Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Look.

It wasn’t like Eӓrendil had planned to disobey (another!) edict of the Valar, fake his death, meet his apparently-not-dead sons, and become the king of the remaining Exiles.

It all just… snowballed.

~

It started when Eӓrendil had decided to—well, meet the neighbors, as it were.

The Vingilot hovered steadily above the vessel of the moon. Honestly, he wasn’t fully sure how it was doing that—all his knowledge of current, wind, and wave was useless up here—but the Vingilot was more biddable now than it ever had been on the water, so he was fairly confident she would maintain position. Although Telperion’s flower faced the earth, the void itself still carried a hint of that cold, brilliant glow. Light gilded the edges of the moon-ship like a bright-burning frost, powerful and fierce as molten silver.

Eӓrendil sat by the railing of his ship, legs kicking out between the posts against the empty void. “Day 21,” he said to no one in particular. “Still no response. I continue the direct approach.”

He rolled over to a large upright barrel full of odds and ends he’d picked up at one of his refueling stops with Elwing. Standing, he plucked out a large paperweight, weighed it in his hand for a moment, and chucked it at the moon.

The silver ship rocked back and forth. And then, just as it had for the past twenty-one days, it failed to respond.

The judicious application of a spare goblet had much the same effect.

“Don’t laugh at me, you wretched excuse for a celestial object,” he said to the moon. “You know what Círdan would do if he saw you? He’d laugh. No sails, no rudder, no prow. You’re not a ship, you’re an overturned flowerpot with delusions of grandeur!”

The moon, naturally enough, did not respond. It was possible (Eӓrendil reflected) that spending all this time alone wasn’t doing him any favors.

Then, as he dug through the barrel for a third appropriately-sized object—could he perhaps fashion some kind of makeshift harpoon?—an oversized figure crawled out onto the top of the silver vessel.

“Whuh?” the figure called out, groggily. “Meteors? What?”

It took a moment for Eӓrendil to recalibrate. Then he leapt in front of the barrel and shouted back, “Hail! I, Eӓrendil of Sirion, sailor of the ship Vingilot, greet Lord Tilion, Steward of the Moon and keeper of the fair – uh, vessel - Isil! Long have I sought a chance to speak with you!”

“…Talkin’ meteors?”

Tilion Moon-Lord was half and again Eӓrendil’s height. His arms were inlaid with silver filigree tattoos, and his hair was long and pale. His skin had perhaps once been snow-white, and still was in the depths of his bared chest, but his face and arms had been exposed to a less-than-wise amount of sunlight and were now singed the color of pale smoke. In face and form he was every inch a god of the heavens.

He was also, Eӓrendil noticed, quite drunk.

Eӓrendil cleared his throat. “Nay! I am no meteor, friend, but the new Star of the West, Eӓrendil the Mariner, called Gil-Estel or the Evening Star. I am desirous of thy friendship, and have wished to speak with thee, so that—”

Tilion waved his arms around, as if shooing away a fly. “Oh, right, yes, I’ve heard of you. Yep. New star. The Silmaril guy.”

“Well. Yes.” This was not going the way he’d practiced. “But as I was saying! In these months of travel through the Void, I wished for the solace of speech with—”

“Lemme—gimme a second—lemme hop up there for a second, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, Tilion’s vessel instantly leapt up several dozen fathoms. With it leapt Tilion, who grabbed onto the railing next to Eӓrendil and hoisted himself over. It was impressive, even after he immediately face-planted into the deck.

“How did you do that?”

“What, falling?” Tilion said. His voice was somewhat muffled from being squashed against the wooden decks. “It’s really easy. Give me your leg there and I’ll show you…”

“Not that.” Eӓrendil helped him up. “You just moved the Isil with your mind alone!”

“Oh. Yeah. Can’t you do that?”

“…No? That’s not how sailing works?”

“Yeah, but Vingilot’s not exactly a normal ship anymore.”

“Obviously!” Eӓrendil laughed, a little too loudly. “I don’t even have a crew. You can hardly expect to sail a caravel this size with only one person! She’s not a cutter, it doesn’t work like that. Much less a sloop, for God’s sake. And with this rigging?”

Tilion stared at him. “It glows. And flies.”

“Oh, right. That too, I guess.”

“Yeah. Well, there’s a lot of things you can do when you’re a celestial object, and flying’s only one of them. Hey, listen, you still need food, right?”

“…still?"

“Great, you do! Lead on!”

Tilion had eaten through at least a fifth of Eӓrendil’s stores before conversation restarted. “So what was with the, y’know, throwing objects?”

Eӓrendil fiddled with his hands at the other end of the short table, desperately trying to focus on being hospitable to his guest and not on how he was going to ration his remaining food. “I did try other methods first,” he said. “I shouted – set up flags – light signals – sent shots past the bow –”

“Oh! Sorry about that. I see I’ve been a bad neighbor,” Tilion said. “I’ve been down below while everyone’s getting armed and prepared for war. Hell, I’m mostly up here today to get some peace and quiet. That autumn festival… whoof!”

Eӓrendil blinked. “What do you mean? I’ve been following you daily for almost a month.”

“You’ve been following the moon,” Tilion corrected. “I’m part of the moon, but not always an active part, if you know what I mean?”

He shook his head.

“Well… the moon is the moon, right. There’s me, flying the ship that’s carrying Telperion’s flower, but it’s also sort of its own thing, you know? The moon has regular phases, but I don’t get burned regularly. Well, not that regularly. Well, mostly not that regularly. Well, actually, that’s not important. What I’m saying is, there’s always a part of me that’s threaded through the ship—controlling it, keeping it moving and so on—but my body doesn’t have to be there. I can just sort of keep it at the back of my mind. Um. You get it?”

