of her braids.

...

Fingon convinces Fingolfin to send Gil-galad down to the Falas for one summer- to explore Gil-galad’s mother’s heritage, he says, and laughs after he says it like he thinks it’s all a big joke: for all that Gil-galad knows it isn’t. But then the Dagor Bragollach happens and everyone is very glad that Gil-galad is so far from the front lines of the war. Aegnor and Angrod die, but Minas Tirith itself holds firm against the onslaught from Anfauglith, mostly because of Legrin’s strength of will and Orodreth’s strength of song. Of Fingolfin’s death none of them speak, but everyone knows already; Gil-galad mourns for him, of course, but only very distantly, and it’s far outweighed by his surprise. He’d never have thought Fingolfin had it in him. When the news came, he asked if the message had mixed up Fingon with his father, but the stories hadn’t changed; it was Fingolfin who attacked Morgoth himself in single duel, and Fingon the Valiant of all people that survived him.

Then Legrin dies, and Orodreth flees south with the remnants of his people.

Gil-galad feels the shattered bond in his soul. He’s on a boat; he’s threading the white rapids of Eglarest’s estuary for the first time alone. It’s incredibly dangerous; two elves lost their lives just two years previous in their attempt. Gil-galad only just managed to convince Cirdan to let him do this. If he backs down now...

It’s the first time he’s experienced the harsh twisting rend of his fea. It’s a pain without explanation. Gil-galad closes his eyes against the hollowing howling scream thudding through his chest. Then he opens them, because he cannot keep the tears at bay. Better to let everyone think it comes from the sting of sea-air and the exertion of sailing a boat through choppy waters. Everything is very numb; the roar of the water seems very distant.

Still, Gil-galad manages to complete it. He steps off the boat to loud cheers from the pier, having successfully navigated through the white rapids without losing his life. He nods, ducks his head; accepts one person’s exuberant handshake. Then he heads to Cirdan’s seneschal to alert him that he’ll miss tonight’s dinner due to a Noldor ritual performed at the waning gibbous moon, and after that he goes to his tutor to tell him that Cirdan’s asked him for dinner tonight and so he won’t be able to make it to their ritual, and only once all of this is completed does he go to his room and lock the door and close his eyes once again.

Legrin had never been very soft or caring. She’d lost much of her family in orc raids just before Melian established her girdle, surviving herself by sheer chance: she’d been on the right side of the border.

Or the wrong side, depending on how you defined it.

She’d watched her family die in front of her, and then she’d walked out herself, furious enough to wage a one-woman war against Morgoth for decades until the Noldor searched the region. Orodreth had been assigned to scout for orcs in the area and kept finding nothing, which meant the entire army was on high alert for a trap. Then they found Legrin amid a nest of sharp-spiked aeglos, single-handedly having defended the Pass of Sirion for nearly half a decade.

Finrod and Orodreth offered to build a tower in the area to better defend Sirion. Legrin had agreed, and she’d wedded Orodreth the day the tower’s construction was completed. When Orodreth had wanted to wait for peace to have children, she’d told him firmly that there would never be peace again: only joy, for whatever time they could steal away. Finduilas was first, and Gil-galad many years later. And she’d dreamed, when she held her son, that he would be crowned in stars.

The only crown he has is made of thorns.

So. Gil-galad had never been close with her, but that was because Legrin was like the tide pools in the Falas: flashing and ephemeral; alternately, and unpredictably, vibrant with life and utterly desolate. Legrin wasn’t close to anyone. But she’d been his mother.

He still has the crown she placed on his head. The bottom thorns are dark with dried blood. The rest is desiccated and dry, a husk of something once full of life. Gil-galad hadn’t taken much with him when he left Minas Tirith, but this he took: to Barad Eithel, and then to Dor-lomin, and finally here, to the Falas. He doesn’t have much: some spare tunics, a few notebooks and sketches, three scarves of cotton, wool, and silk respectively, a gold-and-silver knife Finrod once gifted to him, and this crown.

It scratches his wrist when he picks it up. Gil-galad presses down, harder, and watches blood well on the smooth skin.

She’d been his mother, and her hands had woven this crown for him, and now she is dead.

The pain is exquisite. Gil-galad wears long sleeves for a fortnight, and doesn’t heal the wound.

...

Cirdan comes to him a week later, eyes red-rimmed. He doesn’t have to say anything, but he does: Gil-galad nods solemnly through the entire conversation, but doesn’t weep. His mother is dead. And he owes nobody else his grief.

People whisper on his cold certainty, on his lack of emotion. They all seem to be waiting for Gil-galad to crumble to his knees. But he’s done his grieving. One night of it, one ritual: a thorn pushed, inexorably deep and deeper, into the pale flesh of his arm, until he could breathe without wanting to weep.

Did you not feel the bond break, little one? Cirdan asks, on the pier, in front of everyone.

Gil-galad looks up at him, and says, No, and nobody, not a single person, realizes he’s lied.

...

His father wants him to come to Nargothrond, but Gil-galad refuses. He likes the freedom of life on Balar. The scent of salt in the air; the way the sand sticks to his calves; the sound of high tide outside his window. And Gil-galad doesn’t do well with kings, and it isn’t as if he could just leave Nargothrond either if push came to shove.

Instead, he asks if they can come to him.

It takes- years- of wheedling and demanding and flat-out blackmail, but eventually Orodreth relents to let Finduilas come south. He can’t make the trip himself because of his obligations as Finrod’s second-in-command, but Finduilas comes with her betrothed, Gwindor, and a few other guards, and Gil-galad has the joy of meeting his fully-grown sister for the very first time.

She is very pretty. She has Orodreth’s coloring and build, all tall and willowy with large eyes and hair that shines like a beacon under Arien’s light. The fashions of Nargothrond appear to be less restrictive than the practical dresses on the front line of the war, and Finduilas’ arms are covered by only the sheerest layers of chiffon that blows in the sea wind like Miriel Serinde’s own work. Gil-galad takes her around the beaches, feeds her all the sea-side delicacies Nargothrond and Minas Tirith wouldn’t have had access to, and gifts her a steel knife hilted with pieces of abalone he dug up himself.

“Are you- happy?” he asks once.

Finduilas ducks her head. “Yes,” she says. “I- of course I am. Gwindor... you’ve seen him. And Father is doing well too, now; I wasn’t certain how he’d take Mother’s death. But he got better. We all did.”

“Good.” Gil-galad swallows. Looks up, over the gorse bushes and scraggly grass, to the shine of the sun on the sea. “Do you know how she died?”

“You don’t know?”

“I felt it. Her death. I never wanted to- ask. Anyone else, that is.”

“Oh.” Finduilas’ hand rests on his wrist, warm and weighty. “They could never understand, could they?”

His eyes water from the brilliance of the sun off the water. Nothing else. Gil-galad thinks of Legrin’s temper, her cold silences and colder words when she disagreed with someone. Gil-galad knows well what all of Balar thinks of her: that she’d never had a bond with Gil-galad, that she’d been so distant and unloving he’d never even felt her death.

