Archive of Our Own

S.A. 3441 - Mordor

Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, was stuck in the grasp of an impossibly large hand, tightening around his chest and making his armour (and probably his ribs) creak. With the awareness of his situation came certainty: he was completely and utterly fucked.

The only way he was going to survive this was if someone could kill (or at the very least distract) Sauron immediately, but the land around them was strewn with the dead and the dying, and the hand was squeezing ever tighter.

He was going to die.

“What’s the matter, little king?” Sauron sneered; his voice reminiscent of the scrape of sword dragged over a stone floor to bluntness. “Are you scared?”

“Scared that I’ll die of boredom, yes,” he answered, hoping any tremors in his voice could be passed of as the consequences of the mild chest-crushing that he had going on. In all fairness, some of them were, and he wasn’t going to give Sauron the satisfaction of thinking he had succeeded at anything more than inconveniently incapacitating him.

“Everything you’ve done, every war you’ve waged, every battle fought…” His enemy’s words were slippery in Gil-galad’s mind, unable to stick as he tried to keep himself from slipping in and out of consciousness. “…you’re nothing, and you came from nothing—” the Dark Lord paused, tone shifting to some twisted delight. “But you did come from nothing, didn’t you? You don’t even know your parents, do you, Ereinion?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response, instead focusing on perfecting the delicate art of not screaming. He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction for a long time yet.

“How about this: I’ll give you a little gift. I’ll tell you who your real father is; won’t it be nice to know that, hm?”

He grit his teeth. “I know who my father is.”

“No, you don’t,” he drawled, “because it’s me.”

Then the world became fire and pain. As if nothing existed beyond the searing heat, the light, the pressure still around him, the pain, the pain. It consumed him with the flame, penetrating every inch of his being, leaving darkness in its wake.

He was dimly aware of the fact that he was turning to ash, but that seemed distant now. Unreal. But even as the blessed, cool, peaceful dark swept into his mind, there was a single thought.

That can’t be. Can it?

 F.A. 453 – Ard-galen

Patrolling Ard-galen was, in Fingon’s humble opinion, the worst possible way he could spend his time.

When it wasn’t boring, the brief excitement of battle was not nearly enough to compensate him for the horrors of the inevitable—no matter how careful he was—scolding that he would receive for being reckless.

But usually it was just boring.

The vast plain spread out before him, all but featureless for miles on end, confusing the eyes and drawing them from one small clump of brush to the next until one’s gaze inevitably drifted North.

He shook his head. There was no need to think about that now: he had a job (however boring and useless) to do.

From the vantage point of his horse, he could see the softest traces of black mist spilling out over the contours of the land, diffusing and pooling into every little space, moving against the laws of physics that governed over normal clouds. Tiriawen drew her horse to a stop beside him, narrowing her eyes.

“Did you hear that?”

Fingon shut his own and listened. He liked to think that he was good at listening, and particularly better at hearing through the winds out over the planes (gentle breezes, usually, but they wailed like the ghosts of all the people slaughtered in the North—maybe they were), but it took him a moment to catch onto the sound of rustling leaves. He nodded.

“I’ll go and check it out, your Highness.”

“No, no—” he grinned— “I’m sure I can handle a few birds, all things considered.”

“Sire…” She sighed. Both of them knew that she was only really there to protect him from himself.

He slipped down onto the ground and drew his sword, making the approach as quiet as he possibly could. There was definitely something there; and it didn’t appear to be scared enough (or to have sharp enough senses) to attempt to fly away. So, not a bird. Or perhaps a baby bird—almost certainly some sort of baby animal, unless it could also be a wounded adult. The sound of a muffled whimper caught his attention.

“What the—” he murmured, lowering his sword as he pushed a gap open in the branches.

It was a baby.

Funny looking baby, too , he thought. He wasn’t sure how many babies he’d seen in his life (and he’d seen a lot) that had glowing red eyes and skin with a colour and luminosity reminiscent of the wax of a lit candle. The child also appeared to have two sets of needle-sharp fangs growing into its tiny little mouth, he noticed as it began to cry, reaching for him. But still it was, undeniably, without a shadow of a doubt, a baby.

On balance, he decided that it would be best to put the sword away.

“What is it?” Tiriawen called out from where she stood, several yards away, overall doing a pretty terrible job of guarding him. He reached down and lifted the infant up into his arms, wrapping it—him—in his cloak.

“Totally harmless,” he said, stepping away from the bush. He pulled back his cloak to show her and tried not to laugh at her expression. She faltered for a moment before regaining her composure.

“Sire, I really—”

“Look how small he is, too: must be newborn.”

“Sire, it has teeth.”

“And? So do we.”

“Your Highness may not be aware of this, but that’s not what babies usually look like; that might well be a newborn, but a newborn what?”

“Does it matter?”

“We cannot simply bring what might well be a creation of the Enemy into the heart of our defences,” she hissed, glaring at him and the child both.

“Being the creation of the enemy doesn’t stop him from being a baby. I’m not going to leave him defenceless in the wilderness!” He swept his free arm around wildly in an attempt to articulate the all-encompassing danger that lurked behind every rock and tree, and the baby let out a short cry. He cursed under his breath; the baby must’ve been scared by the movement; he should’ve thought of that.

But he quieted down fast, almost as if he was scared of making more noise. The ember glow emitting from his tiny body was dimmer, too. Yes, he was definitely scared. Some vague horror lodged itself in his gut as he tried not to consider the possibilities.

“You won’t change my mind,” he said, filled with a new resolve. “I will not be so terrified of his traps to risk leaving an innocent to die. We are not Thingol.”

They stared each other down for a good thirty seconds until she raised her eyebrows and sighed, making for her horse.

