Chapter Text
In the past few years, Gil-Galad and Cirdan have reached an understanding— in truth, he has found himself adopting more than a few of Cirdan’s mannerisms.
His tutors tell him that he grows quieter by the day, and sterner, and wiser. Yes, he supposes, he has, and quite far in the back of his mind he remembers laughing freely, brightly.
Gil-Galad might mourn it, that easy joy, if the absence of it would stop making life so much easier. Instead, he finds that he faces Cirdan’s scorn less, and in place of it meets his begrudging respect.
He pours himself into his studies, and his battle training— much more enjoyable now that he wields a spear, rather than a sword— and keeps what Cirdan would call a ‘healthy distance’ between himself and his peers.
He finds himself spending more time around Cirdan as a result. Gil-Galad often curls up on the armchair in the corner of his study with a book while Cirdan works.
That is where he sits now. In his hands lies a hefty book on sailors’ knots, one he pulled from the shipwright’s own bookshelf. They do not speak, either of them, but the air is filled with the scratch of Cirdan’s quill and pages turning.
Someone pounds at the door.
Cirdan looks up sharply, and frowns. He begins to rise from his seat to meet whoever is behind the door, but there is no need. It opens sharply and through it comes a very haggard elf, breaths coming in pants.
”My lord Cirdan,” he says breathlessly. Gil-Galad lets his hands fall lower where they hold his book and studies him.
His face is red, and his dark hair is tied back in a disheveled braid. He is clothed in riding leathers still, as though he had wasted no time between arriving at the stables and rushing here.
"Gadron?" Cirdan asks, voice tight. He stands up fully, pushing his chair back and rounding the desk. He know this elf, then, which is strange, because Gil-Galad has never seen him. A relic from Cirdan’s older times and journeys, most assuredly. "What has happened? What do you have for me?"
"The king," cries Gadron. "Gondolin has fallen; King Turgon is dead."
Gil-Galad sits up very straight.
Turgon is— was? — Atar's brother, but Gil-Galad has never met him. He has never had the opportunity. He'd become king, he knows, because Gil-Galad had been too young when Atar had died, and so he had taken the crown, and everyone was relieved, because what could happen to the king, tucked away and safe in Gondolin?
Clearly, much.
"Fallen?" Cirdan asks incredulously. "Gondolin? How is this possible?"
Gadron shakes his head. His breaths come steadier, now, and the terrible redness is creeping from his face. "I do not know for certain, my lord, only that there was a traitor, and that he told Morgoth himself where to find it. Some say it was the king's own nephew."
Cirdan's shoulders fall, and for a moment Gil-Galad thinks that he looks very afraid, and very weary, but then he frowns. "You know I have no love for whispers," he says to Gadron, who nods his acquiescence.
Gil-Galad puts his book down fully, now, and rises from his seat. He mourns the quiet, and the knots, and the scratch of Cirdan's quill. Gadron bows and leaves, which he thinks was remarkably swift. Had he only come for that? No further words for Cirdan? Not a glance towards Gil-Galad?
The silence in the wake of Gadron’s leaving does not last very long. "Who are we to put on the throne now?" Cirdan mutters— mostly to himself, Gil-Galad guesses. He turns back to look at him, almost appraisingly.
Gil-Galad shrugs gently. "I do not know, my lord. Can..." He hesitates, running his tongue over his teeth and twisting his hands. "Should we ask after Princess Idril, do you think?" The king's daughter.
Cirdan's eyes turn very sharp. "For her health, most certainly, but if you are implying what I think you are, young prince, keep it quiet." He shakes his head. "We seek a king, Gil-Galad, not a queen."
"I only thought..." he starts, but lets his words trail off. Do not argue with Cirdan, he has learned. You are a child, what do you know?
Gil-Galad settles and stays silent as Cirdan paces the room. He has never seen him so troubled; it is almost unnerving. There is a quiet muttering of names and curses, and eventually Cirdan’s eyes turn to land on him. They are very narrow, and his frown is tight.
“You turned fifty only recently, did you not?” Cirdan asks. Gil-Galad nods slowly.
