Work Text:
Gil-galad can’t bring herself to look Arafinwë in the eye. She fears that if he caught her gaze he’d somehow stare into her fëa and discover who she is, when she’s done so much to keep her past in the past. There aren’t many Nargothrondrim who remember her as Princess Finduilas, not after the Sack and their harrowing journey south and the Kinslaying...and she wants to be a new person now. A leader, a warrior, an ellon, even—though she’s not so sure on that last bit, and it’s hard to break the habit of referring to herself as “she,” at least only in her head.
But the other edhil in the room are no less comforting to look upon. Círdan is a friend, yes, but he is just as tense as she to meet Arafinwë, the brother of his secret wife. Lalwen is not present, busy fighting on the coast, and Gil-galad knows that Círdan is trying to avoid his marriage being found out until she is there to confront her brother herself. Círdan has enough of his wits about him to represent the Falathrim, but not enough to support Gil-galad in her anxiety.
And Maedhros...
He has been nothing but courteous to her since he met her, but Gil-galad remembers his brothers dragging Finrod to his doom. She remembers Gwindor being captured and tormented because of his defeat in the Fifth Battle. She remembers Celebrimbor, who had done so much to support her, weeping and shaken after the news of the second and third Kinslayings. She remembers the burning, the blood, the wailing of the few survivors at Sirion when she and Círdan arrived too late, too late. She remembers her people, so fragile, so broken already, further destroyed. She remembers the horror of learning that Elwing’s sons had been stolen away as ransom.
Maedhros looks to her, and she looks away.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Arafinwë says in halting Sindarin. Arafinwë, her ancestor. Arafinwë, the father of her father’s father. Arafinwë, who stayed behind at the Crossing and lived only in legends and lore, until suddenly the Valar deigned to send their aid at long last to the Exiles in Beleriand, and he came to the land from which he turned away.
Gil-galad never thought she would meet Arafinwë, at least not in this life. But is this truly the life of Finduilas Faelivrin? She is a new edhel now. A new ellon, perhaps, where once she was an elleth.
“Of course, Finarfin,” Círdan says, staring somewhere over his shoulder. “We are grateful for any aid to come from Aman. We would not turn you away.”
Arafinwë nods, glancing around the room with his shining eyes. Gil-galad is pointedly aware that despite the blonde tips of her hair, despite her position as the leader of Finrod’s people, she is less a Noldo than he. His light is golden, gleaming, shimmering off him in waves; and yet it is gentler than the fiery glow that bleeds from Maedhros’ every scar, the heat that pours off him and leaps from his eyes when fury takes him.
“For the...” Arafinwë struggles to find the word, then settles on, “poorness of my language, I apologize. This tongue is not my own. Maitimo, I know, speaks Quenya; Nowë, do you remember the old tongue?”
“Well enough,” says Círdan in something like Quenya, “and I am...close to one who speaks it well.” He glances to Gil-galad. “But for young Gil-galad, born on these shores, I hesitate to switch languages.”
“My father was of the Blessed Realm,” Gil-galad says. “I am not fluent, but I know some. I listen better than I speak. If it is Quenya you would prefer, that is fine, though my responses may be in my mother’s tongue if I cannot find the words.”
“Thank you,” Arafinwë says with some relief. “I, too, listen better than I speak, child.”
“He is not a child,” rumbled Maedhros, the first words he had spoken since the meeting began. “He is a grown elf, and a leader in his own right, or he would not be here.”
Arafinwë inclined his head. “What is your name, again?” he asked. “Gil...galad?”
“Yes,” she confirms, her heart beating faster than she wished it would.
“And your father came from Valinórë..?”
Gil-galad does not answer his prying question with aught more than a nod. She does not wish him to know she is his grandson’s child, not yet.
“Let us speak of more pertinent matters,” Círdan suggests. “How studied are you in maps of Beleriand?”
They speak for some time of the geography of the land, and how it has changed from the rudimentary cartography supplied to Aman by reembodied Exiles and Sindar. Truly only Balar and a small strip of coastline are free from Morgoth’s tyranny, though Gil-galad thinks it no mean feat that they have maintained a defense there for so long. Arafinwë is unimpressed and bad at hiding it, and Gil-galad catches a spark of irritation from Maedhros when he makes a comment about the poor quality of the coastal camps.