But Finduilas knows. Nobody else in the entire world will know what this wound feels like, but she does.

“No,” he says, soft.

Her hand tightens on his, nails digging in briefly before she gains control of herself once more. “She died in battle. Sauron himself killed her- she drew him out, and challenged him to a duel, her aeglos to his magics.”

“She was defeated.”

“She was killed,” says Finduilas, after a moment. “But defeated? I think not.”

“How can you say that?”

“I am still alive, am I not?” She stretches out, arches her back like a cat. “And so was most of Minas Tirith. We should have died in it. That’s what Sauron intended. She saved us at the cost of her own life, but it was a good death.”

“The last time I saw her,” says Gil-galad, “she told me to be great. And then she rode away. And I’ll never see her again. I don’t- I can’t- move past that. Forgive that.”

“Mother never asked for your forgiveness. Or anyone’s!”

“But how can you live like that! After having children-”

He breaks off. Rises to his feet. Turns away. Something in his throat hurts, like he’s pierced it with the thorns his mother crowned him on.

“She did something great,” says Finduilas quietly. “I don’t know why you find it so difficult to forgive either.”

“Why not?”

“You’re so similar, Gil-galad,” she says. She is a vision in gold, everything gilt and glamour; Gwindor has gifted her with some powdered diamonds that she dusts on her cheekbones to glitter in the light. “You know best, and you- you’re so strong, and you’re so cold, too. You’re just like her.”

And- there’s nothing that he can say to that, is there?

Finduilas looks at him ruefully. “Though perhaps a little softer. You got the best parts of our parents, you know. Mother’s hard edges rounded out a little by Father.”

“Let me guess,” says Gil-galad scornfully- likely more scornfully than he meant to sound. “You got the worst parts. Father’s softness and Mother’s distance.”

“So you do have a temper.”

“I thought everyone knew that, after- Fingolfin.”

“Everyone knows,” says Finduilas. “But- it’s different to meet you, and to know it. You hide it well. All except for your contempt.”

“My- contempt?” asks Gil-galad, taken aback.

“You think you can do something well,” she says. “You think you’re very good at- everything. And you probably are; I know your competence! But you show it so clearly. I read your letters to Father, you know? It hurt him, what you said. How you said it, maybe. Quite a lot.”

“Is it my responsibility to coddle his feelings? I have no desire to go to Nargothrond- to be hemmed in, to be controlled and treated like a particularly amusing pet- not when I’m building something here.”

“Yes,” says Finduilas. “What is this project you’re doing here? Kingship? Is that what you want, really?”

“Now who’s being contemptuous?”

“Still you,” she snaps. “Because you know that if the crown comes to you it’ll be drenched in our kin’s blood. But you still want it!”

“Ambition is not a sin. And I’m not a kinslayer.”

“Is that why you won’t go to Nargothrond? Because of- Uncle Finrod? Or is it the Feanorians?”

“I won’t go to Nargothrond because Father won’t let me come back here if he sees me again,” says Gil-galad tiredly. “And I like Balar too well to leave for so petty a reason.”

For a moment, Finduilas says nothing. Then: "This is a crown that kills. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Gil-galad. “I know.”

"We'd want you to live rather than be storied. You know that, don't you?"

"Finduilas," sighs Gil-galad. "Yes. I know it."

“Mother saw you crowned with stars and named you for it. But the only crown she ever gave you was one of thorns.”

He jerks, a little surprised. “You remember that?”

“She used aeglos to save my life,” says Finduilas steadily. “But she killed you with it. That is what I remember.”

“It’ll take more than a prophecy to kill me.”

“You’ll die hard, but you’ll still die.”

“When I die,” says Gil-galad fiercely, “I want them to sing songs of my glory. That is what I want. That’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

Finduilas looks at him, so bright it hurts his eyes, his fingers, his chest. She is so fragile. He wants to keep her here in the Falas, safe and sound and tucked into the hollow of his throat. Nargothrond will bury her alive. He can see it. He can see it.

“You are not just a Sindar,” she says finally. “You are Noldor too, born and bred. If you wish to be king, you will have to act like it.”

“What- what does that mean?”

“You will never wear the Sindarin crown,” says Finduilas. “But the Noldor one might come to you. Someday. And if it does, it will be because Hithlum fell, and so did Nargothrond, and if that happens then the Feanorian lands are likely besieged as well; you will be king of ash and ruin. That is the only way you will ever be able to rule. I do not say this as an insult. That is reality.”

“So. Be prepared. For the worst. That’s your advice.”

“Be a haven for those who need it,” she says. “That’s my advice.”

The sun has gone down by now; the sky is a glorious purplish-greenish-gold. Finduilas glows like a beacon even under it, with her diamond-burnished cheeks.

“Have you seen something?” asks Gil-galad.

“Only what my eyes will tell me. Have you seen something?”

“No,” says Gil-galad, and though Finduilas is closer to him than anyone else in all the world, she does not realize that he is lying to her either. “I don’t dream like that.”

...

Two days after Finduilas leaves, Gil-galad starts working on a staff. It is ash and fire-hardened hickory; his shoulders hurt from its use. But Gil-galad has no interest in hunting or jousting or scouting. If he’s on a battlefield, he’ll be on the field, not directing from above or hiding behind bowmen. So the bow is out. And the lance is a good weapon, but one meant for peacetime; he’ll learn it, he promises himself, if he survives Morgoth. A sword is traditional, but Fingolfin dueled Morgoth with a sword and had it shattered for his troubles.

Taqualme and Ilion, Orodreth had told Gil-galad. Taqualme’s daughter Intyale was the general of the Vanya armies after Ilion’s death, and she’d been a speardancer; she’d formed many of the fighting forms before her death. Her daughter was Indis, whose son was Finarfin, whose son was Orodreth: it’s quite a glorious history that Gil-galad is working with. Taqualme and Ilion.

So he starts with the staff. His shoulders obligingly grow broader. Gil-galad takes to looping furs over them to make them appear even broader, under guise of Beleriand’s growing chill.

Then he adds an arrowhead to it, and turns it into a spear,

...

Gil-galad’s father’s side is more gold and light, tall and pale and narrow like aspen. But Gil-galad takes after his mother’s side: never quite so tall as his father’s kin, and always darker: dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin.

When Legrin spoke, people paid attention. She was the kind of woman for whom a room went silent, who everyone gravitated around. Orodreth had loved her for it, even when he’d never been quite so- prolific.

Gil-galad: he takes, so very strongly, after his mother.

...

Please come visit me, he writes to Finduilas one night. I need you. I need you.

You will die if you stay there, he does not say. Nargothrond will be your grave. I have seen it- fire and death is written into your future, like a flower blooming into life: inexorable, inescapable. Escape to me. Please. I beg you-

Soon, maybe, she writes back in her lovely script. Once the roads are less dangerous...

Gil-galad laughs when he reads it, long and bitter. He’d promised himself he’d learn the lance once Morgoth was defeated- this feels even more impossible. The roads will never be safer. Morgoth will never be vanquished. He will reign over ash and death. He will die, and it will be a hard death, a well-fought death, but there will be no songs for him.