“Yes, my lord, just last week. You very kindly wished me a good begetting day,” he says. Cirdan hums, and Gil-Galad wonders what possibly he could be getting at. Why would his age matter? Unless—
Turgon took the throne because Gil-Galad could not then, but he was, and still is, Fingon’s heir. There is no longer any male elf in his family older than him, save the Fëanorions; even Gil-Galad knows that no one will take them for their king. There is only him, and his older female cousins, but Cirdan has made his thoughts on that very clear.
But— surely not?
“My lord Cirdan?” Gil-Galad presses, and if he had not grasped so strongly the concept of a steady voice, it would be said urgently. “What are you thinking?”
Cirdan watches him with careful eyes. “I think,” he says eventually, “I have much to discuss with my advisors, and the survivors of Gondolin, once they arrive and are well. Good day, Gil-Galad.”
He returns to his desk, and Gil-Galad knows a dismissal when he hears one, but he does not want to leave. He stands hesitantly in place for a moment.
Only minutes ago, his morning had been quiet, and peaceful, and very still. Then it was shaken, and with it his life was too, and now Gil-Galad thinks it has landed upside down.
He remembers then the morning he had been brought awake by Celebeth and thrown in the saddle. That day had brought the knowledge that his father was dead and he would never be going home.
Now he stands here and, once again in Arien’s light, knows that his life has been taken from him. Almost, foolishly, Gil-Galad wants to cry, the way he had when he was young and blind and trusting, confident in his sorrow.
He doesn’t, because he knows better, now.
Instead, he breaks from his paralysis and moves to fetch the book from where he left it on his chair. He considers putting it back on Cirdan’s shelf, because that would be the respectful thing to do, but he decides he can indulge himself in a moment of childishness every once in a while. Cirdan, for the moment, is not in his good graces.
Gil-Galad holds the book to his chest and hurries out of the room, misery driving his pace.
He does not want to be king. Not yet. He has always understood that there would likely come a time where he would have no other choice, but always in his mind when this time comes he is a full grown elf, tall and proud.
Would they really put a child on the throne? Have the Noldor fallen that far?
Gil-Galad worries that they have.
He pushes into his room with all the rage of a pack of wolves, tossing the book onto his bed, disturbing its silky, neatly made sheets. More gently, he follows it, sprawling across his mattress upon his back so he might stare up at the ceiling; it keeps the pressure loose behind his eyes. In his heart he feels anger stewing, and resentment.
He resents Cirdan most, because logically, he's the one Gil-Galad knows he should be angry at. Morgoth too, he supposes.
But he finds he also is angry at Gadron, because why did he have to tell Cirdan anything? And why could he not have waited? Maybe he is a little upset with Turgon, too, for dying; Gil-Galad knows how kings work. They get attached to their kingdom, and their people, and when fire and doom comes for them they decide that they must die to it, just as all that they are king of does too. Kings, he thinks, lose their sense.
Almost— and for it Gil-Galad feels very, very guilty— he thinks he might resent Atar, too. He knows now the full, true tale of his father's death, written as it is in textbooks and songs and tales. He has never begrudged his father it, but now, he thinks he might.
He sits up and gently moves the book to a nearby table, wholly cleared except for the oil lamp he keeps for night-reading. He feels weary now, and as though he has lived many more years than he has. He wishes it were so.
Gil-Galad regrets tossing the book so carelessly. Cirdan’s library is important to him, and no matter how furious, he would never hurt him. He sighs heavily and rolls over, stepping off the bed.
Perhaps he is taking it out of proportion, he thinks. Perhaps that is never what Cirdan meant at all. Perhaps Gil-Galad has a secret penchant for kingship, and his fears are entirely unfounded. He isn’t sure, but he does not want to be angry with Cirdan; not yet. He'll go out into the fields, he decides, and seek out a round of sparring with Gladhedir. The world always seems much clearer with a spear in hand.
After three days of wary tiptoeing and silent meals, Cirdan comes to him. He meets him in the armoury, where Gil-Galad is having a quiet conversation with Authon, whom he considers a master of spears. They break off quite suddenly, and Authon takes up his weapon and whispers a farewell.
"Gil-Galad," Cirdan greets tersely. He dislikes the armoury, Gil-Galad knows; Cirdan has ever been one for politics, rather than warfare.
"My lord Cirdan," he responds in kind. "Have you something to discuss?"
Cirdan nods, and seems to consider his surroundings briefly. "We might move elsewhere, first, I hope. It is..." He hesitates. "Sensitive." Sensitive? So he does know what this is about, then.