“Eru knows they don’t pay me enough for this,” he heard her mutter. She turned back to face him as she mounted. “Do whatever you want with it, your Highness, but I will not be the one justifying this decision to your father.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 F.A. 453 – Mithrim

There had been a number of changes in the appearance of his present company.

The baby’s teeth didn’t seem to be as sharp as they once were—in fact, they didn’t really seem to be at all, having retreated back into little more than tiny pearl nubs peeking out through his gums. Just as well, because he was developing an interest in chewing on things placed within the proximity of his mouth which, of course, included Fingon’s fingers and, while he respected Russandol immensely, he wasn’t sure he would be able to deal with any extremity-sacrifices of his own.

Over the normal sounds of the court, he could hear someone approaching reasonably quickly and with significant fervour. He had two guesses. One was ‘my father, angry’ and the other was ‘my father, confused.’

The door swung open. “What in Varda’s stars did you do?”

“Ah—” he got up from his position cross-legged on the floor— “I’m glad Tiriawen managed to report to you in so timely a manner! I’m sorry I wasn’t with her but, as you can see, I’m somewhat busy,” he said cheerfully. And not at all sorrily, if he had to be honest.

“Fingon.” His father closed his eyes. Perhaps recalling deep breathing techniques long ago drilled into his brain, when Fëanor was still alive. “Why?”

“Just look at him!”

Fingolfin sighed and moved over to peer down at the baby nestled in his arms.

“Fingon, you do realise that this is obviously not an elf in any way, shape or form, right?” The baby blinked at him. Fingolfin smiled, easing. “But he is adorable, and he is a baby, so maybe you’re right. Hello, little one.”

“See?” Fingon shifted the baby into his father’s arms. “Also, I’m keeping him.”

“Hm? Yes, of course—aren’t you a sweet little dear?” He cooed. “What were you saying, Finno?”

“He’s my son now.”

“He’s your…” Fingolfin trailed off, then sighed. “Look, let’s talk about this: for a start, you don’t know who his parents are, you just plucked him out of a bush in a wasteland, he glows—that’s not really relevant, but I just wanted to make sure that you were aware of that.”

“He used to glow brighter.” Fingon ignored the look that his father gave him. “Anyway, I’m a good ninety-nine percent sure his parents are dead and/or arseholes who’d leave their baby to starve in a barren wasteland where anyone could find him. Also, he’s cute.”

“We’ve established that.” Fingolfin stared at the baby some more who was, coincidentally, trying to stick a lock of his hair into his mouth for the chew test. “You know what? Alright, since there’s no point in trying to stop you, is there?” Fingon shook his head. His father rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the baby, muttering, “you know, I really regret being so adamant about teaching you to stand your ground and hang on to your convictions.”

“It was an important skill.”

“Right, what are you calling him?”

The change of subject threw Fingon off guard for a moment. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Of course, you didn’t.”

“I mean, I did!” He protested. “I just had no good ideas.”

“That’s understandable,” Fingolfin said, nodding sagely, “I had an entire pregnancy to come up with a name for you, and I still had trouble.”

“’Still had trouble’ here means you had no good names when I was born, panicked, and inverted the particles in Maglor’s name, right? Because we all know that’s what happened.”

“That’s not what happened! Anyway. My point is: I’d be glad to help you. It’s perfectly understandable that you’re having trouble; finding names for your children is hard, especially when there are no other younger relatives around to steal from.”

Fingon did not laugh. At all. He had a duty to maintain both his own dignity and that of his father, the High King.

He felt like he would break a rib from the strain, but he didn’t laugh.

As soon as he had regathered his composure, he shot his father a grateful smile and said, “thank you. You’re the best, and I would hug you right now if you weren’t busy holding my son. I’m just going to tell you what I came up with on the ride home, and we can see where we’ll go from there, alright?”

Fingolfin nodded. “As I said, I’m happy to help.

Fingon threw a glance at the baby, who was now busy being entranced by his new grandfather’s necklace. It felt perfect. Finally, finally, there was someone else in his immediate family. He had been starting to go crazy.

“Well, given that he’s so glowy, and used to be even glowier, and he’s so perfect-and-wonderful-and-the-most-beautiful-creature-I’ve-ever-seen—” he cleared his throat— “I thought maybe something based on cala? Oh, sorry, calad.” He frowned. “Or was it galad? Whichever, nobody cares.”

Fingolfin blinked at him in admittedly rather insulting surprise.

“That’s actually a really good start: you’re far better at this than you think,” he said, eyes drawn back down to the baby in his arms, who gurgled. “Yes, yes, we’re talking about you, you clever little thing. You adorable jewel. You precious little star.”

He continued to coo at the baby, who had managed to grasp onto one of his various jewelled accoutrements and appeared dangerously close to trying out that one for chew-ability, too.

“Gil-galad!” Fingon exclaimed, making both of them jump. “That’s the perfect name!”

“I’m sorry?”

“I think a good name for my son, whom you are currently holding, would be Gil-galad,” he said, slowly and carefully, reaching out to nonchalantly flick the gemstone away from said son’s mouth. “And I will not be accepting criticism. Thank you for being a sounding board.”

“It is actually a very good name. I’m proud of you, Finno. What do you think, Gil—what?” Before Fingon could do more than start in his direction, he took a deep breath and said, “Fingon? What would you say his eyes looked like when you found him?”

“Uh, red? Glowing? Why? What’s wrong? Let me see!”

Fingolfin held up the baby—Gil-galad—in silence so that Fingon could see his adorable little face and his completely normal blue eyes. Which he most definitely did not have earlier. And which looked a lot like his own.

“Huh,” Fingon said, “that’s certainly going to be a cool party trick.”