Not out of respect, like Fingolfin.

The silence that Gil-galad leaves behind will be the silence of death.

...

And then- the Union of Maedhros fails, and refugees pour south. Gil-galad flees the fall of the Falas to the Isle of Balar with Cirdan. He's called into many of the meetings about the relocating refugees and meets with Lalwen.

She looks eerily like her brother: tall and dark-haired, though she prefers to keep them in utilitarian and undecorated plaits while Fingolfin liked it loose. But the similarities with her brother stop there. Lalwen's unvarnished where Fingolfin had been diplomatic, and utterly uninterested in the minutiae of governance or administration where Fingolfin had lived and died by them. Gil-galad gets on much better with her than he ever did with either Fingolfin or Fingon.

It's a good thing, too. Gil-galad learns a hell of a lot more about ruling than he'd ever known before. Finduilas had never mentioned that being king of ash and ruin would require so much work, but he does it: serving the refugees, going on patrols, tracking the supplies. It’s hard and thankless and heartbreaking, but it's good work and soothes a part of him that had always wondered if all the confidence in Gil-galad's ability to rule had always been in his own head.

It’s while he’s there that soldiers stumble in from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. They insist on meeting with Gil-galad, never mind that he's arbitrating a farming dispute between an elven and human farmer that was on the verge of spilling over into violence, never mind that they're still mud-splattered and half-dead from the long trek.

"Welcome to Sirion," says Gil-galad wearily. The sun's been too dull for good crops for years now, and the silty soil isn't exactly helping keep their food stores high. He's got a lot of worries on his mind, and people constantly interrupting him aren't exactly helping. "I hope my seneschal has assigned you some quarters... We don't have much, but you are welcome to rest here for a fortnight or settle longer. If you choose to remain, you will be assigned work; we have too few hands to manage otherwise."

The soldier with the gold epaulets- as compared to his fellows' silver- looks politely bewildered. Then he bows his head.

"Thank you, my lord," he says. "Master Erestor was very helpful. We came to you because we had something to offer to you."

Gil-galad's eyes narrow, but he takes the silk package the soldier profers, and carefully undoes the gold binding to reveal a ring of pale gold that shimmers with its own light, some eldritch charm left over from Valinor.

"It was High King Fingon's," says the soldier, when Gil-galad only stares blankly. "He claimed you as his heir, my lord. In the event of his demise, he wished for me and my companions to bring this to you as evidence."

"Fingon named me his heir?" asks Gil-galad incredulously. "Why?"

"I know not his opinions."

"Turgon still lives. The High Kingship is his."

"Presumably so. But we have not heard from Gondolin for many decades now, even if they came to the aid of the Union... and what use is a king who cannot rule over us?"

"A king is he that can hold his own," quotes Gil-galad.

Then he touches the ring. It is very delicate; the filigree is intricate and finely wrought. His hand suddenly feels very warm, like he's drenched it in a hot bath. Then it settles and leaves nothing behind: no light, nothing save for gold in such delicate whorls he worries he'll melt it if he slides it onto his finger.

"I am not High King," he says finally. "But it is an honor to be so chosen by my uncle. Please, I beg of you to rest and recover from your long journey. We shall meet after that."

The gold does not melt when he wears it. Under the harsh, pale light of late afternoon in Sirion, it gleams beautifully. Gil-galad touches the filigree again, briefly, and then gets back to work.

...

Being named Fingon's heir is unexpected, but not unwelcome. If nothing else, it gives Gil-galad the authority to match what power he'd seized from Lalwen's hands.

And as time passes the work gets harder, not less. More people, fewer supplies. Every winter feels like a race against death; every summer week without rain is a death knell tolling months in advance. Gil-galad has the numbers rotating in his head constantly: the people, the rations, the probability of survival. They're a knife balanced on the cusp of tipping into bloody slaughter, and Morgoth does not need to do anything to manage it. All he needs is to wait them out.

Between all of this, Gil-galad dispatches letters to his sister whenever he gets a spare moment. They're long and rambling, salt-splotched and hastily-scribbled, and Finduilas doesn't answer them all too often.

He'd thought it was because of the subpar quality of his own letters. He'd never once considered it was because of Finduilas.

Because Nargothrond is safe.

It must be. It- it must be. Finrod had poured himself into the stone. Orodreth had gone there to survive. The Feanorians still lived, too, and would not surrender. Nargothrond is safe.

Until it isn't.

Gil-galad feels the bond he has with his father- long gone dusty with disuse- suddenly wink out, abrupt and wrenching. He is in court: adjudicating on a weaver's desire to grow silkworms in cliff caves. Gil-galad chokes on nothing and then reaches for Finduilas with all his might.

She is screaming.

Gil-galad snatches up a letter next to his throne, rips it open and doesn't bother trying to read it- just surges to his feet.

"Gather your men," he snaps. "Every able adult should be armed. Put Sirion on lockdown- no one in or out. Bring everyone into the inner keep."

The weaver pales, one hand touching a ragged scar on her neck. The rest of the court is silent and staring.

"Nargothrond has fallen," says Gil-galad grimly, indicating the letter as if that's where he received his news. "If it is another Bragollach, we will not surrender toothlessly. Get moving."

That, at least, is enough to knock everyone out of their shock. Gil-galad stalks out of the room and into his own antechamber, which is nothing more than a glorified closet. He sheds the ornamental cloak and greaves in favor of practical armor. His head hurts faintly; the backlash of the bond with his father.

But there is nothing he can do. Gil-galad is too far from Nargothrond. Perhaps Finduilas will survive, perhaps she will not; Gil-galad cannot help her. All he can do is wait for her to come to him.

So. Ten minutes to grieve. That's all he allows himself before straightening up and stalking out of the room.

Sirion is very busy. People are hustling back and forth purposefully. The stores of spears and javelins are rapidly disappearing into citizens' hands. Gil-galad can hear guards shouting for people to form up ranks; others are assigning shifts for a variety of duties. It all seems to be going relatively smoothly, but there will need to be someone who makes the bigger decisions sooner rather than later.

That's Gil-galad.

He snatches up an abandoned flagon of ale and drains half of it- For courage, he tells himself wryly- and steps into his council room, and throws himself into ensuring Sirion will survive, and if not that, will at least give Morgoth a bitter fight.

...

Orodreth's death had been mercifully swift.

Finduilas' is not.

...

Gil-galad alternates between trying to comfort her- bare and scarce though it may be- and marshaling Sirion. It quickly becomes clear that Morgoth meant to attack Nargothrond alone; there aren't any rivers of fire or torrents of animals pouring down from the north. A quick letter to Doriath confirms their strength too, despite the fallen Girdle.

So Gil-galad takes the Havens off the war-footing to focus instead on preparing for refugees. The first weeks don't bring too many, but then there are enough that Sirion's numbers double, then triple.

Among them is Celebrimbor Curufinwion.

He is much taller than Gil-galad, with a smith's broad frame and shorn hair. Handsome eyes and a sharp jaw, bruised though it is; Gil-galad can see how he'd be unfairly attractive if given even a candlemark to clean up. He's corralled the largest group of Nargothrond refugees to reach Sirion thus far, and held them together with what looks like spit and prayer.