"Of course, my Lord. I was only just finishing with Authon." Gil-Galad casts a last sorrowful glance at the row of spears mounted upon the wall as he moves for the exit.
He's taken the past few days to reflect, and he had found it to be much easier while clashing against Gladhedir, or whatever opponents he placed him against. He’s come to some sort of a steady mind about it, and privately he wishes Cirdan had waited a little more before coming to him. He was, in all honestly, enjoying the tranquility he seems to find when he is away from politics.
In this, Gil-Galad has also found steady ground. He does not want to be king.
He follows Cirdan to his study, where the door is abruptly closed. His eyes are drawn to the tall bookshelf against the wall; he has yet to return the book. He doesn't want to, really. He thinks it a small thing to take from Cirdan, if he truly is so insistent on taking everything from Gil-Galad.
Cirdan sits heavily in the chair behind his desk, one elbow resting upon the wood of it so that the hand might cradle his forehead. He seems very weary, but Gil-Galad finds in himself no pity. "My Lord...?" he ventures.
"Yes," says Cirdan flatly. He sighs and drops his hand, raising his head to look Gil-Galad in the eye. "I have spoken with my advisors, as I said I would, and before dusk last night I received word from Princess Idril. She sent a rider ahead of her."
"I see," Gil-Galad says, unimpressed. Can Cirdan never say what he means in one go? "What did she say?"
"She said that she has no interest in the throne, and that she will soon be setting sail for Valinor with her husband."
Isn't Idril's husband a man?
One of the Edain, setting sail for the blessed lands— the elvenhome. Gil-Galad considers it quite brazen, but also, he thinks that it is a respectable feat. If, of course, it works in their favour.
"She said also that she wants it to be very clear that her son is far too young to set foot anywhere near the throne, and he will not do so until he has come of age. And that is only if he must."
Gil-Galad cannot help it— he snorts. Yes, he understands Idril very well. He almost wishes he were given the chance to meet her, this cousin of his. He thinks they would get along. Cirdan arches an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.
"So, we have been considering the Noldor's options. Galadriel, most particularly, has been taking the reins of these discussions. We covered... many possible options, but in the end, there is no ideal situation." He refrains from another distasteful sound. The ideal situation, he thinks, would be that Fingolfin had never run off to fight Morgoth in the first place, and there would not be the need for quite so many discussions on inheritance and kingship.
Eru, must he develop a grudge against every king of the Noldor?
Something must be showing on his face, because Cirdan finally breaks. "You are acting odd," he says, "and not yourself. I understand you are a clever child-"
He rolls his eyes, and yes— he supposes he is feeling a little more spirited than usual.
"-but honestly, you must know that jumping to conclusions does no one any favours."
"Even if they are the right ones?" Gil-Galad asks. Cirdan frowns at him very softly.
Honestly, he thinks, why does Cirdan have so much say in this anyway? Is he even Noldorin?
“You are angry with me,” Cirdan says, “because you know what I will ask of you.”
“I know what you will demand of me,” Gil-Galad says, and carefully he doesn’t say I’m not angry. He’s not, really— he thinks he might have been, a few days ago, but he has cooled off now, and, well…
Anger doesn’t really suit him anymore, he thinks. Frustration, sure, and irritation, but those are gentler. Anger, he finds, is too exhausting, and too punishing— on everyone. He might have been one for anger, once, in a life where his father had lived to teach him rage, but instead he has Cirdan, who does not know rage at all.
Gil-Galad sighs. He is not mad at Cirdan. He is only tired, and perhaps a little spiteful.
“I understand,” he says, kinder now, “that we have been left with very little choice. I…” He isn’t sure how much he should share with Cirdan; how much he wants to share. “I am not angry with anyone who finds themselves having to make the one we have.”
But he had been, only days ago.
“I only find myself wishing that it were not so, and perhaps I expressed that to you in anger, but it was not meant to be so, my Lord. You have my apologies.”
Cirdan looks thoughtful. “Hm,” he says, leaning forward. “Alright. You are forgiven. You will hear me speak, then?”
”Yes, my Lord.”
He nods once, firmly. “We have spoken, and we sent word back to Lady Idril just recently of you. She is eager, I think, to meet you before she departs.”