“A party trick that will make people wonder what he—” he was interrupted, again, by Gil-galad’s gurgling. It was beginning to sound somewhat distressed, like he was planning to pass to sobs very soon. “Well. Whatever he is, he’s a baby. And one who hasn’t eaten in a while. Let’s see if we can’t find something for you, Gil.”

 F.A. 453

Fingon, my dearest,

As always, I have been awaiting your correspondence since the last time we spoke. I understand that it is incredibly hard to get letters out here (as much as I am regretful of that fact) so, as you can imagine, I was shocked to find that you had written back so quickly. Implications of our normal speed of correspondence aside, I was somewhat taken aback by your inquiries. However, I shall answer your questions as best I can.

My health is fine. It is always fine and has been fine ever since I finished my recovery over a century ago. While my human allies do often suffer sickness, their ailments to not affect me. You know this. As for the weather, it is cold, as normal, and damp, as normal. The last time I saw sunlight was three weeks ago, and I’m not entirely sure that instance wasn’t some mirage cast by Sauron himself to fool us into a false high mood. Either way, it didn’t work.

What truly startled me, however, was the news with which you graced me: that you have, through some curious series of events, acquired an infant of unspecified origin. Initially, I had assumed that you were joking, but your father the High King (may the Valar protect him) also wrote to me, albeit more formally. I suppose I must congratulate you, as is custom, but I also kindly request that you provide me with a detailed account of how exactly this came to be. I am confused.

I love you, but what the fuck.

Hugs and kisses, Maedhros

 F.A. 453 - Mithrim

Maedhros had only been about fifty-three-percent right about what he should expect. The first fifty percent was ‘the baby will be a baby,’ which was an easy enough expectation to fill. The next three percent was ‘Fingon will definitely have dressed the baby up’ (obvious to anyone who’d spoken to him for more than five minutes. No baby needed that much jewellery, but that was a conversation for another day.) He had at the very least expected the baby to be an elf, but he couldn’t be sure of that.

He wasn’t sure what Gil-galad was exactly, but he knew what he wasn’t , and he also had a certain number of suspicions about where the ‘not an elf’ could’ve come from.

“Fingon?”

“Yes?”

The baby stirred in his sleep. In all fairness, Fingon had never actually met the people who had kept him captive, so he’d have no way of recognising that particular flavour of vibe which left him so uneasy.

Gil-galad opened his eyes and smiled.

“Never mind,” Maedhros said.

“No, tell me.” Fingon walked over from where he had been gazing adoringly at them. “What’s wrong?”

Maedhros glanced down and Gil-galad, who had progressed from smiling—adorably—to reaching for him with his pudgy little hands. No, not for him: for his hair, exactly like every other small child before him. It still baffled him why they only did it to him, but he wasn’t going to complain when offered a perfectly good excuse to hold a baby.

“It’s not important. I was concerned about the consequences of adopting an obviously strange child you found in a bush within sight of Angband but, whatever else he is, he is still a baby.” He smiled at the boy, whose far-too-many-adornments were jingling as he attempted to attract his attention. “And one who has inherited your desire to touch my hair at all times as well as your lack of patience. Oh, stop that, Ereinion, of course, I’ll hold you.”

It took a few seconds (and some help from Fingon) to get him settled in his right arm—having his hand at least somewhat free was not something he was willing to forsake so easily—but the sight of the baby happily chewing on a strand of copper curls, like his father before him, made it completely worth it.

“So…” Fingon drawled, when he was sure Gil-galad was not at any risk of falling, “Ereinion?”

Maedhros looked down. At the baby, and not at all to hide a blush. “I don’t know what came over me: it just felt right.”

Fingon laughed, as full of joy and love and life as ever. “I’m glad you like him.”

“As if there was any chance I wouldn’t.” And there hadn’t been. He could play the Romantic and say that he’d love any child of Fingon’s, but in truth it was more the fact that he had six younger siblings who had all, despite their flaws, been rather sweet babies and—if he was being honest—he missed that. Besides, Gil-galad (or Ereinion—he decided he quite liked it as a pet name, though it could be bothersome if the child chose to go by it regularly) was far better behaved than any of them.

If he could’ve forgotten his purpose and passed the rest of the day in sweet, familial bliss, he would’ve, but there were concerns. “How are you going to explain this to your people?” He hated himself for asking.

Fingon’s expression darkened.

“I know it’s not something that you want to think about—”

“No, I just figured I could abuse my authority a little.”

“And threaten them?”

“No, no! Just say ‘this is my son and I don’t owe you any explanation because a Prince shouldn’t win respect based on his personal life’ or something along those lines.”

Maedhros frowned.

“Well, what would you do?”

“See, I abdicated specifically to avoid intrusive personal questions from people I barely knew.”

“I thought you abdicated because you felt the crown rightfully belonged to my father and that none of your brothers were fit to rule.”

“I can have more than one reason.” He paused for a second, considering. A part of him, very deep down, was screaming about how insane all of this was, but a much nicer part was reminding him that Ereinion/Gil-galad was an incredibly cute baby and while he listened to that part, not a lot else mattered. Besides, he got the distinct sense that people weren’t prone to asking questions about the newborn Prince. “I think that could work, though.” He smiled at the child. “Especially if they got to see what a sweet kid—”

Wait. He frowned. Wasn’t—

“Oh, he does that.” Fingon cut off his train of thought, taking the baby back and planting a kiss on his newly freckled cheek.

“Strange.” Maedhros said. He couldn’t really bring himself to feel uneasy.

 F.A. 471 - Nargothrond

It wasn’t, Celebrimbor thought, that he disliked the boy. Quite the contrary, in fact. He was a delight to have around, quiet and ready to help, but also cheerful (well, as much as he could be, considering), and inquisitive in a way that indicated a sharp mind.

Some things about him were, however, concerning.