“Oh! I think so. Your will is entwined with your vessel; the act of sailing becomes natural, unconscious. How marvelous!” Eӓrendil clapped his hands in delight. “Ah, it’s a shame I’m banned from landing, that I might not do the same. Then that also must be why your path is so meandering and ineffective—because you’re not actually there to steer?”

Tilion frowned. “No, the ship steers the same way I do. You think I’m meandering?”

“…” Eӓrendil blinked. “…Can I get you any more biscuits?”

“Most certainly! My compliments to the chef!”

At that, Eӓrendil’s face turned gloomy. “I’ll let her know when next I see her,” he said.

“…Hm. Say, little star, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Abruptly, Tilion’s eyes focused: piercing, hot, and exceedingly sober, as if they were burning through Eӓrendil’s spirit. He was unavoidably reminded of Elwing’s (very annoying) ability to sober up whenever she felt like it. Perhaps it was from her maia ancestry, after all.

He cleared his throat and fumbled for something to say. After some time of rambling about his life and adventures, punctuated by a discursion on the subject of ship-building (carefully construed to give the least amount of offense to the moon-lord while retaining the core of constructive criticism) Tilion interrupted him.

“You used to be a pretty interesting guy, didn’t you?”

There were a lot of things Eӓrendil could say to that. He went with: “…Used to be?”

Tilion sighed, for some reason. “You’re almost a star now, Child of Ilúvatar. Laws don’t apply the same way up here.”

“Almost a star?”

“Oh, yes. Right now you’re just a half-elf sailing a ship. It’ll be different, once you get settled into things. You’ll be like the rest of us. I do my best to keep myself separate. I send my body away, hunt with my friends, try to remember who I am outside of the Moon—but... it’s different. It consumes you.”

He drummed his fingers on the table. “I can fly for months, years, decades, not remembering myself in the least. When I am part of the Moon, I don’t tire. There is no pain, no suffering. No joy.” He pushed his stool away from the table with a loud scrape. “Ilúvatar’s Children are not made for such things, if you ask me. Not that anyone ever does. Say, little star–have you tried talking to Arien yet?”

~

The Lady Arien, pilot of the Sun, was much more composed, well-mannered, and agreeable than her lunar counterpart, and she was available almost immediately when Eӓrendil went to see her. It was a very pleasant conversation except for the fact that Eӓrendil, thirty fathoms away, could feel his individual eyelashes starting to singe.

“Do you know how a ban by the Valar works?” she asked him.

He shook his head. His lips were already getting chapped.

“Think of it like—the world was reshaped, in the sense of what is and is not possible to occur. In your case, your Song can no longer exist on the soil of Arda.”

“I see.” Eӓrendil, in an effort to avoid looking straight at her, leaned his forehead against the railing and let his glance fall.

The world was arrayed below him in lines and whorls, like a map or tablecloth. Beneath his feet, the hems of shorelines trailed in the fine deep waters of the sea. Great green swathes of forest, field, and flower swept over the earth under a shining cloak of white clouds, interrupted only by the star-like flickers of war-camps and the ragged, breathless shadows of the North.

Such a living gem made even the silmaril itself seem as dust.

“Of course,” Arien added suddenly, “your Song isn’t exactly you.”

He looked up instinctively. Beneath the brilliant fire, her eyes were dark and intent.

“Think of it as… your role. Like lyrics that tell the world, ‘this is who I am!’ Every time someone says your name, or talks about your past, or even just thinks about you as yourself, they’re helping sing your lyrics: ‘this is who you are!’ The more Eӓrendil-ness you have, the more the earth will push you away. That’s the closest I can translate it.”

He wet his lips to speak. “That’s… is that really it? Surely it can’t be so hard to change your identity?”

Arien clucked her tongue. “Sometimes I can really tell you’re one of the Children,” she said. “You’re so much less—quintessential. But yes. Hypothetically, there’s only two things really barring you from the lower lands.

“The first is domain. The Gods of the West claim custodianship over all Arda—law-making and enforcing. Like any criminal, you would be punished for breaking the law in their territory. Practically, though, while the King and Queen are able to see and hear across all Arda from their thrones, the Valar’s attention is mostly restricted to Valinor itself.”

Her face was oddly intent for a conversation on hypothetical intricacies of Song-law.

“…I see. What’s the second part?”

Arien actually winked. “Don’t get caught.”

~

Some time later, the Vingilot lowered into an empty bay. The silmaril, bound tightly and securely to the prow, cast holy starlight over the jagged gray cliff and the tormented water below. Everywhere the light touched was transfigured in light and beauty as completely as a sunrise transforms the night. Yet Eӓrendil left both ship and gem behind in a great leap, and landed with a crunch on the clifftop as his ship rose back to the sky behind him.

Bristling gray-and-yellow grasses, dead heather, and dry winter soil crackled beneath his boots. The air was fresh, but somewhat smoky, quite unlike the cold empty clarity of the high atmosphere. Though it was midday, everything was cast in the silver-spun gloom of late twilight. For a while now, the North had sent a constant stream of tattered, slate-gray clouds to cover the sun’s light, along with a permanent horizon of storms flickering with red lightning, so that true daylight shone only rarely in the Outer Lands. This half-light highlighted every spiny skeleton of a shrub in intense relief. Artists could hardly imagine a scene so desolate.

