Chapter Text
Some days after the refugees of Gondolin have arrived in Sirion, with enough time having passed that all of them are at least provisionally settled, there is a meeting.
Oropher graciously allows them the use of one of the halls in the central building the Sindar had built as a place for meetings and governance. Idril almost wishes he had not, because the size of it makes their small number all too apparent. She finds herself not even minding that he invites himself along - it is a Noldorin issue, true, but the decision they reach will affect the Sindar as well… and besides, his presence makes the large room seem at least slightly less empty.
At the centre of the room is a table. On it, glowing in the sunlight streaming in from the window, rests the crown of the High King of the Noldor.
Everyone stares at it.
"So." Idril decides to put the conclusion she knows they have all arrived at in words. "We appear to have run out of heirs to the crown of the Noldor."
Finduilas nods. "My father and brother died in Nargothrond," she says, voice quiet. "My grandfather Angrod and his brother Aegnor died in the Dagor Bragollach, and Uncle Finrod - well," her face twists, "thanks to that song of Daeron’s, everyone in Beleriand can tell you how he died. The last I heard, my great-aunt Galadriel was still alive, but other than that… the only one left on that side of the family is me."
Idril can see the lines of grief on her face. Little wonder, considering the litany of her lost. Idril knows she too should grieve for her lost cousins, but as she can either barely remember or never even met the men she has to admit herself more vexed at their deaths than anything else. If only one of them had survived, they would not be in this situation. Could not Angrod have fled from Dorthonion, or Finellach have evaded the dragon in Nargothrond?
A line of thought that is not just nasty - blaming them for dying! - but thoroughly useless, since things are as they are and must be dealt with as such. Idril puts it out of her mind, focusing instead on the fact that it is now her turn.
Silly, really to state these things when everyone knows them. Still, Idril has the wild, irrational hope that she might have somehow missed someone, that one of the other people present will remind her of some uncle or cousin who kept their head so far down that she had entirely forgotten their existence. She suspects Finduilas felt similarly.
"Fingolfin died in the Dagor Bragollach," Idril says, "his son Argon in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, Fingon in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and-" a lump in her throat; she forces herself to speak past it, "my father and cousin in Gondolin. My aunt died there as well, years before. The only ones left of Fingolfin’s line are myself and Eärendil."
Silence.
No forgotten relatives, then. Pity.
Finduilas shakes her head. "Father used to tell me of how it had been in Valinor," she says. "All of Finwë’s sons and grandsons jockeying for position. Who would have ever thought it would come to this?"
Idril shrugs. She does not remember those days well at all, and in any case such reflection is also useless right now. They can laugh over the irony once they have worked out what to do. "Well, it hardly matters," she says briskly. "What now?"
There are a number of awkward looks.
"Celebrimbor?" Finduilas suggests, sounding tentative. "You’re in the male line, and… not a Kinslayer, so-"
Celebrimbor backs away from the crown on the table as if it were a poisonous snake. "Please tell me you’re joking!" He sounds horrified.
Idril shakes her head. "Quite apart from the fact that crowning anyone descended from Fëanor means we’d have civil war in Sirion within the day, it sets a terrible precedent," she points out. "Maedhros gave the crown to Fingolfin, remember? He disqualified the line of Fëanor as heirs to the kingship." And, she thinks viciously, if he and his pack of brothers had just wandered into a horde of Balrogs straight after that, they’d have saved us a lot of trouble. "Either they are still disinherited, in which case Celebrimbor has as much claim as… as Oropher," she nods at the Sinda, who looks rather appalled at the suggestion, "or we say the circumstances make it invalid, that lack of a heir in any other line means the kingship reverts to Fëanor’s. In which case the crown should go to Maedhros."
Winces all around at that idea.
"If I understand the situation correctly," Oropher says, his voice casual, pretending none of this matters to him in the slightest, "should the crown not go to… Finarfin, was his name? After all, he is alive-"
"-as far as we know," Finduilas mutters.
"-and next in line - in fact, only one in line - to inherit," Oropher continues doggedly. "This makes him the obvious choice, no?"
Finduilas laughs, sound sharp and wild and broken. "So the crown goes to him! And how do you propose we get it to him?" She jabs a finger at it where it sits on the table. "Carrier pigeon? Stick it in a bottle and throw that into the Sea? We should probably attach a letter! Dear Finarfin, so sorry, everyone else has died so this is yours now. Hope you make for a decent king, not that we’ll ever know."
Oropher puts a hand on her shoulder. Finduilas subsides.
"It seems to me," Celebrimbor remarks, "that the issue is this: the Noldor need a leader. Unlike before, the laws of inheritance don’t provide us with one. I mean, I’m certain we could devise some ceremony to crown Finarfin in absentia, as it were, but a king in Valinor doesn’t solve the problem. So why not relax the laws?" Celebrimbor is becoming more animated as he gets into his argument. "They were created in Valinor, they were never intended for a situation like this one. The Sindar allow men to inherit through the female line-"
"-if you want to crown Eärendil king, my seven-year-old son, you are going to have to go through me-"
"-so perhaps your husband, Idril?" Celebrimbor makes the switch so smoothly Idril almost believes this was what he’d been planning to say all along. "As Turgon’s son-in-law? He…"
Celebrimbor looks at Tuor and trails off.
On the march to Sirion, there had been little time for such luxuries as shaving, and so Idril’s husband currently sports a full beard. Idril likes the feel of it, but has to admit that it makes Tuor look a profoundly unlikely High King of the Noldor. Oropher seems like a plausible candidate in comparison.
Tuor coughs. "I don’t know much about any of this," he says diffidently. "However… do you really think the Noldor would prefer being ruled by one of the Secondborn to being ruled by a woman?" Awkward silence. He continues, voice steadier. "Why not just make Idril queen?"
Idril swallows a groan as everyone looks at her. She’d known this was the best solution, but some small selfish part of her had hoped they would come up with something else. Tuor shoots her a sharp glance.
"It’s the best idea any of us have come up with," Celebrimbor says slowly.
"None of the Sindar will take issue." Oropher is leaning back in his chair, pose casual but eyes intent on Idril. "My people like you. The parallels to Lúthien are… helpful with that."
"You’re already leader of the Gondolindrim," Finduilas points out. "And the daughter of the last High King, too. It fits very well."
"I’d face so much opposition," Idril tries. "Letting women inherit-"
"Oh, pshht." Finduilas waves her argument aside. "Who are they going to say should be ruling in your place? Finarfin? Eärendil? Tuor? Besides…" Her smile is ever-so-slightly too wide. "We don’t have many loremasters left, do we? Nor books that came from Valinor. We can claim the law was always this way and it simply never came up before."
"I’m friends with Pengolodh," Tuor offers. "I’m sure he’d be able to find precedent… or," he gives Finduilas a nod, "if needs be, invent it."
And just like that, it seems things have been decided. Idril heaves an inward sigh. Selfish wish of hers to be spared this or no, she herself had not been able to think of any other option. The Noldor need a leader, and Idril is the only one in any position to provide.
No one stops her when she reaches for the crown on the table. It lies heavy and cold in her hands as she turns it, the jewels winking like tiny fires. Somehow - cruelly - it has survived the disaster around it unscathed, sat on five men’s heads and seen them slain without receiving so much as a scratch. Now it is Idril’s, and as she holds it she can feel the future shift, feel fate coiling around her.
"So be it," she says, and the words feel like a pronouncement of doom.