Of everyone who has arrived, Celebrimbor has the best claim to leadership.

Gil-galad knows this. In his darker moments, he'd wanted Celebrimbor to die either in Nargothrond or on the way from it, just to simplify the question of who would rule over Sirion. But Gil-galad is young, and Celebrimbor is a valuable resource. Gil-galad knows this, too, and he's fairly certain Celebrimbor's aware of it as well.

Celebrimbor kneels. "Nargothrond has fallen to Morgoth's tricks and treachery, my lord. In the days before it fell, Prince Orodreth- who inherited the kingship from his brother, King Finrod- wished for Turin Turambar, son of Hurin and Lord of Dor-Cuarthol, to wed your beloved sister and so inherit the throne. But Princess Finduilas was stolen before any such wedding could occur."

And Gil-galad knew none of this. Not of Finduilas' betrothal- the last he heard, she'd been madly in love with Gwindor, and none of her letters had ever suggested otherwise- nor his father's preference for a human over his own son to rule over Nargothrond.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

"My sister is not dead," says Gil-galad. "Of that, if nothing else, I am certain."

Celebrimbor nods grimly, but reveals a golden armband, set to clasp just below Gil-galad's shoulder. "Even so, we have need of a king. It would be our honor to name you ours, Prince Gil-galad."

"It would be my honor to accept," says Gil-galad carefully. "But I would not ask you to make such a decision in such haste either."

"It will not change."

And Celebrimbor's mind probably won't. The Feanorians are nothing if not famously stubborn. If he's the one trying to crown Gil-galad...

Gil-galad sighs. "Then I accept," he says, and receives the armband with a steady hand.

The moment he touches the gold, something stabs him through the gut: a fatal wound, but not immediate. Gil-galad gasps and then straightens, arrow-sharp. Nods at everyone. Numbly, he clasps the band onto his arm, and strides to the stables, saddles his horse, and rides out.

My sister is not dead, he'd said, with such confidence.

But it'd been a lie.

Gil-galad comes to a stop and stumbles off the horse. Drops to his knees in a copse.

No. That isn't true. It hadn't been a lie, but it had been a miserable excuse of the truth. Finduilas is not dead, but she will die soon: Gil-galad can feel it. His stomach twists so badly he throws up from the force of it, but it doesn't help: the pain is still there. Finduilas is in no state to block herself off from him, and Gil-galad cannot imagine trying to block her off from him now. So. The pain. Split apart over half a continent, he can do nothing but bear witness.

Finduilas suffers and sobs and screams. Gil-galad does nothing. He will not hush her, and he cannot soothe her. She must know that he's there; it doesn't seem to be helping her much, but Gil-galad won't leave unless Finduilas demands it, and she doesn't ask it of him.

And then- slowly- the pain seems to lessen. Enough that Gil-galad feels it when Finduilas realizes, cold down to her bones, that she will die soon.

You once told me that Nargothrond would be my death, she whispers.

I didn't think... not like this.

But it will be.

I'm sorry I can't be there. It should have been me.

Oh, yes. She sounds faintly amused. You would have pulled the spear out of your own chest and stabbed some orcs with it, wouldn't you?

I'd get at least one of them.

You didn't know, says Finduilas firmly- or as firmly as she can get now. Do not blame yourself for my mistakes.

I have enough of my own, you mean? he asks humorlessly.

Finduilas doesn't take the bait. Rule my people well. Ereinion indeed! And this will not be the last of it.

Only if Sirion lasts longer than Gondolin or Doriath.

Of course it will. Aeglos... Mother crowned you with it. One day you'll be crowned with stars. But your first was with aeglos, and it is with the strength of its roots that you shall rule. You'll be an excellent king, little brother.

I don't want you to die, says Gil-galad.

It's more childish than he's been in- a very long time. Since he asked his father what he inherited from his parents, perhaps, which feels like it passed lifetimes ago.

I don't want to die either, says Finduilas wryly. But there's nothing to be done for it now... it's the end, dear one. Promise me one thing, if you can.

Anything.

Remember me.

I'll have them sing so many songs of you that the trees shake from it.

Finduilas laughs, and then makes a high-pitched sound as the pain spikes from the movement. No. Those songs... you know what they'll be like. Of my love, of my inconstancy; of my failure. She ignores Gil-galad's outrage. I have no need of songs, Gil-galad. I want you to remember me. Me. Of my temper, of my stubbornness; of my love, of my grief. Me, as I was when you knew me. There will be no other that can do the same in Beleriand.

Gil-galad swallows, and then swallows again. He remembers, briefly, something his mother had once done to him as a child: a trick with her fea to keep him quiet and content.

Of course, he says. You could have asked me for anything. This... I would have given so much more.

This is what I want.

Then let me do one more thing for you. Please.

There's nothing more you can do for me, little one. Let me go.

There is one last thing, says Gil-galad quietly. To let you go peacefully.

A long silence, and then Finduilas acquiesces. Swiftly- or as swiftly as he dares, for it isn't as if Gil-galad's done anything quite like this before- Gil-galad wraps his fea around his sister's. Let's the bond blossom outwards, until Finduilas feels nothing more than what he desires for her to feel. Mothers do this, often, for their children, easing elves into the rigors of the wider world, but Gil-galad is strong and bright, and comes from a long line of strong osanwe users.

He focuses on that day in the meadow. The weight of the crown on his head. Finduilas' laughter. His mother's arms, warm and soft as they wrapped around him, stronger than anything in the entire world.

Oh, little brother, sighs Finduilas in her last breath. They will sing songs of you until the end of times. You need not die to hear them. Not... not when you are... as... great... as you are.

And then, there is nothing there any longer. Not pain, not silence. Just emptiness. So thick it sounds like a scream.

Gil-galad does scream, or so he thinks; his throat aches after. When he returns to himself the sun has nearly set and his palms are bloody.

He laughs when he realizes that he'd backed himself against an aeglos bush, wrapped around an oak tree. The thorns have drawn blood on his hands, little pinpricks that ache all over his palm and fingers.

Gritting his teeth, he swings himself back onto the horse. Digs through the packs to reveal leather gloves tucked in some corner, and slides them on, ignoring the pulling skin and ache.

Goodbye, Finduilas, he thinks.

He will remember her in his heart. But he owes nobody his mourning, and Gil-galad cannot afford to show his broken heart to the rest of Sirion. He is their prince before he is an elf; they must think him cool, untouchable, above them.

Gil-galad owes nobody his mourning, but he'll keep the scars on his hands until the day he dies.

Goodbye, sister, he thinks again, and then he rides back home.

...

It's not plain gold, though it looks that way from afar. Up close, the armband has a strange pattern scrolling across it; so faint it's nearly invisible. But it'd been the only piece of jewelry Celebrimbor left Nargothrond with that he knew to belong to Orodreth, and so it was automatically the only thing left of the King's Jewels.