Eӓrendil fell to his knees, and he could not, in truth, blame his sea legs.

“Arda fair!” he cried, grasping the soil in his hands. “Thy faithful son bids you goodbye.”

He had wanted to say those words and leave. But he sat there, motionless, almost until night fell.

Chapter Text

If only Acting Commander Lindamë of the Noldor got paid, it wouldn’t have been enough.

Getting sent on a scouting mission was bad enough, considering that (however grudgingly she’d admit it) it was her job. What wasn’t her job was leading a scouting mission. But Second Commander Maryano was injured, and First Commander Colisse was useless, and that meant that she, Lindamë—expert grunt, lifelong foot soldier, and greatest of all the Noldor at shirking work and avoiding promotions—was the most experienced scout left at their outpost. And boy, wasn’t that pretty sad for the Free Peoples of Arda?

A streak of black marked a regiment of orcs—a big one—marching south and south-east along the ravines of Teiglin, near the forest of Brethil. She’d directed one of her men (her men!) to sketch down their numbers and direction, then hunkered down to wait them out.

That had been the plan. But Lindamë’s bad luck had held true, because the orcs’ own scouts had found them.

They fought at a low part of the ravine, at the edge of the forest below a shelf of stone. Supposedly the woods of Brethil hated elves and orcs more or less equally, but she was certain there was an air of dark laughter to the trees. So it went. Lindamë had left Valinor in the first place to avoid all the unnecessary interference, more fool her.

Clang.

Lindamë made one final slash at her current enemy, felling him, then turned to look at the sound.

On the top of the ravine there was an elf—a man?—an elf wearing brilliant armor overlaid in silver. He reflected the moonlight like a star fallen to earth, burning on the precipice like a ship’s prow.

As soon as he had drawn everyone’s attention, the star-fire ghost leapt down between the rocks with a wild, wonderful suddenness, lighter and steadier on his feet than any living thing incapable of flight ought to be. Finally, with the ease of a sailor hopping down onto a deck, he sprang down into the battlefield in an explosion of dust.

Lindamë could do nothing but gawk. The remaining orcs seemed similarly stricken.

Then the stranger lunged at them with his spear, and they were stricken in an entirely different way.

He wore a shield, mirror-bright except for the runes scored into the sides, and a helmet with a carved impression of bird wings along the sides. Beneath it, she caught a glimpse of piercing blue eyes. The orcs backed away in a semicircle, but did not leave.

“What the actual living fuck,” she said.

“There are more orcs moving in on your location,” he said. His voice was soft, and slightly hoarse from disuse. “I saw from above. They’re making a play for time.”

From above? Oh, the cliff. Lindamë looked at the dark but quite passable forest—thought of the way the orcs were fighting—made some mental calculations, and swore vividly.

The mystery warrior pointed. “That way will take you home the fastest. Come on, follow me.” Then he thrust his spear through an orc’s throat and nimbly dodged forward onto a tall stone. He hesitated and looked back expectantly.

Lindamë wavered for a moment. Bizarre, helpful strangers weren’t exactly part of the Enemy’s usual playbook, so: probably not a trap. And, well, it wasn’t like she had any better ideas. She pointed and called, “Noldor! Follow that—um—whoever the fuck that is!”

The stranger led them straight as the crow flies, and soon after the orcs left off, Lindamë saw the sharpened stakes and log-wall palisade of her outpost rise before them. And thank the One for that: they were battered like dough. It was only a temporary structure, just treated wood that would rot in a couple of decades, but it served its purpose well enough. Guards on top checked for pursuers, and then the gate spilled open to a party of healers laden with salves, well-wishers laden with pastries, and spectators laden with questions.

She turned back to the stranger. “Thank you, good sir, for your well-timed assistance,” she said, because although her mama may not have raised her right, at least she knew how to mind her manners. “I am Acting Commander Lindamë. What is your name? Who is it that I have cause to thank?”

His face froze. “Eӓ—I mean Gil-E—I mean… I… don’t have one?”

She blinked slowly. “You… don’t have a name.”

“I mean, it is my own business,” he corrected. “I’m only a passing stranger. Just a ship in the night, that sort of thing.”

“Well!” she said. “You saved the lives of myself, my team, and perhaps the whole of my people, so, being as you are so oddly and surprisingly bereft, I’ll have to give you a name myself.”

“I… suppose I can’t argue with that.” But he looked like he really, really wanted to.

Lindamë considered. “Let’s see. You appeared out of the sky, shining like a star. And if I’m reading your spirit right, it looks awfully bright. Not fire, I’ve seen enough of that to tell, but… radiance? Light?”

“A thumb-print of destiny,” one of the other scouts offered, joining them.

The stranger looked not just unsurprised, but rather exasperated.

“I know!” She snapped. “I’ll name you Starlight. Gil-galad. How’s that sound?”

“It’s as good a name as any,” the newly dubbed Gil-galad said politely. “But I do need to go.”

Lindamë looked left, then right. A malignant forest stretched on every side, fringed only by glowering cliffs and a roiling river. “…Where?”

Gil-galad opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“Away,” he said finally.

“Look,” Lindamë said, turning him around, “everybody’s come out to see us. Come in with us! There’s no one better for hospitality than us, I swear it. You’ll have a hero’s welcome! I can get you a pastry! Several pastries!”

He recoiled as Lindamë’s friends and companions shuffled forward, loaded down with baskets, hot drinks, good-luck-charms, and outstretched arms. He had just registered her words, and the iconic red banner behind her.