“We have done the best we can, Uncle,” Maedhros says coolly. “Under such circumstances I doubt the doe-eyed Amani would have survived this long.”
“I meant no insult, Maitimo,” Arafinwë placates. “But you cannot deny the superiority of our weapons, nor the strength of our host compared to yours.”
“I would take one faithful Exile who has survived Morgoth’s terrors over twenty of your untested so-called warriors,” Maedhros snaps, reverting back to Sindarin in his frustration.
“And the Sindar may not be as mighty warriors, but we know how to survive,” Círdan adds, his voice mild.
“I am High King of the Ñoldor,” Arafinwë begins, “and my folk are as brave as yours to come to this land of death and shadow, especially considering the tales we have heard from those who perished here.”
“You are not my king, Arafinwë.” Maedhros glares at him. “I forsook Aman, for good or for ill, long ago. I have fought here for five hundred years and more, and I have endured torments the likes of which you could never fathom. I will not be patronized by you; and I will remind you that the years separating our births are shorter than those separating yours and and your brother Fingolfin’s. I am no child, either.”
Gil-galad had little wish to turn Arafinwë against her, but she was of a like mind to Maedhros, however uncomfortable that thought made her. “I may be a Noldo,” she says, “but like to Maedhros, you are not my king, either. I was born upon these shores, and we Beleriandrim know these lands better than you. We know the Enemy better than you.”
“I hope you would not dare consider the Sindar under your jurisdiction,” Círdan adds, his voice still smooth and mild, but a glint of iron in his eye. “We have no king since Dior fell, but those of us who remain in these lands look to myself for leadership. And to Gil-galad, those who dwelt in Nargothrond.”
Arafinwë scowls. “I do not wish to claim lordship over you! We are here as allies. Nowë, I know I am no Sinda; nor am I a Vanya, though my mother may be! I am Ingoldo, first of that name: the Ñoldo. I lead the Ñoldor, as I have since the Flight. Ingwion, though he is not present now, leads the Vanyar, and Eönwë the Maiar.”
“You do not lead all the Noldor,” Maedhros insists.
“Maitimo, I respect the hardships you have endured, and I see your father’s fire within you.” Arafinwë smiles thinly. “But you swore allegiance to Ñolofinwë and Findekáno; you gave them your crown, if the reports I hear are correct. Why now do you refuse to bow to a child of Indis?”
At the name Findekáno, Maedhros flinches. But his eyes spark all the fiercer as he replies, “I buried what little grievance I held against your mother along with the ashes of my father. Fingolfin and Fingon were lords of Beleriand; you, Finarfin, are not.”
“And yet you have no other High King of the Ñoldor besides myself!” Arafinwë cries. “Not since Turukáno died! To whom shall your people look—to you? You foreswore that title, and you are a Kinslayer thrice over. Do you truly think the Ñoldor who have not trudged behind you in your path of blood will follow your banner? Do you think that Nowë’s folk will ally themselves with a people whose king slew their kin?”
“My name is Círdan,” he interrupts softly, “and his is Maedhros. We are not of Aman—I never was, and he is no longer.”
Arafinwë grits his teeth. “Very well. Círdan. Mai...droth. But call me Arafinwë, not Finarfin, if you wish me to extend you this courtesy.”
“Maedhros,” he drawls; “truly, Uncle, I did not think I would see the day where a child of Indis preferred the þorn. Do they speak Þerindë, now, though they would not when I was a child?”
“Maedhros,” Arafinwë attempts again, and ignores his jibe; for that Gil-galad is grateful—she is not familiar enough with the details of the long-ago feud to follow that conversation. “My point still stands. You are no king, and there is no other to lead than Ñoldor besides myself.”
“There is,” Maedhros says, and something like a smile stretches across his scarred lips. “Turukáno’s kingship was a poor joke; he was cloistered in Gondolin the entire length of his reign. It was without a proper king that I failed to restrain my brothers—and myself, I will admit... But that I stand here today, as an ally and not an enemy, is because of the guidance of our new High King.”
Gil-galad, Círdan, and Arafinwë stare at him with varying levels of surprise and confusion. But Maedhros is unfazed, and after a long moment of staring at his uncle, he turns and kneels to Gil-galad.