”She is?” Gil-Galad asks, startled. She would be coming here, then, wouldn’t she, if her plan was to sail for Valinor. He feels a little silly, now. He had thought he would never meet her.
Still, she wishes to meet him? He had not thought she would. He feels now a little wary— what if they don’t get on as well as he thinks they will? What if she despises him? Thinks him wicked for taking the throne from her line? He refrains from worrying at his lip, though he’d like to.
“Yes,” says Cirdan. “She will be here in three days’ time, I believe she said, along with all those else who fled from Gondolin.” He sighs and shakes his head, and Gil-Galad swears he can hear him mutter ‘Morgoth’ under his breath. His lips twitch and faintly he nods his agreement.
"Well," Cirdan continues, "I suppose I don't need to explain any further, then, if you've got it all figured out yourself. Go," he says, nodding at the door, "don't let me keep you. We'll speak of this again once Idril and her followers arrive."
"Yes, my Lord," agrees Gil-Galad, turning to leave, and he resolutely does not think about how soon enough, Cirdan will not be his lord any longer.
Idril arrives a day sooner than they expected her to. They rush out to meet her, he and Cirdan, and she tosses the reins of her horse to a nearby stablehand rather hastily. Gil-Galad wonders at it for a moment, before she sweeps forward and takes him up in her arms. He has to hold in an affronted noise, and prays to Iluvatar that she lets him go.
"You must be Gil-Galad!" She cries, pulling back to look him in the eyes. Idril has a gentle face, he notes, with eyes like the sky at its bluest, and hair the colour of the sun to go right along with it. He wonders if he is more like her mother or her father, in face. He wonders if he shares those genes.
"I am," he says awkwardly. She grins at him, though it is weak and shaky. Her eyes are tired, and he reminds himself that her city was brought to ruin only a days ago. She has lost friends, family, and still she smiles at him. It is a shame, he thinks, that there was no room for a queen. Not that she would take it if there were.
Idril parts with him fully to greet Cirdan. "Lord Cirdan," she says earnestly, hand to her heart and bowing low. He returns the gesture stiffly.
"Princess Idril," he says kindly. "I am glad to see you are well, and..." Cirdan looks over her shoulder, and Gil-Galad follows his eyes; a man approaches, and in his arms squirms a golden-haired elf-child. "...this must be your husband and son?"
"Yes," says the man brightly, holding out the hand that is not cradling his son. "I'm Tuor, and this is Earendil." Earendil shrugs and waves shyly. Cirdan looks hesitant, but he leans forward and shakes Tuor's hand.
Gil-Galad finds himself withholding a laugh, though he is twitching in amusement a little and he is glad Cirdan cannot see him. He rolls his shoulders back and pulls himself up straight, hoping he looks refined and well-mannered, but Idril catches his eye and smiles widely, eyes mirthful. 'So awkward,' she mouths, and he gives her the slightest grin back. He was right, Gil-Galad thinks— he does get on with her well. This is the most free he has felt in years, and he is only sharing a disrespectful smile with his cousin.
"Come inside," Cirdan is saying when he returns his attention. "We will have the kitchens prepare something, I am sure you are in need of a meal." Tuor smiles gratefully. He's the conversationalist, then.
Gil-Galad steps into stride with Idril when she makes it clear that she will not walk next to Tuor and sends him a steely glance. He's a little intimidated by her, he thinks, but he also thinks that if he got to choose whether or not she was his cousin, he would keep her in a heartbeat. For the first time in over fourty years, someone has smiled at him. He almost regrets that she has decided to leave so soon.
Idril slows a little so that Cirdan and Tuor are a few paces ahead of them, and she leans in close and whispers in his ear. "I hear they want to make you king," she says quietly. He doesn't turn to look at her, and only nods slowly.
"Yes. They went through their options first— Galadriel was here, I believe, but I do not know where she is staying. Still nearby, most assuredly," he replies. He shrugs gently. "I hear you swore your son against it."
Idril laughs. "Yes, well, look at him. He's only a boy, and he's had such a tough time of it lately. We're leaving him here, we think; he'll be safe."
"Would he not be safer in Valinor?" Gil-Galad asks curiously. He hadn't thought there was a question in their taking Earendil; he had figured that if they were going, so too was he.