“Are you kinslayers?”

“Not all of us! It’s a mixed fort. Right now, all we are is enemies of Morgoth.”

Lindamë hooked her hand around his arm, then let go when he pulled away. “I suppose I can’t blame you, at that,” she said. “Listen. Take care of yourself, won’t you, stranger-friend Gil-galad? I would like to meet again, if fate allows it.”

“…Perhaps,” he said. “Whether fate will it or nay.”

When Eӓrendil returned to the Vingilot, the skies were as cold as ever, but his chest felt strange and warm.

Just this once, he told himself. I mean, what, was I supposed to let them die? I just can’t stay too long, or come too often. That’s all.

It had been an… interesting experience, at any rate. He could’ve sworn he’d seen a teen with the spitting image of Elwing’s face at one point in the gathering crowd of healers, but it’d been gone when he’d looked again.

What kind of a name is “Gil-galad,” anyway? ‘Starlight’? A fair sight too close to Gil-Estel, is what it is. Or, you know, all my other nicknames or after-names. Why don’t you just call me Eӓrendil and throw me back to the sky like a bad fish, while you’re at it?

But it ’s fine. It’s just once. I have nothing to worry about.

It was not just once.

…He had to stop landing. He was going to get caught.

He continued to not get caught.

He tried to stop. Once the Gods of the West began their attack in earnest, he was certainly busy enough. He brought the Vingilot down to bear where the Enemy was strongest, using the silmaril’s light to strike hope into flagging elven forces. Or else he scouted ahead and around, throwing messages weighted with rocks to the armies below. But great battles, terrible though they were, were few and far between. Often he saw small skirmishes, too—chance encounters, where one more sword could make all the difference, and often did—

What if there had been one more sword at Sirion?—

…He really did try his best not to land.

But he’d never been terribly good at obeying the Valar’s orders.

~

The War of Wrath was the font of many legends and superstitions. It was only natural. The Enemy sent darkness and fear before his armies, so that all Beleriand was trapped as if in the night of a child, frightened by monsters in the shadows. But that meant there were night-stories, too—the kind of tales that can only live in a circle of firelight surrounded by endless dark.

There was Hithlavan the Cat, who walked the mists; to cross her path was death, but to walk beside her promised certain victory. There was Bodagar the Bloodless, who could be cut a thousand times and never bleed. There was Sûlweg of the Walking Wind, whose whispers led elf, man, dwarf, and orc alike off cliffs or into pits. And there was the Star-Warrior, who had no name.

Elves and Men alike recounted his story, though never by name, for the person in question—like a hero out of song—never gave one. He was a ghost; a figure always first seen standing at a height, clad fire-bright in silver like a star descended upon the earth. A stranger, deft as an elf (said the elves) with the heavy solidness of a mortal man (said the Men). A last-hope; a sword-shadow; a starlit apparition who came at unawares and fell upon the Enemy like a storm upon the sea.

For his likeness to a star, the Free People gave him many names. Artanáro, Noble Fire. Finellach, Flame of Hair and Eye. Most of all, though, they called him Gil-galad. Starlight.

—When Eӓrendil heard that last one, he sank his head into his arms and groaned.

He spilled his troubles to Elwing when she flew up in bird-form to the Vingilot to lay bright and beautiful in the bed beside him.

“It’s wrong,” he said. “And I know that! If it cost my life to win the Valar’s aid, then so be it! Let my life be over! So why can’t I stop thinking about it?”

She traced her fingers softly down his chest, a gentle reminder that she really was here, at his side.  It was harder and harder to remember that, these days, when he wasn’t on land. “Because your life isn’t over. You still need to live it.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t. But…” The life of Eӓrendil Half-elven had had a purpose. He’d known this since he was young, even without knowing what it would be.

Fate had waited for him as for a favored child. From the start, he had been an odd, distant child, a little too in tune to an invisible music, and soon enough he had been an odd, distant man, around whom the light shone sharper and the air weighed heavier. He carried an odd weight in the world: foretold so many times over, the ‘looked-for that came at unawares.’ Fate had dogged at his ankles like a shadow; spun its net around his childhood; cradled and dandled him, as much as any parent; and at the last, it had devoured him.

And yet he was still here. Where was the fairness in that?

He looked at the ceiling. “Ever since Gondolin fell—I wanted a future worth losing. I wanted a life that was more than just being valiant, and honorable, and brave, and ending up swallowed by the night. But I knew I wouldn’t get it. People like us can create a future, but we don’t get to live in it. It’s what we were born for.”

He took her hand in his, stroked her fingers with his thumb. “I know why it had to be us who went to the Valar, and no one else. It’s because elves, full-blooded elves, have never known the art of human sacrifice.”

“Eӓrendil…”

“I don’t want to leave you again. I did enough of that already. But…”

“Eӓrendil.” She twisted, propped herself on one elbow. He turned to look her in the eyes. Her eyes were gray, her eyelashes deep black, like twilight framed by night.

“When thou went ashore to risk the Valar’s wrath, I followed thee so that I might share in thy peril. Our fate then was banishment; and I accepted it. When I chose the path of the Firstborn, thou followed me so that thou might share in mine. This, then, is thy fate: to live in Arda, bound to this world. Neither apart from it, nor—” she put a hand on his—“above it. Canst thou not accept that, in turn?”