His main problem was going to be trying to explain that to Orodreth without implying that anything should actually be done about it. Ideally, it shouldn’t be too hard; Orodreth spent more time than he did around their youngest cousin (wherever he’d come from—Fingon had been vague) so it was impossible that he hadn’t noticed something already.

Wasn’t it?

He knocked on the office door and walked in immediately. Orodreth knew that he would be coming. There was no need to drag this out.

“Cel,” he said. Obviously, he had been waiting. “What’s wrong? You don’t usually ask for urgent private meetings. Has something happened?”

He sat down. Uninvited but, well, there were perks to being the King’s cousin. “Sort of. It’s Gil-galad.” He ignored Orodreth’s gasp of concern. “You know how he asked to help me in the forges and maybe learn something?”

“Of course I do—did something happen? Get to the point, I beg of you.”

Celebrimbor once again internally thanked any eavesdropping Ainur and ancestors for the good luck he had been granted in having almost no political responsibilities. Poor Orodreth really deserved better.

“Well it’s really a…piling up of slightly concerning things, but it’s the last that made me decide to bring this to your attention, so I’m going to start there.” He took a deep breath. He really hoped Orodreth would agree with him on how the situation should be handled. “He burned his hand grabbing one of the tools. It wasn’t a particularly dangerous injury from what I could see, so I thought I’d wait a second and see how he handled it before panicking. And…”

“And?”

“Well, one second he was staring at the burn, the next he was fine, and at the time I shrugged it off because it felt like that was a perfectly reasonable course of events.

“Now, if he just hadn’t been burned, I would’ve assumed it was a skill inherited from my side of the family. If he had healed himself, I would’ve been impressed with his talent. But…what happened was not one of those things.” He paused, the words he had been meaning to say swirling in his mind, unable—or unwilling to stay fixed. “He just changed. And, more importantly, I felt—I still feel—compelled to accept it. Something is up with that boy.”

Orodreth sank back into his chair and sighed. “Did anyone else see that?”

“No, we were alone. And even if we hadn’t been, I asked everyone to try not to pay too much attention to him, so as not to intimidate him.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

Poor, poor Orodreth.

“Would you like me to talk to him?” Celebrimbor asked.

“No, no. There’s been a bunch of this going on; I was already planning on having a talk with him about it.” He raked his hands through his hair, exasperated frustration rolling off him in waves. “Can you stay? I need to put my thoughts in order.”

Celebrimbor nodded, relaxing in his seat.

“Alright. So obviously I realised that something was off the instant he got here, what with him showing up nearly alone and scared to give me the details of his family. And, of course, he felt a little strange but…I figured I was just unused to seeing people from outside Nargothrond. And then he gave me that lovely letter from Fingon asking me to take care of him for a while and informing me that he was ‘a very special boy, just amazing’ which really should have tipped me off.” He sighed again. “I thought that was just some Fingonish way of expressing love and pride for the child. I’m an idiot.”

“It’s not like strange powers of unknown scope are a normal situation, Orodreth.” Celebrimbor reached over and gave his cousin’s shoulder what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “It’s nothing you can be expected to anticipate or deduce from cryptic warnings from Fingon. And you know he was being deliberately vague. He’s an arse like that.”

“He is. Thank you. I just…thought ‘special’ meant he was clever or had some rare skill or extraordinary creativity or—or something like that. I didn’t think it meant he’d be a shapeshifter who could warp the laws of physics just by existing, or have some sort of strange charm that would stop us from noticing those things and whatever else he can do. Fuck.”

“Wait,” Celebrimbor said, “what do you mean ‘ warp the laws of physics?’”

Orodreth sighed deeply. The poor bastard.

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, to be quite honest, but you must have noticed. Things just spontaneously move to where he needs them to be, that I’ve seen. Like,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the things on his desk, “the ink will always be where he’s putting his pen, even if he wasn’t aiming correctly; papers will always be in the place he reaches for, even if it’s the wrong one; he always miraculously catches things just before they fall. That sort of thing, you know? Minutiae. But they pile up, and at this point it’s too much to be just coincidences. I don’t know anymore. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it.”

Celebrimbor had noticed that, in fact, but it hadn’t seemed very strange or noteworthy…oh.

“Oh dear.”

“Yes, ‘oh dear.’”

“Well, if we’re reasonably certain it’s not on purpose…I mean. It’s not like there’s any malicious intent behind it, or really any intent at all, right?” He asked, a little desperate. Gil-galad was a sweet boy and it would be unfortunate to have to punish him for something he couldn’t consciously control, or whatever it was they might have to do.

“I really don’t think so,” Orodreth said as he massaged his temples. Poor guy. “But he does need to be taught, or something. This could get him into trouble, he needs to be able to control it.”

“I don’t really have any experience with this kind of ability, but I do know about control. And so do you, I’m sure. We can deal with this. We just need to be careful not to make him think that he’s in trouble.”

A moderately overpowered young Finwëan thinking that he might be in trouble was a recipe for disaster, Celebrimbor knew.

Orodreth nodded. He also knew.

“We can deal with this, yes. I just need to be a little delicate when broaching the subject. But when Fingon comes back for his son he had better fucking explain.”

 F.A. 560 – Vanyarin camp

War, Eönwë was aware, was not an excuse to cut loose, and to indulge in every wanton impulse that flittered through one’s mind. Many of his comrades seemed all too quick to forget that and took their revenge (was it actually even theirs to take?) with extra helpings. Part of him was hesitant to discipline them, because he knew all too well the authority that he held. The other part of him was afraid, because he knew all too well the passions that they kept hidden, and what they could amount to.

But the exiles were different. Calmer. More conscious of the meaning of their fight. They all seemed slightly strange—like elves, sure, but shifted a little to the left, and with their moral colours one tone off what he was used to.