Not that Gil-galad has much jewelry otherwise. Fingon's ring and his father's armband; Finrod's knife, his mother's crown. People keep trying to gift him pearls and such, and Gil-galad wears them on his wrists sometimes, but he's a Noldo at heart: true jewelry is forged underground, not underwater.

...

Doriath falls to the Feanorians after that, and Sirion's numbers swell once again, tripling even its Nargothrond-enhanced population. It also makes things uncomfortable for Gil-galad; the Sindar aren't comfortable kneeling to a Noldo king in the same way the people of Nargothrond were. Gil-galad still rules over the Havens personally- he's the final authority- but institutes a council after consulting with Cirdan, and ensures it's equally weighted with Noldor and Doriathrim.

Gil-galad grows closer to Elwing, too- she's a distant cousin through Thingol's brother Olwe, whose daughter Earwen is Gil-galad's long-lost grandmother- and it becomes clear that half the Doriathrim would prefer for him to wed the girl and thereby unite the Noldor and Sindar crowns. It's a half-decent proposal too, and, best of all, Elwing is so young she does not need to make the choice for many years yet.

Gil-galad has no compunctions about spending long evenings gathering mussels with the gawky girl, who's just learning how to use her limbs effectively. It's peaceful if nothing else.

And the council itself means Gil-galad spends a lot more time than he'd first anticipated with Celebrimbor and Galadriel. They're technically a half-cousin some measure removed and his aunt, but Celebrimbor has a treacherous path to tread as his father's son- particularly after the Second Kinslaying- and Galadriel has a narrow path to tread herself, as half a Noldo and a participant in both Kinslayings.

Half the time they all end up in Gil-galad's rooms, stuffed with seaweed stew and sea-salt studded bread, talking long into the night on things of note and not. It's the closest thing Gil-galad's ever had to a family, this disparate group of cousins so far afield it'd take longer to enumerate their true relation than to sing the Noldolante itself.

It's a good time, those short four years.

Then Gondolin falls.

...

Idril arrives in Sirion with a blast of warmth and oncoming spring. Sirion's population grows again, until there are almost even numbers of Sindar and Noldor. It's more than twenty times the population that had been there when Gil-galad first arrived. Protecting everyone by bringing them into the central keep isn't feasible any longer; it'll take too long, for one, and is nigh on impossible from a logistical perspective, for another. There just isn't enough space inside the walls.

Idril, however, cares nothing for such details. Half her people are grieving a loved one or on the verge of death themselves; Idril's Secondborn husband, Tuor, took ill on the last leg of their journey and none of their healing makes any difference. She alternates between sitting at his bedside and holding her son, who isn't allowed in the sickroom for fear of contracting the same disease.

So Gil-galad- kindly, but firmly- takes over the process of ensuring the Gondolithrim settle into Sirion.

He'd have preferred for Idril or another lord to be there to smooth it over, but it's becoming rapidly obvious that nobody is in a fit state to do such a task. Gil-galad keeps little Earendil distracted with shells and Elwing, who takes to him like a fish to water; they accompany him to almost all his meetings, and their quiet cheer lifts the miasma of grief surrounding Sirion at least a little.

Not that there's much else to be cheerful about.

The food stores are dwindling. They'd gotten lucky with Nargothrond and Doriath; both events occurred in the late fall, and while it had been a hard season of rationing, they'd had full stores and good hands available for the next spring. But the Gondolithrim arrived in late winter, almost spring: the most dangerous time of all. They've eaten most of their winter stores.

All Gil-galad has in his food stores are prayers at this point. He would've managed to stretch it a few weeks with rationing, but that was with the old population; now he has not even that assurance, and the prognosticators think the frost will remain for another month at least.

The emergency rations are half-empty. It'll take six weeks for the fish to return to Sirion. They can't plant anything until then, and even with song and strength, they'll have to let people starve. Balar can only help so much; Cirdan's island is much smaller than Sirion, and have already offered enough to stretch the stores another week.

He's poring over the sheets, desperately hoping for some kind of solution, when Galadriel storms into his study.

"Quarter rations?" she asks flatly.

Gil-galad grimaces back at her. "Have you spoken to the quartermaster recently?"

"They can't possibly be that low. We had a good harvest last year!"

"That was before the Gondolithrim arrived."

"Before the-" Galadriel grinds to a halt. "It is that bad, then, isn't it? Even quarter rations won't be enough."

"We might be able to push it another week with it," Gil-galad tells her. "And then it's a matter of waiting for spring."

"Which the best estimates tell us is a month off."

"We pray it isn't."

"Prayer," says Galadriel scathingly.

Gil-galad laughs a little. "If you've a better solution, I'd love to hear it."

Galadriel is silent as she studies the sheets. Gil-galad doesn't bother to do the same; he's seen the numbers enough that he dreams them in his sleep. It's one thing he likes about his aunt: she's willful and untamed, but only rarely thoughtless. He suspects she'd had more of the one than the other in Aman by the stories his father told of Artanis, but Gil-galad's own dealings with her have lent to an image of a proud, strong, and relentlessly practical lady.

But then she looks up, and her face is very pale, but her chin is set in the way it goes when she's made up her mind about something.

"People will die if we do nothing," she says.

Gil-galad lifts his brows. "Finduilas once told me, you know," he says casually, "that I'd be king of ash and ruin if I ever received the crown. This isn't a surprise."

"I wouldn't have thought her to be so- sensible."

"Because she loved Turin?"

"Because she was a sheltered girl," snaps Galadriel, straightening to her full- and staggering- height. "Everything she did was because she was protected, first by Legrin in Minas Tirith and then by my brother in Nargothrond. She never knew anything of pain, or hurt, or difficulty."

"She watched my mother die to save her," says Gil-galad mildly. "Just because she refused to take up arms herself doesn't make her sheltered."

Galadriel shoots him a sharp look. "I didn't know you were so close to her."

"We were the only children in Minas Tirith. Of course we were close then."

"And after?"

"We drifted apart," says Gil-galad. "And then she died. And that's all I'll say about that, if it's all the same to you. Thinking about my dead aren't going to make me feel better about watching more people die."

"Certainly not if you're all but ordering it," says Galadriel, shuddering a little. "How can you stand it? The responsibility?"

"I've never been able to bear another's yoke on my shoulders." He shrugs. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You wished to rule, or so my father's stories said. But when you came to Beleriand you stayed under Thingol, and now you aren't even trying to wrest power from me, though you've a strong claim to the crown."

"I don't need a crown to rule," says Galadriel coolly. "And I'm not quite so power-mad as my brothers liked to make out. They were the ones who made a kingdom for themselves, or demanded the most dangerous domain of them all. Your father was the only one of us who desired something more than power."

"And you?"

"I wanted to be... myself, I suppose. Separate from all of them."

"But you don't want their throne."

"Are you so frightened by me, little nephew?" Galadriel looks amused, now, instead of irritated. "No. I have no desire to rule a people that would spend their time questioning every last one of my decisions. And anyhow, you are their heir, are you not? Fingon's chosen, Finrod's lineage; inheritor of Lalwen's domain and Turgon's people. I will not take that from you. And you have done an admirable job of it, in these difficult times."