Eӓrendil chuckled. “Are you saying that, for fairness, I have to leave you and return to the Outer Lands?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t laughing. “I love you. You are my fate, my continuance, my end. And I won’t watch you give hope to all Arda and leave none for yourself.” She squeezed his hand. “You have left me before, and I have waited for you. I will wait for you now. Until the ends of the earth.”

They lay there for a long moment, fingers intertwined.

Then Elwing laughed a little. “And—who knows?” she said. “Maybe Gil-galad will find himself near a sea-bird every now and then. I hear there’s quite a lot of them crossing the sea these days. You’re not the only one who can cheat, you know.”

“I can live with that,” Eӓrendil said. And to his surprise, he thought that he could.

After that, Eӓrendil started landing regularly, and he made his brief stays in the Free Peoples’ encampments more openly. He walked among mortals, sometimes, but mostly elves, since he supposed he was officially one of them now. It felt almost like a dare. If the Valar wanted him gone, they could get rid of him themselves.

…Seriously! Let them! He was right here!

(On the bright side, he seemed perfectly capable of wandering freely as Gil-galad. On the less-than-bright side, he was now a lot less confident in the overall quality of Arda’s governance. Being ignored or punished by the gods was one thing; being incompetently administered was another. If he could slip through, what was to stop the Valar from leaving behind some captain or lieutenant of the Enemy? Ridiculous.)

As it was, he wandered between the different knots of Free Peoples, leading fights against the Enemy wherever he could: in the air as Eӓrendil, or on the ground as Gil-galad.

It was getting harder to do it as Eӓrendil. He lost chunks of time. He looked into the endless depths and felt his soul flicker in and out to the rhythms of the stars. And then the sounds of violence would rise from below, like smoke obscuring the stars, and he’d startle back into himself as if out of a daze.

But being Gil-galad… it was easier than he’d expected. Beleriand’s elves were distributed in dozens of little outposts, each one paying lip service to a different (and, usually, entirely hypothetical) bond of fealty. He passed between them as a phantom made flesh: first joining sallies against the enemy, then soon enough leading them as a captain.

No one recognized him. Why would they? The kinslayers had killed his sons, and his friends at Sirion had fallen there. At Círdan’s, he’d been a loner. As long as he avoided the old shipwright himself, there was no one around to know him.

And still he didn’t get caught.

This… actually might work.

(Elwing would be so unbearably smug.)

~

The next time Lindamë met the man she’d named Gil-galad was several years later, when she was in Hithlum on babysitting duty. It was a long sight better than scouting. Either she’d won enough skirmishes, or she’d messed up enough scouting missions by letting them turn into skirmishes, but someone had noticed that she was better at taking orders than making them and her lords had reassigned her to be a bodyguard for those little half-elf twins they’d spared from the kinslaying.

The sons of Eӓrendil, Elrond and Elros, were very much alive, and under the care of the Fëanorian lords they’d reached an age somewhere around a mortal fifteen or an elven thirty-five. The twins felt certain that they were basically as good as fully grown. The Fëanorians were equally sure they were as fragile as elven prepubescents, or perhaps some previously-unknown species constructed entirely of glass. After a long struggle, the kids had convinced Maglor and Maedhros to let them go out and get some experience leading supply runs, so long as they acted responsibly and remained surrounded by a platoon of trusty soldiers with bristling spears. And also Lindamë.

She’d accompanied Elrond to an outpost to pick up medical supplies and listen to the chatter. “Do you know, that Gil-galad is in the area,” a mortal lady from the fortress had said casually while wrapping up a package of dried athelas. “He just arrived yesterday from who-knows-where, and now he’s already gathering folk for an attack on the Broken Fields tomorrow. Where he gets the energy I don’t know.”

“Is that true?” Lindamë said, ears pricking up. She put down her armful of supply packages (earning her a dirty look from some compatriots), and leaned against the lady’s table.

“I thought he was a myth,” Elrond said. He was a spindly teen, pretty quiet, with big eyes and a sprinkling of what mortals called “acne” around his nose. He wasn’t training to be a healer like his brother, at least not yet, but he was packing herbs firmly and methodically. His eyes sparkled.

“I heard he was a secret Noldo prince,” suggested one of the other workers. “There’s some who’ve already declared they’d follow him, if he ever came clean.”

“Really? Another prince?” Elrond asked. “Where’s his escort, then?”

“Doesn’t have one, my lord! Funny sort of prince, if he even is one. He said they’ve left only a cursory force at the base, and we have to take it now while there’s a shot. But there’s no word of it on the ground. Me, I think he dreamed it up.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lindamë disagreed. “I met him once, and he knew things he oughtn’t. What if it’s true?”

“I think this whole affair is irresponsible,” someone else commented. “We should wait in a place of strength, not go gallivanting out after glory. Especially without any reason.”

Elrond made a face. He muttered under his breath, “Just a little glory wouldn’t hurt.”

Lindamë glanced at him. The others didn’t hear. “That’s what we’ve done for five hundred years,” someone said. “Did it help us any?”

“But at least we still had intact mountains then!"

“If Gil-galad says there’s a chance, I’d believe him enough to check it out,” she said stubbornly.

A lady called out, “We all know you’re a fool, Lindamë. You don’t need to tell us twice!”

She rolled her eyes as the room burst out laughing, and picked up her packages again. But as she passed Elrond, staring intently at dried herbs, she gave him a sidelong glance.

That evening, Lindamë leaned by a tree, arms crossed, watching a small figure in a gray cloak creep out from the fort walls.

She stuck out a foot, and Elrond tripped on it and fell on his nose.