And this young upstart with the bright eyes and the permanent crease between his brows was by far the strangest. There was something achingly familiar about him that he couldn’t quite seem to comprehend.

Not that he would ever bring that up, of course. An ally was an ally, no matter how uncanny.

“Lord Eönwë.” He turned to find the boy kneeling in front of him in a display of respect completely uncharacteristic of his supposed heritage. It made him nervous.

“Your Majesty.” Eönwë bowed his own greeting. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with being treated so highly—it was that he was uncomfortable being treated so highly by a Fëanorian—or was it a Ñolofinwëan? Someone had said that the High King was a son of Orodreth, but he certainly didn’t buy that. Not that it mattered. No, what mattered was that Gil-galad was in charge.

Still, he felt off.

“I was peaking with his Majesty, King Finarfin about the weaponry—” almost imperceptible, that flash of disdain— “he says that all is well, and I want to trust him, but my people have not survived so long by blindly accepting what we’re told.” Gil-galad trailed off, the dismissive roll of his eyes so quick as to be almost unnoticeable. But, nonetheless, uncomfortably familiar.

He could’ve argued the flaw in his logic—that, in actuality, many of Gil-galad’s men and kindred hadn’t survived—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, in some small way, the young king was right, and was talking about a lesson in caution learned through blood and sacrifice. A fear passed down from father to son.

But that wasn’t what intrigued him.

“Do you dislike your great-uncle, Gil-galad?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

It wasn’t so much that he shared the anti-authority stance with Mairon, but that the way in which he peppered his opinions into conversation was so similar. It would’ve been entertaining if it didn’t make his skin crawl, leaving him after every conversation with the distinct sense that he was missing something. Besides, it was a very Fëanorian thing to do, too.

“Never mind.” Eönwë waved it off as he had waved off so many other little things like that. Still, the little king intrigued him for all his mystery, from the insistence on never mentioning his father by name, to the fact that he looked very clearly and distinctly different from when he had last seen him two days ago.

It was something about the sweep of his cheekbones, and a shift in the line of his nose. Subtle, but it struck a far more severe profile than when Eönwë had first spoken to him. He wondered if it was intentional.

It occurred to him that there were ways to find out.

“You know,” he said as he thought over his approach with care, “you’re awfully polite for a Fëanorian.”

Gil-galad tensed. “Oh, I’m not—”

“You aren’t?” Perfect. “See, that’s what I heard but, of course, the ones I’ve heard from probably gained a lot more standing by claiming you as one of their own. And we haven’t had any chance to talk about our families—or, rather: your family.”

“Since we’ve been at war?” Gil-galad raised an eyebrow, incredulous. Now, that was more like it.

Eönwë nodded. “But, despite our best efforts, it doesn’t look like it’ll be ending any time soon, so we might as well attempt to make this more pleasant by attempting some sort of friendship.”

“Sir, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please, Gil-galad, this formality is not normal for your family, whichever one it may be. I can’t count the number of times Fingolfin cursed my name, and Fëanor called be a ‘brainwashed mouthpiece’ to my face.” He left out the swearing. Mostly because he had a feeling that if Manwë heard him swear, he might not actually have a job anymore.

Gil-galad remained cautious. Eönwë couldn’t blame him. To the Umanyar, the Ainur were distant and powerful beings, ominous in that they were the creatures of legend, older than time itself and unfathomably wise. The illusion would’ve been quite broken if they’d popped around for tea every Sunday afternoon.

He sighed. “If you don’t tell me, then the only credible word of you that reaches Aman will be that you’re a Fëanorian who’s too afraid to admit it, and while that certainly benefits their clan quite a lot, it probably wouldn’t be great for your own image, all things considered. How do you want to be seen, Ereinion?”

“If you must know, Fingon was my father.”

Eönwë nodded. On a surface level, the admission made sense. Gil-galad clearly mirrored his appearance, from his basic built to the colour and texture of his hair. Still, that didn’t quite fit. There was something about him on a different level—energetically—that didn’t entirely work under that assumption.

“Biologically?”

Gil-galad widened his eyes. “You know, most people don’t ask that.”

“You forget that I knew Fingon.” He left that ‘and he only had eyes for one,’ unsaid.

“He said he found me in a bush in the scrublands, but I always assumed he was joking. The last time we spoke I—I was just a kid.”

There was a pain to those words that made Eönwë feel as if his heart had constricted. He couldn’t say that he understood the loss, but he did understand the hurt, and that was the kind of wound that took hundreds of years to heal. He decided it wasn’t worth pressing the image further.

Shapeshifter or not, it made no difference. He could only hope that Gil-galad would be a little more sensible than those of Melian’s brood.

“Is that all, sir?” The king asked.

“I think so. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your people, after all.”

 F.A. 587 – Noldorin camp

The King—Gil-galad—was staring at them. He’d been staring at them since they’d ridden up to the Noldor camp with him some two hours earlier, which was impressive, considering those two hours had contained a lot of walking around, eating, a truly idiotic amount of introductions—each a different thinly disguised interrogation—and other such activities unsuited to prolonged eye contact.

Elros stared back, harder.

Elrond pulled out a book.

“Right,” Gil-galad said, “I’m sorry, I had actually pulled you in here because I wanted to talk to you.”

“You’re not very good at it,” Elros said.

“What he means,” Elrond said, tapping the book against his knee in warning, “is that we don’t know what it is you want to talk about, so we’re really just waiting for you to start.”

Elrond, in a lot of other ways the perfect brother, tended to suck up to every adult in the room.

One, we’re also adults, and two, it’s called manners.

It was very elvish, and frankly sad.

“I need to ask you a few questions that I don’t particularly want other people to hear about, which is why we’re sitting in my room, but that means that I would be very grateful if you could, uh, avoid mentioning this to other people.” Gil-galad started, sheepishly. And finally, finally, looked away from them and down at his hands.