Gil-galad ducks his head and doesn't comment at all on the rush of relief in his gut. Galadriel would not understand, he thinks, and if she did his gratitude would only make things more complicated in the future.

"It is a hard job," he says in the end. "But I find myself uniquely suited to doing it, and it must be done. Even if it is thankless."

"Even if it means watching people die because of your decisions?" asks Galadriel quietly.

"I inherited the war," says Gil-galad. "Did you know that Father wanted me to stay back in Minas Tirith instead of going to Fingolfin? But I told him- I was so young, so very young, but I told him- When I die, I want them to sing songs of my glory. And he sent me away so I could get that."

Galadriel studies him for a long moment, utterly silent. The fire from the torches shadows her face oddly. "That must have hurt him very much," she says finally. "I questioned his desire to beget children in war, but I hadn't thought it would manifest like this. To say when, to be so certain, at so young an age..."

"There won't be any songs," says Gil-galad, half-impatient. He'd thought that Galadriel, of all people, would understand. "It's grim, I get that, but it's something to laugh about at the end. Everything I've done has been for this war. Everything I've been given was because everyone else died before they could receive it. So there won't be songs of my glory, because I'll be the one to live until Morgoth finally comes to Sirion: and then everyone will be dead, not just me. So. No songs."

"That," says Galadriel, staring, "is quite possibly the grimmest thing I've ever heard."

"Don't be ridiculous. I was just showing you that we'll lose a tenth of Sirion to starvation unless we get incredibly lucky. This is nothing."

"I can't bear this," snaps Galadriel, and turns on her heel, and stalks out.

Gil-galad stares at her back. Then he trots out after her- she can't go telling people this, it'll cause riots unless handled carefully, and Gil-galad isn't certain at all about Galadriel being reasonable when she's in this kind of mood- only to come to a halt when he realizes that Galadriel's gone stomping off towards the Doriathrim quarter.

If I wanted to incite a riot, I'd start there, he thinks, feeling a little sick. Then, cold and calm: But that doesn't mean I need to accept this.

Gil-galad doesn't want to escalate, but he is king here. He has to be. If this is some twisted test of his resolve or something, he'll deal with it; if it's Galadriel trying to institute mass rule in her own way he'll deal with that, too.

He turns on his heel and calls for the captain of his guard.

...

Two candlemarks later, Sirion is surrounded by guards positioned to control any rebellion that might occur, and the city's gone eerily silent.

And it stays that way, too.

Gil-galad narrows his eye over at the grain fields. They're fallow for the winter, but they've been laying mulch over it in preparation for oncoming spring. Something very bright keeps flashing over the field, though Gil-galad cannot identify what it is.

Not until Erestor gasps and steadies himself on Gil-galad's arm as if struck.

"It is- Treelight," he says hoarsely.

Gil-galad twists to look Erestor in the face. "You're certain?"

"It's impossible! The Trees-"

"Erestor," says Gil-galad. "Are you certain?"

"I- yes," he says, but he's still very pale. "When you see it... you can never unsee it. Neither Arien nor Tilion shine quite like that."

Gil-galad nods once, so sharp his neck aches. "Double the guard," he says, voice frozen over. "I'll be back soon."

...

There's not much of a crowd at the fields, though enough of one to fan Gil-galad's irritation into full-blown anger. Celeborn, Galadriel, and a few of Elwing's more common minders; and Elwing herself, of course, cupping a jewel in her small hands that shines like a star fallen to the earth.

"Gil-galad," says Galadriel warmly. "I thought you'd come here."

"Is that a Silmaril?" he asks, perfectly even.

Galadriel's eyes narrow as she takes in his expression. It's Celeborn that answers him, with a flat: "Yes."

"You brought a Silmaril from Doriath," says Gil-galad. "And hid it. For three years."

"Gil-galad-"

"You've killed us," he snarls. "You've brought the adder into our home- into our bed. For three years! You let us believe the Feanorians took the Silmaril from Doriath!"

"It was our last defiance," says Celeborn, in his slow and frosty manner. "Surely you understand why it was necessary. It can help these fields grow. Treelight was what blessed Aman, in the old days."

"I will not have it in Sirion," says Gil-galad. "I will not."

"Gil-galad," says Galadriel.

"Ereinion," he hisses back at her, and watches as she goes very pale and still. "Not Gil-galad. It will kill us. At either Morgoth's hand or the Feanorians'. We will die because of your pride."

"But before we die, we will live. Which is more than can be said for your plan, is it not?"

"Between starving to death or dying at Morgoth's hand, I know which I prefer," returns Gil-galad.

Galadriel's eyes turn into slits. "A fine thing to say, when you are not at risk of starving yourself!"

"Because I am king, you think I will not suffer alongside the rest?" Gil-galad demands, white with fury. "I know what I do for my people, Lady Galadriel. I know what I have done. If they do not eat, I do not either."

Everyone looks taken aback by his passion. Gil-galad rounds on Elwing and just barely manages to keep from snarling at her to put it away. The poor girl already looks close to tears. And it isn't her fault everyone seems to lose their minds about the gem.

"I am the lord of Sirion," he says, grimly holding onto his temper. "And this is my decision, not yours. It was foolish of you to hide it from me. An unforgivable offense."

"Dior himself wished us to flee with Elwing," says Celeborn. "He put the Silmaril in Elwing's hands. It is hers: her birthright."

"And if I am to say that it is not welcome here?"

Celeborn presses his lips together into thin lines. His hand clamps down on Elwing's shoulder, alarmingly tight; the poor girl stiffens under it.

"Then Doriath will not be welcome here," he says.

One of the advisors tosses his head. "Which would be a mistake, if you wish Sirion to survive," he says disdainfully. "We have brought you expertise you would suffer sorely without."

"If I might speak?" asks a voice Gil-galad hasn't heard before.

He turns, ready to bark at the intruder to get back behind the walls, only to come to a screeching halt.

It's Idril.

She looks remarkably similar to Finduilas, for all that they're actually second cousins and not sisters; Idril must have inherited her Vanya coloring from her mother, the way Finduilas did from Orodreth. Their faces, too, are echoingly reminiscent, and the height might even be a match, though Idril has the light of the Trees in her eyes still. And the crowning glory of them both is the exact same: golden hair, gold as Arien's rays at their height.

"Lady Idril," says Gil-galad, in a voice even he cannot recognize. "Please, speak your mind. I would appreciate your counsel."

Not to mention that the Sindar have escalated this situation- have been escalating from the beginning- and seem to have no desire to scale it back. Gil-galad cannot afford to back down now, but neither do they. If Idril hadn't come out here, it would've gotten ugly.

More ugly.

"You are right that you are king," she says. Her voice, at least, is different from Finduilas; more tenor, rich and thrumming: a singer's voice. "But for potential death we cannot accept certain death now... and there is more, certainly, that we need than bare survival."

Gil-galad clasps his hands behind his back so he isn't tempted to let them tighten into fists. "Please," he grates out. "Speak your mind. Do not- avoid the point."

