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They had always been far too similar, she lamented, cradling her brother's mangled body. He wasn't yet gone, she could still feel his fëa, but he hovered on the brink, as he had since she had taken him from the tree and brought him to a small cave nearby. She sobbed, her tears falling onto his wounds, and wondered if this was her personal curse—that all those she loved most in the world should be driven almost to death then abandoned by their tormentor to either fade or survive with unbearable burdens.
But one who had been consumed by so much grief for so very long, yet never resisting its sting, would inevitably catch the attention of one particular Vala. Nienna watched Finduilas weep not only for her brother but for Gwindor and Turin and her parents and her people, and she wept with her. Finduilas' tears shimmered with the blessing of Nienna, and though they had not the power to remove a wound, they were powerful nonetheless. They heard Finduilas' hopeless, helpless wish to be able to share the burdens of those she loved and granted it.
Some of Gil-galad's injuries healed, reopening on Finduilas' flesh, distributing enough of the pain to ensure both a simpler recovery. Finduilas cried out, but there was more relief than pain in her voice. She set about binding both their wounds now that they were manageable.
When at last he awoke, a few weeks later, she greeted him by asking, “Why were you not in Eglarest?”
“I had a vision.”
“You do realize the reason you were sent to Eglarest was to ensure if one of us was in danger, the other would survive, right?”
“Nobody asked me how I liked that plan.”
“Just as you didn’t ask me before impersonating me and getting impaled against a tree?”
Gil-galad conceded the point by changing the subject, “What happens now?”
“Well, we are currently in a small cave not far from where you nearly perished, with the bare minimum sustenance and warmth. Once you are fit to travel, I suggest we return to Eglarest together.”
This plan went smoothly, until the moment they snuck back into Círdan’s home—for neither wished to encounter the inevitable ceremony of arriving at the front gates—and were met with shock rather than disappointment by their parentlike mentor.
“I’m sorry I left,” Gil-galad ventured after Círdan had simply gaped at their arrival, “I didn’t mean to worry anybody, but I’d had a vision.”
Let it not be said that a shock of any magnitude was enough to halt Círdan for long, for shortly after this apology he recovered himself and said, “I am sure I shall have much to say on this matter later. What is far more pressing is that Finduilas is dead.”
“I think I would know if that were true,” Finduilas answered evenly. Círdan inclined his head, “So you would. However, what is true and what is known are not always one and the same. Finduilas, Princess of Nargothrond, has been known to be buried for nearly a year now. The same might have been said of Gil-galad, had not I covered for you. I could sense your fëa, if only just, and made what excuses were necessary to explain your absence. But Finduilas’ body was seen pinned against a great tree by a spear and later buried.”
“Ah. Yes,” Finduilas glanced at her brother, “That was Gil, I am afraid, but I carried him to a cave to tend his wounds, not bury him.”
“Perhaps someone saw you, then, and misinterpreted your actions. I have heard that there is a memorial. Regardless, this presents two possibilities: either we must explain your survival and try to counter the news of your death, or… we don’t.”
“Why wouldn’t we?” Gil-galad asked, frowning. Círdan raised his eyebrows and said, “People confused you for your sister. It stands to reason, they might confuse her for you. I can imagine many advantages to having a secret twin, especially as you, Rodnor, might well be next in line to be High King of the Noldor, and with Turgon hiding away in his city, you might as well be the acting High King for all those outside of it.”
Finduilas and Gil-galad exchanged a look, before both nodding. Círdan had always guided them best of all their parents, mentors, and advisors, and having played at switching roles as children, they could each easily imagine the advantages this would have for a king.
~ ~ ~
Elrond could barely look at her. She wasn't surprised; she had felt her brother's death the moment it happened, and she had a sense of what it must have felt for Elrond to have witnessed it.
"You have been as much High King as he was," Elrond said softly, "You could continue."
"As whom? Myself or my brother? I am a ghost, whichever choice I make. I could, I suppose, present myself as Ereinion, stronger than death, striking fear and doubt into the Enemy and revitalizing elvenkind on these shores. But I think we both know that this is not the fate of the world."
"It could be, if you chose."
"Perhaps. But I will not.”
“Will you sail, then?”
She shook her head, “Unchanging peace is neither what I want nor what I need. I am a ghost, of two people no less, so a ghost I shall be. Do not look for me, but if I find your other ghost, I shall send him to you.”
Elrond attempted to smile at her kindness, for he knew she had no love for his remaining foster father, but his grief was still too new and too deep. Then he asked, “You mean to wander, then, not fade?”
Finduilas sighed, “I do not know that I shall not fade, but as yet I have no intention to do so. As High King, neither of us could do all that we wished. Small hurts had to be overlooked, due to time or resources or greater dangers. I can feel each one as a fracture in my fëa, every child I couldn’t save, every home destroyed, every beloved keepsake and memory lost. I would like to be able to mend those fractures, however I can. You and I both know how much meaning there is in the small and mundane, and how quickly it is forgotten in the face of grandiose tragedy. I shall wander, and I shall save what I can.”
“I wish you the best of fortune.”
“Thank you,” she—the far more practiced politician—did manage a sad smile, and she touched his shoulder lightly, “He did not die in despair. He died believing that peace was possible, and worth every sacrifice, whether acheived or not.”
“I know,” Elrond would not meet her gaze.
“He loved you.”
He nodded, and she embraced him, “He will be glad of whatever you do, so long as you are true to yourself. It may be your duty to care for our people, but that does not mean it must be your duty to rule them.”
For a long time, Elrond said nothing, simply drifting in his grief and uncertainty, anchored by her presence. At last, he asked, “If it is not my duty to rule the Noldor and you will not, then who will?”
“Honestly? I don’t believe it is that important. For thousands of years, now, I have been at once the High King and the ghost of a dead princess. A crown changes very little, except for adding layers of formality. Sometimes this allows for swift action that would have been otherwise delayed, but just as often, it overcomplicates situations which could have been solved fifty times as fast. You will provide as much for the Noldor without a crown as you will with one. As, I hope, will I. The choice is yours, but for my brother’s sake as much as for your own, I wanted you to know that. He told me many times how distasteful you found the idea of kingship; do not force yourself to be what you are not. You will not help half so many people if you are miserable.”
Some of the tension that Elrond had carried since his return faded.
“Thank you,” he said, “I have been telling myself that he would not think less of me for rejecting the crown, but your words have been easier to believe than my own, for you and he have ever been of a similar mind. I have often observed that you are more alike in thought than Elros and I ever were, and I believe that is why people so often confused you. Your features are not that similar to one who knows you both well, but even now I find myself doubting what I saw on the battlefield. You have his posture, his gestures, his every expression.”
“And that is why I must go. As long as I remain here, where he was, I will forever haunt it twice over. Abroad, I shall be no more than another strange elf, appearing and vanishing as easily as mist.”
“You will always be welcome in Imladris, regardless,” Elrond insisted, and she smiled again, “I know. And I know that we shall meet again someday, all of us, though I do not know how far away that may be. For now, each of our paths diverge.”
She watched him steady himself, preparing to face the world without his best friend but with all of his responsibilities. Gil-galad, it occurred to her, would have done anything to lighten his grim mood, especially before such a long parting. Picturing the mischievous spark that so often danced in her brother’s eyes, she added, “Oh, and he told me before he left that he thought you and Lady Celebrían look very cute together.”
Before Elrond could do more than splutter, she was gone.