“As your bodyguard, I have been tasked with keeping you safe, my lord,” she said, crouching by his body. “Normally, that would mean preventing you on going on a damn-fool expedition led by an unknown with unsubstantiated claims. However, I have firsthand experience with Gil-galad, and you seem to have some kind of death wish, so at the very least you will allow me to accompany you. This is not a question.”

Elrond rolled over and sprang back up to his feet. His cloak fluttered around him. “Thanks, Lindamë! You’re the best!”

“…Don’t make me regret this.”

Mithrim had mountains, once. When Lindamë accompanied Elrond there, it was a tundra of split and shattered rock, cut through by deep gullies soaked in salty mud. A thin film of dull gray light pressed through the clouds, just enough for mortals to see by. Pale lichens clung to overturned chunks of granite. At the far end of the field, an orcish encampment crouched atop the broken stones like a barnacle, dumping poisons into the rivers that ran to the Free Peoples’ armies.

Warriors leapt between the great stones. Those who missed a step plummeted to a short sharp end, or else caught their ankles and fell splayed on the rock, where orcs made fast work of the fallen. Fallen orcs met much the same treatment at the hands of Gil-galad’s mishmashed forces. Any misplaced foot, any wrong move, was death. But the men and elves of Hithlum were capable, and they had struck at the right time. The Enemy was depleted, demoralized, and in disarray. For every fallen soldier of the Free Peoples, three orcs fell as well.

But true-darkness was coming rapidly upon them. Lindamë kept by Elrond’s side, but she could see him blinking hazily. The night turned to shadows on shadows, orc-shapes moving like sharks in clouding water. (And a misty cat-shape, for some reason?) He could manage, she judged. But for a full-mortal, one more press would be certain death.

Gil-galad shouted the call to retreat.

“But we’ve nearly won, sir!” she heard an elf shout. “One more press and we’ll have them, I’m sure of it!"

Elrond was leaning on a rock shelf below and to the south of him, with a light wound on his off arm and a stitch in his side like a serrated knife. He let out a sharp breath and tightened his grip on his sword. Lindamë was standing a little further out. She’d stuck to him like a barnacle throughout the fight, and he’d had cause to be thankful for it. Learning swordfighting from Maedhros Fëanorian in a training field wasn’t anything like this. Not even close.

“He won’t really retreat,” Lindamë predicted gloomily. She had a long superficial wound on her thigh, and it was bleeding heavily. “I’ve been with many masters, my lord, and I know this song and dance. None of them do. It’s pride, I think. A victory hard-won is still victory, after all.”

Elrond nodded and looked at the ground. “I just wanted to do something right for once,” he said quietly. He sounded very, very young, and Lindamë’s heart panged with something close to guilt. “Maglor keeps telling me I shouldn’t take after him. I should be like Eӓrendil, my blood father, he says. But how am I supposed to do that? He was a glorious hero and I’m me. I never even met the bastard, and I never will, either.”

Before she could answer, Gil-galad drew his head back. His armor was a slice of light in the night. Lindamë tensed, waiting for the signal to charge.

But Gil-galad simply said, “The night rises, and already our Secondborn are stumbling. We can fight no more at this hour.”

Lindamë drew in her breath.

A mortal said, “We are no cowards, sir, who fear to die. Command us as you please.” He was splashed with blood, and only some of it was orc-black.

“So be it! I will not have you die without need,” Gil-galad snapped. “We have won as much as we’re going to. Should I gain a few more orc corpses at the cost of my finest men?”

Elrond slowly raised his head again. There were stars in his eyes.

“But that would give the battle to the Enemy, Captain!” the elf from before cried out

The mortal said nothing, but grimly gripped his hand-axe.

“Then we shall return, and retake it!” Gil-galad yelled back. “We have cost Him a great deal today, and we shall cost Him a great deal more in the future. Your lives are worth more than their deaths! Retreat, I said! Fall back!”

Gil-galad’s voice, never very loud, already sounded hoarse.

Elrond and Lindamë traded a look. “Do it,” Lindamë urged.

Elrond nodded and took up the cry with the clear, clarion voice of one trained by the greatest singer of the Noldor. “Retreat! Captain says retreat!”

Lindamë heard, at the edge of her hearing, a rasped “Oh, thank god.”

“Retreat!” Elrond shouted again. “All, retreat!”

They left to the sound of orcs laughing and jeering. “But when they count their dead, the Enemy shall not forget us soon,” Gil-galad reminded them.

They returned to the fortress, washed, had their wounds bandaged, and waited in one of the empty rooms beside the courtyard for the leader of the guards to come chew them out. The early morning was gray and cool, with a pleasant breeze, and birds twittered outside the window. (Including a large white seabird, for some reason.)

Elrond fiddled with his hands. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t. I’m in so much trouble already. And you are probably not going to take a step outside of the Fëanorian camp until you’re a hundred, which I would like to point out is your own fault.”

“You aided and abetted.”

“Only after you decided to sneak out!”

Elrond snorted. After a moment, he said, “I hope Gil-galad really is a secret prince or whatever. When I grow up, I want to follow him. Or someone like him, anyway. That’s someone with his head on right.”

Lindamë scratched lazily at the large bandage on her thigh. “Yeah? You know what, I think you might be right. Long live the next king of the Noldor.”

Chapter Text

When victory seemed at hand, the Enemy unleashed the abyss.

There were no more gray skies, now. The heavens were constantly pitch-black and laced with lightning and storms of fire. Even Eӓrendil’s own piercing starlight was interrupted by the shadow of passing dragons. Forget Gil-galad; at this point in the war, no one would have questioned even if the mythic Mist-Cat herself had stood up on two legs and appeared to offer her services.