“Sure!” Elrond answered.

“Provided, of course, that we can ask you a couple of things, too,” Elros continued, and smiled. The guy seemed genuinely unsettled by them, so they really had to be as creepy as possible.

“I, of course, will do my best to answer any questions that you might have,” Gil-galad said, clearly nervous. “May I start?”

They nodded, in dramatic unison.

“Alright,” he said, bracing himself, “my—Maedhros. And Maglor. How are they?”

Oh, so it was going to be like that.

Beside him, Elrond shrugged diplomatically.

“Well, they’re not dead,” Elros said, trying to convey the…situation that was Maglor and Maedhros to this poor idiot who hadn’t seen or heard from them in what? Centuries? The way he frowned, at least, made it look like he got it.

“That bad?” He asked, cautiously.

“Probably worse, to be honest,” Elrond answered, still pretending to look at his book.

“Oh.” Gil-galad looked down, trying to hide his reaction, probably, then rallied himself. “Obviously they’re well enough to have raised you into the admirable young men you are now. Right?”

“Well…” Elros said.

“Yes. But,” Elrond continued.

“That was basically instinct. They had a lot of trouble with everything else.”

“Especially Maedhros,” Elrond added, then winced as Gil-galad slumped down in his chair. He wasn’t really taking the news well at all. “He’s just a disaster, frankly. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he lied. Badly. Everything about him looked sad, including his admittedly marvellous hair, which was looking significantly darker and less curly than it had just a few seconds earlier, and—was his skin actually paler?  

It is. I think he’s a lot better at shapeshifting than us, but also less controlled.

I can’t fault him, considering you just told him his father is completely nuts and will probably self-destruct before he can see him again.

Elrond’s presence in his mind hummed in agreement, then fell silent, waiting for the High King’s next move.

He didn’t have to wait long: the guy might not have been the best at controlling his appearance, but he was certainly good at keeping hold of his emotions. He paused a moment to shudder, then drew his hands over his face, and the King was back, from his expression to his face. His eyes seemed not only to change colour, but also shape. Poor guy.

“Alright then. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing I can do about it. Thank you. Now, for my actual, um, personal question,” he said, with a freshly convincing calm, “when did you two realise you weren’t, um, normal?”

Oh, so when he said personal, he meant personal. Elros looked at his brother.

Well?

Don’t worry, I think I can deal with this.

Gil-galad had begun to fidget while they communed, the pen on his desk twirling between his fingers as he radiated a deep fear of having overstepped. Twirling, one might note, with no apparent effort on his part. And he was the one asking about not being normal.

“Well,” Elrond said, and the pen froze as Gil-galad’s attention snapped toward him, “we were going to ask you the same thing.”

He paused. Processing, probably. Then set his pen down gently on the desk. “What do you mean?”

Elros would’ve laughed at the audacity of that question considering, well, everything, but the terror spilling off of the High King was no illusion. Still, he controlled it well outwardly, from the careful set of his shoulders to the still of his hands pressed against the surface of the desk.

Elros figured that persuasion was going to take them far too long to get them anywhere so, instead, he narrowed his eyes at the leader of their people and started him down. Gave him a taste of his own medicine.

Elrond sighed in his head.

But he had made the right choice. Gil-galad sighed.

“Is it that obvious?”

He and Elrond nodded.

“Orodreth asked me why my eyes had changed colour,” he said, cautiously. “I hadn’t realised I was doing it. That was really it.” Another beat indicated to Elros that he wasn’t planning on elaborating any time soon, which was a shame because that sounded like a great story.

Our turn.

“It was a conversation with Maglor—”

“He tried to teach us to sing,” Elros picked up the story. “ Just sing, not—not songs of power or anything. But apparently, we had a lot of potential. You could say. We…took to it very easily. Um. We had a greater-than-average affinity for music—”

“We knocked Maedhros out,” Elrond interjected. “By accident.” I can’t believe you would try to be diplomatic about something.

Elros ignored him.

Gil-galad took a deep breath, then grinned. Just a little. “Well, at least I can be sure he was getting some sleep.” He rose from his seat. “Now that that’s all cleared up, we should probably be making a move.” He eyed the entrance to the tent—the light that had been spilling through the slit had lowered drastically since they entered.

“We’re not staying here for the night?”

“No, I know the war is over, but it would still be best not to take the risk. The last stray enemies come out at night, so we make sure to stay on the move.”

Elros grit his teeth. “Great.” More travelling.

“I think it would be best if the two of you rode with me, though. One, for the sake of diplomacy. Two, because I haven’t been able to speak to anyone about any of this since my fa—since I was a child.”

Elros met his brother’s eyes. He shrugged. Well, having the High King on their side couldn’t be a bad thing.

 S.A. 19 – Harlond

“I really am glad we were all free today, Elros.” Considering the circumstances, the High King’s words were, at best, unconvincing and, at worst, a lie. The least Manwë could’ve done would’ve been to blow the rain clouds away so that they wouldn’t be standing stone-still on the docks for fear that one false step might send them slipping into the water. The one day they had time to talk and it would be the one were even this vast gulf couldn’t protect them from the sea.

At least the southern harbour was still basically unused so there were no crazy people caring for their ships in this horrible weather to witness their disgrace. Right on cue, a particularly strong gust of wind nearly made him topple over.

I should build non-slip docks in our new land. Out of sand. Or sponges. Elros thought. He picked up on a vague sense of eye-rolling from his brother. It wasn’t his fault that Elrond wouldn’t recognise a good idea if it hit him in the face.

“Your fleet—” Gil-galad had to shout over the sound of the wind. It was vaguely undignified, but he wore it well— “seems to be going splendidly.”