She sighs. "It is not Valinor we fear, but the journey. Tuor had not wanted to come with me in the first place, but I told him that if he was not going to go, then neither would I, and that closed his mouth quick."
Ah, Gil-Galad understands. They fear what the Valar may do, bringing one of the Secondborn to the West, where they were never intended to be. They wish to keep Earendil here, in case Ulmo forgets his love for Tuor and his line in favour of his divine duty— or whatever he considers that to be. He supposes that make sense.
He's suprised Idril is telling him this; does she speak to everyone this freely, he wonders, or is it some sort of cousin-closeness that he isn't aware of? Are cousins meant to be so close so swift?
"Do you truly think something will happen?" He asks quietly. He keeps his eyes trained on Cirdan ahead, who is— admirably— listening to an exaggerated tale Earendil is telling, gesturing grandly. He is thankful, suddenly, for Idril’s protection of him; he seems a kind boy. Eru knows Gil-Galad had never been so kind.
He’d snapped at Cirdan more than a few times throughout his youth, before he’d grown out of his sensitivity. Mostly about his father.
Idril shakes her head. “No,” she says, “or at least I hope not. The way Tuor speaks of Ulmo, you’d think he’d Sung Arda into being all himself. I’m counting on that, mostly.”
Gil-Galad hums, but says nothing more, because Cirdan and Tuor have stopped, and the lengths between them are few, now. He expects that this conversation is not one Idril wishes to have with Cirdan in earshot.
“Gil-Galad,” Cirdan says when they join again. “Though I do not wish to tear you away from newly-met family, I do believe you are due to meet Indor…?”
Gil-Galad startles— he’d forgotten about his lessons in the rush of the morning. He doesn’t have any scheduled for tomorrow, because they had expected Idril’s arrival then.
“Yes, my Lord,” he says. “I will be with you later, Lady Idril, Tuor—“ He bows his head to Earendil. “Young prince.” He turns heel and leaves before he can feel any sorrow over it.
Behind him, Idril frowns.
Gil-Galad doesn't get freed from his lessons until the evening, and so he retreats to his rooms rather than seeking out Idril. He figures she might already be settled up in the rooms she was given, and he’d be terribly ashamed to intrude. Instead he slips into his bed and pulls the book of knots he's kept on the table near his bed into his hands. Cirdan has said nothing of it, yet, so he wonders if he would mind if he keeps it.
He's hardly opened it when there comes a quick rap at the door. He looks up quickly and frowns faintly at the door. It isn’t Cirdan, is it? Gil-Galad moves to rest on the edge of his bed, upright.
”Come in,” he calls, only a little bewildered. Through the door comes a head of blonde hair, and then Idril is slipping in and shutting it gently behind her. He immediately rises to his feet to greet her.
“Hello, little cousin,” Idril says, stretching out both of her hands. He takes them in his own and grants her a small smile.
“Cousin Idril,” he says. “What brings you to my rooms? The hour is late. I figured you would have retired by now, or at least soon enough.”
She blinks gently at him. “So well-spoken,” she murmurs. “But you do not have to be so formal with me. And, to answer your question, I—“ She pauses and works at her lip. “I felt I needed to see you.”
Gil-Galad raises an eyebrow. Oh? What could be so urgent, he wonders, that she has come to his door now? He draws further into his room and sits on the edge of his bed again, and Idril sits down next to him, not quite as gracefully as one of her stature should. He lets her speak.
“I know that we have only just met,” she begins, “and that perhaps we will never get to know each other as well as we might have, in another life. But you are still my cousin, closest in blood— son of my father’s brother. I love you even if I do not know you.”
Gil-Galad is near stunned into silence. He had heard his family was the loving-type, but Eru, were all of them like this?
“And I notice that you are very steady,” Idril continues, “and a wise ellon already. I only worry that perhaps it is too early— everyone knows I was not nearly as mature as you when I was your age. They are putting a lot of weight on your shoulders, and I am sorry—“
”Idril,” Gil-Galad interrupts quietly. He had worried she would run on forever. “My heart is warmed by your concern, truly, but it is unwarranted. I have made peace with the lot I have been given, and this burden was always meant to be mine— it is miracle enough that it has been stayed from me this long.”
He watches his cousin carefully, and frowns at the way her lips and brows tense. She watches him in turn, scrutinizing.