Soil sank into bogs, bogs choked into seawater, and seawater drowned in blood. All the beautiful jewel-clad armies of Valinor and the fearless Gods of the West retreated before the unleashing of the winged dragons.

Back in his ship, Eӓrendil did what was needed. He gathered up Thorondor Eagle-lord and his children-followers, and spoke to them of hope and honor, and lit a flame in their hearts until they recalled to themselves their bravery. For a whole day they fought the great black dragon Ancagalon, them with their claws and he with his spear, until at last they overthrew him. He fell, and his corpse cracked the gates of Thangorodrim like the snap of a neck.

Eӓrendil, burning with a white flame, looked down coldly as the first real sunrise in a half-year dawned red behind him. Rosy light glanced and darted along unmoving black scales, twisted metal, and shattered stone. The power of Thangorodrim was broken. With luck, the Enemy himself would follow.

Eӓrendil felt… nothing.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Eärendil’s mother had described her particular brand of foresight as a sense of certainty: a bone-deep surety that the first half of a rhyme had been sung, and a second half would inevitably follow. It was vague—she hadn’t known for sure that Gondolin would fall, or that a tunnel would save them, but she’d felt the weight of doom settling about them. His father Tuor had said something similar about becoming Ulmo’s chosen herald. He’d dilly-dallied in his path, on occasions rather extensively. But he had known, as the river knows, that someday he would reach the sea.

Eärendil knew, in a way beyond knowing, that if he returned now to the sky, he would never leave. Oh, he would see Elwing, every now and then—but he would be a star, not a half-elf steering one. His injuries would heal. He would feel neither sorrow nor pain, just as Tilion had said.

And why not?

His father Tuor had been the chosen of Ulmo. Wasn’t he the chosen of Ilúvatar himself? Wasn’t he the Music’s favorite child? He had eternal glory. He had pain and loss for a thousand lifetimes. His homes were burned, his parents disappeared; his children dead, his wife waiting. To duck fate would only be to invite more troubles. Why should he defy all law, logic, and love—the will of the world itself—to walk the ground that held his sons’ bones? He’d never been promised a future. He hadn’t even been granted living sons.

But… Elwing had chosen Arda. And he would always choose Elwing.

The Vingilot lowered onto the cracked peak of a high cliff. As the Vingilot rose back behind him, he could feel his awareness of it shrink down to a small whisper in his chest. He looked back until he could see neither ship nor pilot, just a distant twinkle in the sky.

Silhouetted against the rising sun, he limped down towards the nearest encampment using his spear as a walking stick.

~

Now that he was permanently on land, Eӓrendil ran into an unforeseen problem.

People liked him.

The Noldor were, as a people, almost insufferably contrary, and neither the sufferings of war nor all the ravages of Beleriand had yet to beat it out of them. It was almost inspirational, except for the fact that it was so goddamn annoying.

The more conversations Eӓrendil dodged, the more fortresses he slipped away from in the dead of night, the more glory and fame he refused, objected to, and outright avoided, the more his reputation preceded him. When crowds gathered in one city, he’d pack up to the next, only to find a new set waiting for him. There were rumors that he was a secret prince of the Noldor. (Which was true, technically, through his mother’s side.) There were rumors that he’d been planning all along to usurp the throne. (Abjectly false, though somewhat intriguing. A ship couldn’t get very far without a captain, and no one else seemed to be stepping up.) And there were people prepared to swear fealty to him regardless of the truth (and that, perhaps, was the most worrying thing of all.)

Aren’t we supposed to be fighting a war or something? he thought gloomily. Where do they find the time?!

After Ancagalon’s defeat, he’d planned to lay low. A few short months later, a servant he didn’t recognize took him politely (but sternly) by the arm and frog-marched him over to a large blue-and-silver pavilion holding the greatest princes, lords, and generals of Beleriand.

Good lord. Social niceties. It was enough to make one miss the tranquil old days when he’d bargained with gods and slayed dragons.

“Announcing Captain Gil-galad,” the servant intoned, and Eӓrendil contemplated the benefits of sinking into the sea like the rest of Beleriand.

While his half-mortal eyes adjusted to the dark, he squinted at the other notables seated around a table. There was one very specific, gray-bearded reason he’d been avoiding them. At this point, the only person in the entire world who could be a danger to his anonymity would be—

“Starlet?”

Master Círdan, the bearded shipwright and Eӓrendil’s former shipmaster himself, rammed into him with the force of a full-sail galleon.

“Holy…” Just as fast, Círdan released him and swung an arm around his shoulders. “Stars above! It is you! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again! Merciful Ilúvatar, everyone, this is—ow!”

Eӓrendil had perhaps used too much force to elbow him.

“Gil-galad of the Noldor,” Eӓrendil said.

Círdan raised his eyebrows, but nodded immediately. “Yes! Right! Prince Gil-galad, yes! My wonderful, brave, and highly accomplished friend Gil-galad!” He squeezed Eӓrendil’s shoulder again for good measure.

“Prince? He really is related to us? I thought that was just a rumor,” said a woman with dear god her hair was literally glowing.

“Now that I see him, he does have the face for it,” said a raven-haired gentleman with piercingly bright eyes. Celebrimbor, maybe? “Maybe those who want him to be our next king have a point after all.”

“Hm. Maybe so,” acknowledged the woman who was pretty obviously Lady Galadriel.