“It will serve,” he called back, regretting it almost instantly as he felt the sting of sea spray on his tongue. He was dimly aware that behaving like a grossed-out kid and spitting the saltwater back into the sea was inappropriate for a king. He wasn’t sure that he cared.

“You don’t sound too pleased.” Gil-galad frowned. “You aren’t having doubts?”

It would be awkward if you were having doubts. Elrond added, in his head (easier to talk there than out loud in this weather.) He wondered if there was some way to lock out his thoughts. Part of him had wondered if the mortality would cover that, but apparently telepathy would be telepathy regardless. The gift that just kept on giving.

“It’s not that—” he shot his brother a stern look— “I just—well, for one: this isn’t really the perfect place to be having a conversation right now, and for the other: it—I just—it feels a little strange, you know? In general.”

Gil-galad took a careful few steps over the soaking timber of the docks until he could safely rest a hand on Elros’ arm for support. “In general?” He asked.

“It just occurred to me that it’s a little weird for me to be ruling over a group of people I only partially— barely, if we’re honest—belong to, you know?”

Gil-galad nodded as they stepped away from the docks. Elrond followed, graceful and balanced as always. Somehow, he’d managed to pick up their great-grandmother’s dexterity when literally no one else in the family had. “I understand, trust me. ”

“I suppose theoretically,” Elrond said, “not that I personally would know.”

Shut up, Elrond. His brother laughed, almost imperceptibly, but the humour missed Elros. There was a lull in the conversation as they made their way over the glistening wet pebbles of the beach. Some horrible voice in the back of his head reminded him that this couldn’t last forever. He grabbed both of them by the arm.

“Really though, I love you both.” They stared at him. “You know that, right?”

Gil-galad tried to smile and frown at the same time. Elrond just looked sombre.

“Of course we know that,” he said, “if you don’t stop talking like you’re dying, I’ll push you into the sea.” It was a weak joke. Elros recognised the underlying panic in his voice. The uncertainty. It was the same as when they’d come home one day to find their parents absent and Gil-galad in their kitchen.

“They wouldn’t have abandoned us, would they?” He had said. Elros hadn’t answered.

“If you make a habit of talking like this, we won’t take you seriously when you actually go.” Gil-galad nudged him in the shoulder. “And, besides, just because you’re mortal doesn’t mean you can’t still outlive us.”

“Especially with Gil’s ‘High King of the Noldor’ curse.” Elrond grinned again. The moment had passed.

“I’m fairly sure bringing it up is bad luck.”

“Maybe it’ll be scared off if it knows we know it exists.”

“I don’t think that’s how—oh, hey, your dad.”

For a moment he and Elrond both faltered—they couldn’t see anyone else around, and it wasn’t like the rain was hard enough to obscure— oh.

Eärendil.

He should’ve realised Gil’s tone was far too casual (and also that he was looking up. ) They reached the realisation at the same time; they hadn’t even noticed that the rain had cleared. It occurred to Elros that he’d have to train himself to assume Eärendil by default when people brought up his father.

“Hi dad,” he called out, “seen any Fëanorians?”

“Any significant rebirths we should know about?” Elrond added.

Eärendil did not respond. Elros decided that he would forgive him for that, on account of being both a star, and also several thousand miles away.

Gil-galad rolled his eyes. “We should get back before Círdan decides we must’ve offended Ossë and sends out a search party.”

 S.A. 1200 – Lindon

“There’s someone here to see you.”

Gil-galad perked up. The afternoon had been boring, and he’d been tempted to sidle off to his office and start doing some actual work; if only Elrond hadn’t decided to go and ‘take a break’ by wandering seemingly aimlessly along the coastline for three months.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t the person that he saw. And, if he hadn’t imagined it, they hadn’t been expecting him either—just for a second, barely noticeably, they faltered in the centre of the room before sinking down into a bow. When they looked back up, they were smiling.

“Your majesty,” they said.

They shouldn’t have made him feel uncomfortable. They didn’t look strange—just like any other elf, except perhaps a litter blonder than he was used to, and with the luminous eyes of the Eldar—and their accent was standard for the non-Fëanorian Amanyar, but they felt strange. There was something uncomfortably familiar to them, like a scent that you couldn’t quite put a name to.

He forced a smile. “Welcome. Who is it that graces me with their presence?”

They approached his throne and rest a hand on its arm, leaning down to talk to him rather than kneeling, or simply standing back so that the curtains of their hair fell around their face and they could look him dead in the eyes. The gesture made his skin crawl, but he wouldn’t look away. “My name is Annatar,” they said, “I’ve come from the West.”

He bit back any requests of news that sat on his tongue; this didn’t seem like the type of person he could trust to give reliable information. He settled for a diplomatic (and slightly awkward), “that’s lovely.”

They narrowed their eyes, as if looking for something, then stood back (at last. Gil breathed an internal sigh of relief.) “My apologies, your customs must be different to ours,” they said, registering his discomfort. Maybe he had thought unfairly of them. “In truth, I’ve been sent with knowledge to enlighten you and your people. I come to teach.”

“Would you, perhaps, like to talk about this in my office? Over tea.” Gil-galad shot an attendant a pointed look, in that hope that it would convey an unspoken please leave a knife in my desk draw, there’s a lad.

The movement from throne room to office was quick on account of the fact that Gil-galad was hoping not to have to continue this conversation for any longer than absolutely necessary. Annatar ran a finger along the back of their chair before taking a seat and resting their elbows against his desk. He really wished that Elrond was there.

“We have a lot in common.” Annatar drummed their fingers against the desk as they spoke. “Progress, innovation, knowledge—and I can bring you all of that.”

Gil-galad swallowed. “Is there a price?”

“Why, no.” They smiled. “None at all.”