Idril hums and narrows her eyes in thought. “I— well. I suppose I just thought you would be more like Uncle Fingon. You are so… mild-mannered, and you have Cirdan’s stern face, and you are— I hesitate to say distant, but that is what you are.”
She pauses, and raises her face to the roof as she dances over what to say. Gil-Galad fights not to twitch.
”Gil-Galad is not your name,” Idril says finally. “Not really. It is not from either of your parents. I know it isn’t.”
He nods slowly. “Yes. It was a name gifted to me by Cirdan, for my own political safety.”
Is this what Idril came here for? The day of their meeting— a day he had, before this, considered to be one of the best— and she already is laying heavy on him her concern.
He really does not understand cousins, he thinks, if this is what they do.
Idril shakes her head firmly. “I’m sorry. I’m saying this all wrong. I only worry about you— we had thought you’d be safe and well-cared for here. My father cared for you deeply, though he never met you. We figured you would be nurtured here with Cirdan. But I am beginning to think that perhaps…”
”Perhaps what?” Gil-Galad asks. “Cirdan has treated me well. He has fed me, and kept me safe, and provided me education. What do you fear, cousin?”
She shakes her head again and rises to her feet slowly. “Maybe my fears are unfounded. I have known you for hardly a day. Indeed, the hour is late. I have disturbed you.”
Her eyes clear and the bright smile from earlier returns to her face. “I am glad to have met you, cousin. I hope to see more of you in the days to come.”
Idril turns and slips back out the door before Gil-Galad can utter a farewell. He blinks and stares after her, bewildered.
What is her problem?
(Gil-Galad spends an ever-increasing amount of time with Idril, Tuor, and Earendil in the weeks leading up to his coronation. He finds that he gets along quite well with Tuor, who is kind and steady, and Earendil is a bright, cheery boy.
Idril seems to have taken to him— as her only direct cousin aside from Maeglin, who she bears no love for, he has little competition. In the later hours, when she drags him to her shared chambers with Tuor, they sit by the fire and she tells him of the family he does not know.
She tells him of her father, Turgon, who she says was much like Gil-Galad himself. Tall and stern, but also kind and insightful. He loved all of his family deeply, she says, even the ones he didn’t get along with. He had always wanted to know Gil-Galad, and on several occasions had expressed his sorrow in regard to his distant nephew. Idril’s eyes are always, always wet when she speaks of Turgon.
She tells him of Aredhel, who was bright and wild and fierce. She could not be contained to cities alone, and oft she would take Idril with her into the safe woods of Valinor to show her all of the various Kelvar and Olvar. Aredhel, she says with fondness, was the dearest to her of her family.
Gil-Galad thinks he might have liked her, had he been given the chance. He soothes his heart by telling himself that she was far wilder than he, and his cherished quiet would suffer for it.
Idril runs through their extended family, also— their cousins and half-cousins, great aunts and uncles. She pauses, sincere tragedy written in the lines of her face, when she reaches Fingolfin.
“Haru was…” she says, staring down at her hands. Tuor entertains Eärendil on the far side of the room. “He was everything that the stories tell of him. Noble, and kind, and fierce, but gentle. Courageous.”
She watches the fire for a few moments, as though Glaurung himself might leap out of it if she speaks of her long-dead grandfather any more.
“I think him, most of all, you deserved to meet. He was… he was everything that they say he was, with more love in him still.”
And then she falls silent, and spares no word for his father. She has been too afraid of upsetting him, he thinks, and so she has not mentioned Fingon once unless in passing. He is not sure whether he is grateful or not.)
When the day of his crowning comes, Gil-Galad feels as though he is in a drift. He knows that he is presentable, because Cirdan would not have let him go if he looked undignified, but the memory of it afterwards is lost to him. He knows the weight of the crown upon his head, and the heavy drape of a cloak around his shoulders, and the chanting— High King Gil-Galad, they call him.
He wishes he were Ereinion still.
When he stumbles into the privacy of his own rooms, he leans heavily against the wall and buries his face in his hands. He wants to weep, almost, but he has not cried in years and it feels wrong now. Unkingly. He wishes to see Idril, wishes she would tell him again of the family he had not known. Wishes she would tell him of Fingon, just once.
Instead he strips himself of his extravagant robes and slips into sleepclothes, and sits upon the edge of his bed gathering his thoughts.