“Your Majesty, Ereinion Gil-galad,” he drawls. “My deepest apologies for failing to properly introduce you to your...counterpart.”
Ereinion? What? Gil-galad is no “Scion of Kings”! She is the child of a weak ruler, the grandchild of a warrior who fell at the first sign of flame, the great-grandchild of...of...
Of Arafinwë. And Orodreth had been a king, no matter how his reign ended. And her mother, Amathluin who died at Sirion, had been herself the granddaughter of King Denethor whose burial grounds were now the last Fëanorian stronghold.
Maedhros knows all this, and knows it well. He cannot rule himself—she does not think he wishes to, even if he could—and he is clearly set against submitting to his uncle’s rule. And since Gondolin fell and Idril sailed West, there are no other heirs of Finwë to lead the Noldor in Beleriand, save the peredhil twins Maedhros himself absconded with and later adopted, taking them out of the line of succession by adding the Fëanárion name to their long list of titles.
Has he been planning this? Had he adopted the twins specifically for this purpose? Does he want to manipulate her, make her a puppet-king, force her into a position she cannot back down from?
Finrod’s crown clatters to the ground. Gwindor wakes screaming from nightmares. Celebrimbor shakes with every step. The smell of blood fills her throat as gulls and children cry. Her mother’s broken body is lowered into a shallow grave beside the Fëanorian warrior who killed her. The ransom note delivered to her in place of vanished Elwing, signed in handwriting more smooth than one whose dominant hand had been lost should allow.
She cannot trust him.
And yet...
Years of laughter in Nargothrond, before the Fëanorian brothers turned their minds to scheming. Gwindor exercising his good arm with techniques described in a letter Celebrimbor had unexpectedly received from his uncle. The piles of letters discovered in Elwing’s desk, half of them unopened, none of them replied to, begging and pleading for an alternative to slaughter, each signed with that same hand. An army, ragged and on its way to ruin, rushing to her aid nonetheless, led by a flaming lord and his soft-voiced shadow. Elrond and Elros, teasing their foster fathers and tending to their wounds, bristling at the slightest implication they had been harmed in their captivity, protesting such terms for their stay in Amon Ereb...
Maedhros is half monster, half elf. He looks up to her, still barely shorter than her for all he is kneeling, and she lets herself meet his eyes, blazing silver like the Moon.
He is deadly serious. He wants her to rule. He wants her to balance Arafinwë’s power, he wants her to remember the Exiles, he wants her to claim the people he leads so he may fight this war without worry for their safety.
Over his shoulder, Círdan winks.
Gil-galad waves her hand. “Rise,” she commands, and a thrill runs through her—she, commanding Maedhros the Tall! “I accept your apology and your allegiance, Lord Maedhros.” She turns to Arafinwë, who looks incredibly lost. “Yes, I am High King of the Noldor, though I admit the length of my tenure pales in comparison to yours.”
“This is...” Arafinwë is lost for words. “I...King Gil-galad, I did not know...”
Neither did I! she thinks to herself, and she will have words to exchange with Maedhros after this, but though her heart beats half in terror, the other half is in excitement.
“I must speak with Eönwë and Ingwion of this development before our negotiations go further,” Arafinwë decides. “I hope you will forgive me if I take my leave.”
“Ereinion is your equal, Uncle,” Maedhros says with a barely-concealed smirk. “He should accompany you to this...discussion.”
“But—” Gil-galad protests, only to fall silent. She, equal to Arafinwë her ancestor! She, a King! But this power yet hung in the balance, and she could not express her astonishment before him.
“I would like to bring my...counselor along with me,” she says instead of something more...damning.
“Very well,” Arafinwë says in a tone just a little bit too polite to be called “snapping.” “Who is this counselor of yours?”
Gil-galad looks between Círdan and Maedhros. Who indeed?
Círdan raises an eyebrow, as if to say, I’m a Sinda, remember?
And, after all, this predicament she found herself was caused by only one person.
“...Maedhros,” she decides, and Arafinwë wilts slightly.
“I would be honored, Sire,” Maedhros rumbles, and if Gil-galad is not mistaken, she sees a glimmer of amusement in those burning silver eyes.