He rummaged around in his draw under the guise of looking for a quill. He wasn’t going to attack Annatar. It would be undiplomatic, even if all his instincts were screaming ‘kill him now and have it over with.’ He just wanted to know that, should he so desire, he had the option.

It appeared he did not have the option.

He pulled a sheet of parchment out instead and dipped a pen into ink. Annatar’s eyes flitted to the movement. For a moment, his control had lapsed. He played it off as best he could even as they raised their eyebrows. Gil-galad decided to answer a different question to the one that they were asking.

“Sorry, I’d need to think about it. Politics. You understand.” He sincerely did hope that Annatar understood. Just perhaps the subtext rather than the text.

They narrowed their eyes then smiled again. It reminded him of a fox. “Of course.” They stood back up and made their way back to the door. Their hand lingered against the frame as they turned to meet his eyes again. “But please, do let me know if you ever change your mind.”

And then they swept away, leaving a very confused attendant carrying a tray with two cups of tea in their wake.

 T.A. 1 – The Halls of Mandos

Námo had a problem.

“Sir, there’s another half-maia.”

He frowned. It was probably the same expression he had made when the first one showed up. Thankfully, Lúthien at least had the good grace to know exactly what she wanted, so it hadn’t been too hard to figure out what to do with her. He had a terrible feeling that this one wouldn’t be so easy to handle. His frown deepened. “The musician?”

“No, this one’s a king.”

“I thought there were only two of them,” he said through grit teeth to the poor maia standing in front of him.

They bit their incorporeal lip and handed him the scroll. He skimmed over all of the menial details of names, dates of birth and titles until he got to the Fëa classification. They had been right. This was another half-maia. He slumped in his throne.

Vairë patted him on the arm. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, dear. You did last time.”

“ Last time I called dad and asked him what in the tune of the Song was going on, and I’m not sure he wants to be bothered again for a while after that whole ordeal with Númenor.”

“It’ll be fine.” Vairë appeared to try for what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. It came off more as a grimace.

“Is he Melian’s?” He turned back to the maia. “We could just ask her to come and pick him up.”

They shook their head. And their entire body. They seemed to be in such a state of fear that they were physically vibrating. “I’m—I’m afraid not, sir.”

He wondered if he wanted to know. He wondered if it would help him to know. He wondered if he would ever know peace if he didn’t know. “Would you…tell me?”

“Sir—he—he’s Mairon’s, sir.”

“Well.” Námo put in a lot of effort to avoid processing that information. “I suppose I should, er, have a word with him.”

 T.A. 1 – Mithlond

Círdan awoke in a garden.

He sighed. This was not new, and this usually didn’t bode all that well for his mental clarity during the following day, but it wasn’t as if he had much choice when it came to these dreams.

It was a nice enough place, he supposed; it sat atop a cliff, overlooking the ocean, and was filled with fountains and rose trellises and climbing vines that wove around abandoned stone buildings. There were columns, too, and those always helped to make a place look a little more regal. He supposed it must be based loosely on the design of a temple, but he also supposed that it didn’t actually exist in any physical capacity, so there was no point in asking about it.

No, this was not new.

But the person meeting him was.

They were a tall figure, robed in an array of colours—bright red woven with blue and yellow and patterns that seemed to slip in and out of recognition—but with a hood casting shadow over their face, hiding his from view. He got the distinct sense that if he removed the hood, he wouldn’t find anything beneath it.

Still, he knew enough to know who he was talking to. “Lord Námo,” he said, sinking to his knees in a gesture of respect.

He then got the sense that someone familiar had joined the scene and sighed.

“I noticed that you were worried about Gil-galad,” Ulmo said, pulling him gently up by the shoulder.

His chest tightened. “Well, I’m certainly grieving his death, if that’s what you mean.”

To his credit, Ulmo managed to ignore the comment. “We discussed it, and it seemed like a good idea to speak with Námo.” There was a pause. “And also he’s run into a little bit of an issue, too.”

Oh. No.

He didn’t want to consider what kind of problem would necessitate a meeting with the literal guardian of the dead. Was Gil-galad missing? Had he caused some sort of riot? Did he escape? Any number of things could’ve happened, especially considering the company he would, inevitably, have ended up around.

“Is he okay?” He asked, breathless with fear.

Ulmo shot Námo a look that said something along the lines of you explain.

The Lord of the Halls of Mandos made a movement that could generously have been perceived as a sigh. Círdan frowned and asked again. “Is he okay?”

“The truth is,” Námo said, voice like a thousand whispers, making Círdan shiver, “we aren’t sure what to do with him; he isn’t an elf. He is one of Lúthien’s kind.”

Círdan shook his head. “I’m fairly sure he’s too old to be descended from—”

“You misunderstand me, Nowë: he has the blood of a maia.”

“The blood of a maia…” he ran that through his head. If he was being honest with himself, it did make sense. With all of the weird talents that Gil-galad had and the amount of times his older relatives seemed to warn the caretakers that he was passed around to that he might be a little different. But who?

As if the Vala read his mind (and Círdan supposed it was entirely plausible that he had) the answer came. “He is the son of Sauron.”

The questions began to pour out. “You can’t punish him for that—does he know? He didn’t know—you can’t tell him—did you tell him? If you told him—”

“Please.” Námo raised a hand in placation. “He already knew and, even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t dare. He’s proven himself as good and noble as any other king—and a far sight moreso than some—he will be treated as such. It’s the case of his rebirth that’s the problem, and you’re his next of kin.”

It was a lot to take in. “I—” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m his next of kin?”

“He was childless. All of his immediate family are also deceased and, I might add, not entirely in their right minds. When we asked, he said to speak to you.”

He considered for a second. It didn’t take long. “Just treat him like any other king. Like you said.”

“Ah—” Námo paused a second— “Then it shall be.”