I am the king, Gil-Galad thinks. I am the king now. Prince I may have been, but now I am uncontested. He breathes in deep and pretends like it doesn’t make his brittle chest crack and ache. I have been prepared for this. Cirdan raised me for this. I need no one to rely on; I am hale and ready and a proud king.
He frowns and works at his eyelids with his fingers, and wishes he could remember something other than the feel of burning gold upon his head. He should not have blocked it out— how did he? He has been waiting for this day. Cirdan had told him— twice and thrice and four times over— that there would be no mistakes. No flaws. Only elegance, as is befitting of his blood and name. He thinks he had made it so, but he cannot be sure.
There comes a gentle knock on his door. Idril opens it herself, and does not wait for his call. She too has shed her formal gown, and instead is clad in dark, loose clothing. She is almost a shadow with how gently she enters.
“Little cousin,” she says quietly, and fondly. “You seem to have lost your crown.”
Gil-Galad frowns at her— the first time he has ever done so— and returns his face to his hands. He can allow himself this, he decides. One moment of weakness in front of his cousin, so that he might get his thoughts in order and steady his tongue.
”I had no want for it any longer,” he says quietly. “It was a weight too heavy.”
Idril does not move— at least not to his ear— and she says nothing for a long moment. It feels reminiscent, almost, of the night only a short while before, where she had stood in his room bearing worry and love. It seems she holds it still.
At last she comes forth and sits on his bed next to him, and slowly a gentle arm comes to drape across his shoulders.
”I have not spoken to you yet of your father,” she says tentatively. “But he was very dear to me. He was always bright and happy, and oftentimes I see him in Eärendil. There are some people who find joy with such ease. I am told that you were once like that also.”
Gil-Galad looks up at her in surprise. “Who told you so?” He asks.
”Cirdan,” Idril replies quietly. “He said that when you came into his keeping you were kind, and soon found your joy again, though he could tell you missed your father dearly. He said that… that he regretted how he had raised you, for he had taken that joy from you, and thus further sundered you from Fingon. But he knew no other way.”
“I am grateful,” Gil-Galad insists in a whisper, “for what Cirdan has done for me.”
”And yet you are allowed to feel anger for what he has done to you. I should have said this when we spoke of this last— this is not the elf you would have been, Ereinion, had you been given the chance to be yourself.”
Ereinion. Somehow, he thinks near-tearfully, she always knows.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” Idril continues, “but there have been burdens and expectations placed upon you that you should not have to bear. Ones that I do my best to spare my son from— I only wish I could have spared you too.”
Gil-Galad shakes his head, but he can say nothing. He does not know what words fit, here. He has lost all of his eloquence in a single day— a single night.
”I love you, and I am glad to have grown closer to you over the weeks that I have known you. I will be sorrowful to leave you behind, and I will miss both you and Eärendil when I leave for Valinor. But I find that I am also grieving the little cousin I might have had: smiling and unapologetic, and with a far lighter gait than you.
”Perhaps this is unfair to say to you now, but I watched you today, and where the crowd saw elegance I saw misery. Never have I seen your eyes so dim. You were not as warmly nurtured here as you said, on that day that I arrived.”
Idril hums and stands up, and she does not seem irritated that he has spared her little response. “You did well today still, cousin. I promise. I hope to see you again in Valinor, where you may meet all of the family that you were kept from. Though I hope you will take the long way, and not the short way. I hear Mandos is a kind warden, but even still.”
And then she turns and leaves.
Gil-Galad stares at her in disbelief, and briefly he wants to kick himself. How far off of his path has he strayed today, that he cannot offer her even the barest of responses? Must he check the crown for toxins? Has be been poisoned, and driven mad?
He wishes not to touch on anything she has said, and yet he cannot help but think about his father. Bright and happy, Idril had called him, and yes, indeed that is how Gil-Galad remembers him. But… would he have borne this crown lightly? Did he?
He runs heavy hands through his hair and presses his lips close together. All is well. He has no right to feel anger, and he has nothing to criticize.
Turgon, he thinks, will have his legacy and his kingship kept steady. I will guard it, as it was once my father’s, and his father’s, and that is not something I can let die.
He takes a deep breath and tells himself that the weight he still feels upon the crown of his head is one that he is only imagining.