Idril inclines her head. "Letting Morgoth know we have the Silmaril is not enough reason to justify letting our people starve over the coming month, if we have a method of growing food. But you are right as well, King Gil-galad. It was irresponsible and utterly foolish of the Doriathrim to pretend they did not have the jewel. Sirion shall need more protection than it already has. Protection that comes from true leadership."

"I am its true leader," says Gil-galad flatly.

"You are its heir," says Idril. "And you have inherited much, and done well with all of it. But you are not its leader yet."

"I assume you have something planned," interjects Galadriel.

"A coronation ceremony," says Idril calmly. "And a betrothal ceremony between my son and your ward. The Silmaril can be revealed then, and put to use."

Gil-galad pauses. Everyone pauses, it seems, in sheer appreciation of Idril's gall if nothing else.

Then-

"Are you mad?" demands Celeborn loudly.

"He's already been crowned!" snaps the same advisor, who's getting under Gil-galad's skin remarkably quickly. "Why does he need another?"

"Elwing deserves better than-"

"-to be discussed," says Idril firmly, speaking over the still-sputtering nurse's protests, "as if she's an object to be handed around. She is seven years old; old enough to understand what betrothal is, and what is being asked of her."

"But not all the consequences of such a decision," comments Gil-galad.

"Which is why it is not a wedding we are discussing, but a betrothal."

"Would Earendil refuse?" asks Galadriel.

"Would Elwing?" asks Idril, with an odd smile on her face.

Nobody speaks for a long moment, and then Galadriel seems to breathe out all at once: she sags, and wraps her cloak tighter around her like she's abruptly cold, despite the absence of any wind.

"We'll speak with them separately, then together," she says. "And decide on the details tomorrow. We can hold the joint ceremony in three days' time, if it all works out. How is Tuor?"

"He's fine," says Idril, sobering a little. "And the rest of it should work too." A brief hesitation, then- "You understand what it means, don't you?"

It's Galadriel's turn to smile, tight and small. "Of course. They never thought much of us, even the ones we were close to... Aredhel felt that more than me, or chafed more under the restrictions, but it was the same for us both in the end."

"Think what it might mean to your daughter," says Idril, but less leading and more pitying.

"Findis never fought, and Lalwen ran off the moment responsibility came her way." Galadriel snorts. "It isn't as if the Noldor have a history of their women demanding an inheritance. And don't ask me what Aredhel did!"

"She died before it could come her way," says Idril, quiet and level. "And even if it is mine to give away, it won't be mine for long; not with Tuor as my husband. It'll go to Earendil soon enough."

"Unless you give it away before he can receive it."

Idril doesn't laugh, for all that Galadriel said that last like it was a joke. "It's a crown that kills," she says. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

They both look to Gil-galad, who's been staring at them wordlessly. Their eyes are full of pity. He cannot bear it, he thinks, but that's a lie: Gil-galad can bear it. All he must do is think of a coronation ceremony in his near future.

"I will name you High King," says Idril. "The Noldor will kneel to you without reservation."

"The Sindar will also kneel to you," drawls Galadriel. "But don't think for a moment they don't have reservations."

"Don't worry," says Gil-galad. He swallows, and the cold air sticks in his throat like a thousand thorns. "Whether Noldor or Sindar- I know they'll all have concerns. It's part and parcel of becoming king."

He nods to them, and to Elwing, and then stalks back into the keep. They can construct the ceremony and decide the details. Gil-galad's got some more pressing matters on his mind, including calling off the guards, figuring out more defenses for the city, and, amid all of it, finagling a list of eligible betrothals out of someone paying attention to the current marriage market.

After all, his current plan for a bride has just found herself a partner.

...

Celebrimbor comes up to him at the end of the following day, smiling a little awkwardly. He's lost weight since arriving at Sirion, which is mildly alarming given the manner in which he came, but it doesn't seem to have affected his work very much; he still spends long hours in the forge, working on some project or the other. Gil-galad knows that Galadriel would've banished him- she's ruthlessly pragmatic that way- but that's more evidence to keep him as far Celebrimbor is concerned.

"I thought you should know," he says. "It was a little- project- that I forgot about in the rush from Nargothrond. But I had the latest version of it in one of my bags, and found it last night- it's something you'd appreciate, I think."

He hands over a small bottle filled with a clear liquid. The bottle is heavier than it looks; Gil-galad's first instinct had been that it was glass, but now he thinks it's a gemstone instead, sung to be in the perfect shape.

"What is it?"

"A perfume." Celebrimbor looks down, eyes drifting half-lidded, before he jerks back to look at Gil-galad again. "Finduilas asked me to make it."

Gil-galad nearly drops the bottle. "Finduilas asked it of you?"

"It surprised me too," says Celebrimbor, a little wryly. "She never liked coming to the forges, and stopped entirely after Finrod left. But she wanted this. Said it reminded her of her childhood."

Carefully, Gil-galad unstoppers it. The sweet scent of aeglos fills the room, sharp and summer-heavy. For a moment, Gil-galad can do nothing more than breathe. It's been so long since he actually smelled it: though vines of aeglos grow this far south, very few of them actually flower the way they do near Anfauglith.

"Thank you," he says after a moment. "Finduilas- would have loved it."

"She loved you very much," says Celebrimbor carefully. "Once- she mentioned to me that you wanted her to visit you, and she was sorry that she couldn't." A brief pause, and then- "They say aeglos grows near her grave, even now."

She might have lived for a little longer if she had, thinks Gil-galad. But then- who knows how much longer? Sirion will fall too. Soon, if not immediately. What use would a few more decades, if that, have been?

"Thank you," says Gil-galad again.

Celebrimbor hesitates before stepping out. Gil-galad watches him leave, and has to resist the urge to scream into his elbow; in the end he ends up just sitting in silence. There are papers to file, arguments to be heard; tomorrow is going to be intolerable if he doesn't get ahead in the paperwork in the scarce time he has for it.

But Celebrimbor had come to him. Had looked at him, with those lovely eyes like quicksilver and stormy skies. He must have heard the rumors that Gil-galad had no bonds to his fea: that he'd never mourned either parents or sister, never grieved even as Minas Tirith and Nargothrond fell into disuse. But Celebrimbor had come to give this perfume to him, despite all those rumors, and he'd been unbearably kind about all of it.

We'd want you to live rather than be storied, Finduilas had once told him.

Gil-galad swears under his breath and leaps for the door. Down the corridor, out the stairs, and straight into Celebrimbor's- incredibly broad- back; Gil-galad doesn't hesitate when he turns around, bewildered, to fist his hands in Celebrimbor's collar and drive him into a nearby alcove, tucked between two buildings.

"My king," says Celebrimbor, though he looks more amused than confused now.

"Did I read it wrong?" asks Gil-galad, trying to stifle his panting but only succeeding in ratcheting his heartrate even higher. Everything feels suddenly tight, like it'll burst open: a ripe grape being plucked off its vine. "If I did-"

"No," says Celebrimbor, and he's definitely smiling now, eyes gleaming, "you didn't."

"Good," says Gil-galad fiercely, and reaches up, and kisses Celebrimbor like he's drowning.

...

They kiss until Gil-galad feels like his lips are wasp-stung and sensitive, but eventually pull away. They can't spend more time together, unfortunately; Gil-galad really does have far too much to do to take an afternoon off, and Celebrimbor, too, has a project he doesn't want to leave in the forge unattended for too long. But they decide to have breakfast the next morning together, and to meet the night after the coronation ceremony.

...

Idril stops by his private room that night, and takes him up to a small tree atop a rolling hill. She looks achingly like Finduilas, but different enough to leave Gil-galad's shoulders twitching.

"Galadriel said you'd avoid me," she says calmly. "I did not think it would be quite so obvious, however."

Gil-galad looks at her, surprised. "I apologize," he says, slowly, "if I have offended you. But I thought you would appreciate privacy in the case of your husband's illness, and would emerge on your own time. I have not been trying to avoid you."

"You do not look me in the eye."

"You," says Gil-galad, "do not look me in the eye."

Idril pauses, as if taken aback. Then she laughs ruefully. "We are ghosts, the both of us, are we not? You as my uncle; me as your sister. All the living ghosts of our kin, distilled in us happy few."

"Many of our kin have died," acknowledges Gil-galad carefully.

"I brought you here to ask you if this is what you want. This kingship- this crown- it is a dangerous one. Finwe died wearing it, and so did Feanor and Fingolfin; so did Fingon, and my own father. This will make you into a target for Morgoth. For the Feanorians, too, if they are looking for hostages."

"My mother named me Ereinion," he replies. "I've been a target since the day I was born in the middle of a war, Lady Idril. This will only solidify my power."

She looks suddenly sad. "It will kill you, too."

"But it will be a glorious end."

"I've never thought that mattered very much," says Idril softly. "Dead is dead."

"Between Fingolfin's death and Maeglin's, which would you prefer?"

She sucks breath in sharply, like half a gasp. "You do not pull your punches, do you?"

"Death will come for us all," says Gil-galad coldly. "All we can do is choose how we surrender. And I will not go whimpering into the dark."

"You will break their hearts," says Idril. "And you will shine more glorious than any king before you. I wish you the best of it." She turns, and peers off the hillside to the far distance: the west, from which she had come, once, a very long time ago. "I will crown you with my father's crown tomorrow. Galadriel wishes for you to wear Sindar gems in your hair- she'll braid them in the morning, if you are amenable."

"I would be glad to bear it. And it would be... appropriate, too. In its own way."

Idril bows her head, and nods to him, and then walks back silently. Gil-galad watches her leave, but stays long enough to admire the brilliant starlight pouring down over him, and the salty breeze from the sea, and the fading sting of Celebrimbor's teeth on his lower lip.

...

The next morning, Gil-galad rises at dawn and bathes with proper soap and bristle, taking care to sluice off all of the grime and dirt, and to wash his hair properly: he doesn't want to hear Galadriel complain about having to handle it. He dresses in a plain white tunic and rough trousers, and laces up the boots someone must have polished overnight. It's all he has time to do before Galadriel slides into his bedchamber.

"Ereinion," she says, coolly dignified.

Gil-galad nods to her in greeting. "Idril told me you wished to braid Sindar jewels into my hair."

"Thingol's own jewels," agrees Galadriel, but she doesn't relax at all out of her stiff posture. "Turn around. I'm not the best at this- I was so relieved when it became clear Doriath didn't have the same elaborate braids as in Aman- and it won't do to have it look sloppy."

"Who should I ask instead?" asks Gil-galad curiously.

Galadriel frowns. "Well- you can't. They're all dead." She tugs at his hair, sharp enough it brings tears to his eyes. "I thought that was rather the point."

If that's a measure of her mood, Gil-galad will be lucky to attend his coronation with any hair at all. He decides that discretion's the better part of valor, and goes silent. Galadriel, too, seems relieved by it; she starts humming a little about halfway through the braids, and when she's done it looks incredibly ornate and shiny, which Gil-galad would never have associated with the Sindar... but the large silver leaves do look eerily like sycamore leaves, and the moonstones threaded between glitter like so many drops of water, so maybe it is very much the wood-elf style.

"Thank you," says Gil-galad, just before Galadriel leaves. "It looks- incredible."

Galadriel's voice is brisk, but her eyes look sad as she takes him in. "If you want to pin your furs to your shoulder, do it a little lower than you usually do. Don't undo the knot at the nape of your neck: it'll unravel the rest of it."

Gil-galad nods.

The rest of the process is incredibly easy. He slides Fingon's ring onto his left hand, and his father's armband onto his right arm, and Finrod's gold-and-silver knife into his belt. Then he thinks better of it- Gil-galad's a warrior king, not one built for peace- and grabs up the spear he's been working on for decades now.

The ash is pale, but Gil-galad had dyed the hickory darker when he was first singing the wood together. Now the different woods have braided together into alternating light and dark brown, topped with a spear-head Gil-galad made himself.

Carefully, Gil-galad unstoppers the aeglos perfume Celebrimbor gave him, and lets a few precious drops soak into the wood. Involuntary tears spring to his eyes, but he chokes them back. Today is a day for ghosts: all the ghosts of Gil-galad's history alighting on his shoulders as he takes up the burden that killed them.

Fingon's chosen, Galadriel had said. Fingon's chosen, and Finrod's lineage; inheritor of Lalwen's domain and Turgon's people.

Finduilas' brother, too, and his mother's son, she had not known to add. Because Gil-galad's hands will be bare for the first time in a very long time: baring his scars, revealing the aeglos thorns that had once punctured scarless skin.

He will take up the mantle of High King once more, today, but that is not the vow he makes to himself, wearing a dozen things from a dozen dead men:

Gil-galad looks out into the blinding dawn, alone, ghostful, and swears that, eventually, he will outshine all of his predecessors.

...

Little Elwing bears her Silmaril in her small hands, eyes shining, and Gil-galad laughs delightedly: he can see the reflection of the Silmaril off the jewels in his hair and Turgon's crown- which had been Celebrimbor's late project, to restore the pale gold of Turgon's crown to its former luster, and to place diamonds in all the places where studded jewels had fallen out.

Crowned in stars, his mother had seen, and he is, now: he has been.

And for all the grief that brought him here- for all the loss, and death, and all the mourning yet to come in the future- he cannot regret any of it. This is his destiny. This is his future. This is where he belongs.

...

Though he never does get to visit Finduilas' grave before Beleriand drowns, Gil-galad commissions the aeglos perfume from Celebrimbor until well into the Second Age, and rides into every battle of the War of Wrath with his spear drenched in it. Only after Celebrimbor's death does he give a name to the spear: one last memory, to the family he has left behind so very many years previous: like the thorns, like the flowers, like his mother's savior and his own silver scars.

#fuck offfffffffffffffffffff #silmarillion #gil-galad #my writing #this got so incredibly long and also i can't believe i wrote silm canon gil galad instead of fin galad but like!!!!#how am i supposed to live w all these echoes on echoes on echoes of grief #????

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