Elwing had never met her, but the other survivors of Doriath had. They liked her. They said Lady Galadriel was a superior judge of character, gracious and noble. She preferred to be kind, even generous-minded, so long as one didn’t stand in the way of one had called her “blistering ambition.”

…like he did now, he supposed. He coughed slightly and shifted in place.

Celebrimbor inclined his head. “I’ve heard rumors of you, Captain. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the shining star of our battlefields.”

Was that a joke? How could he know—no, wait, ‘Gil-galad’ meant ‘starlight.’ It was just a stupid pun. Eӓrendil saw some winces around the table.

Galadriel raised her (glowing!) eyebrows slightly. “I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced. Gil-galad, son of…?”

“…Son of kings,” he said stiffly. Technically true. Not restricted to elven kings, but true nonetheless.

“That’s not particularly descriptive,” dryly commented a tall, red-headed elf whose face Eӓrendil was expending a great deal of energy avoiding.

Galadriel, for her part, didn’t let a cloud pass over her face. “Gil-galad Ereinion, then,” she said, straightening. “As good a patronymic as any. Círdan, you speak for him?”

“Oh, yes,” Círdan said before she’d even finished talking. “He… um.” He glanced at Eӓrendil, back at the redhead, then tugged at his beard with his free hand. “Um. I took him in as my apprentice. I’ll speak for his blood, his virtue of character, his quality—whatever you like. I’ve taken in a good number of strays over the years, but E—Ereinion here is one of the greatest warriors, and one of the best men, that I’ve ever met. I’d stake my life on it.”

Eӓrendil flushed. “Círdan!”

He pointed at him. “I’ll deal with you later, kid. Now shut up and let me compliment you.”

“No need to embarrass him yet!” Galadriel put in, laughing. “Though I shall have to speak to you about keeping secrets. Is this why you’ve been so silent on the issue of the king of the Noldor?”

Eӓrendil’s heart plummeted somewhere around his toes. “I only just got here,” he said.

The others laughed, and Círdan pulled him a chair beside his own. He sat numbly.

“You’re rather young for a Noldo of Beleriand, aren’t you?” There was no audible distrust in Galadriel’s voice, merely a cool curiosity that put him on edge.

“It was not so long ago that I came of age,” he answered.

Actually, by elven accounting, he hadn’t. But having long since rejected the idea that he was an unusually tall and ugly child, it seemed that he, Elwing, and their so—never mind—that he and Elwing aged closer to mortal timelines. He had declared himself full-grown the morning he’d asked for her hand.

“Let’s see.” Celebrimbor counted on his fingers. “Elves don’t have children in war, so you must’ve been born during the Siege. That broke in the Battle of Sudden Flame. Less than a century ago, so that tracks. Was that when your parents sent you to Círdan?”

“…Yes, a little after,” said Círdan. “For his safekeeping.”

Eӓrendil’s stomach seemed convinced that he was back at sea, or perhaps plummeting from a very high height.

Now it was Galadriel’s husband Celeborn who spoke. “You’re young, but not that young. I’ve heard tales of your exploits from even before Ancagalon’s fall—each one occasional, passing. Why not present yourself before now? Why not give your full service?”

Oh. Right. He’d swallowed his pride before, when begging the Valar for their aid. He could do it again. Better they think him a coward than—

“He was with me, fighting by my side,” Círdan announced, a little too loudly. “And if I kept him there too long, I take all the blame entirely. I would trust no one more.”

“Círdan!” Eӓrendil hissed again.

Círdan ignored him and ruffled his hair.

Celeborn frowned, then looked at his wife. Some communication passed between them, and he shrugged. “If you have Master Círdan’s favor, that’s enough for me. I shall look forward to seeing your quality.”

“As will I,” Galadriel said. The gentle quality of her voice made the statement softer—an offer, not a test. Galadriel stood up and placed her hands on the table. Eӓrendil felt distinctly as if he’d missed something. Possibly several somethings. “Gil-galad, young cousin, it gladdens my heart to make your acquaintance. I hope to see more of you in the future.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Eӓrendil bowed his head.

Feeling somewhat like a hostage in a great game he didn’t know, he sat rod-straight in his seat as the meeting began. Subtly, though, he shifted his legs a little up off the ground.

As soon as Círdan had recognized him, his feet had started to ache.

The meeting adjourned. The two sons of Fëanor said little and stepped out immediately. Trading a glance with Círdan, Eӓrendil left as well, only to find them waiting outside the tent.

His time so far as Gil-galad had given him enough information to identify them, at least. The tall redhead Maedhros Fëanorian stood a few steps behind, eyes low. The shorter one was Maglor Fëanorian, the singer, and he stood a few steps in front, hands loosely clasped. They had arrived unarmed as a show of trust, wearing simple, unadorned wool robes more fit for common soldiers than princes. Maglor bowed courteously, with the even smile of a diplomat. “Greetings, Gil-galad,” he said. His voice was light and musical, like silver bells, even in speech. “We have not had the chance to meet yet. I’ve heard great things about you, and your many feats of valor. It is my hope that we might be friends—”

Eӓrendil saw red.

Maglor continued to ramble something meaningless and polite. He couldn’t hear a thing. Maedhros said nothing, but only stood there, silent and solemn as a stone column. Yes, that was Maedhros: ever standing aside, ever the penitent! Except, it seemed, when it came to Eӓrendil and his family! He had never been this angry in his life. He didn’t know he could get this angry.

There was some kind of black tide within him, and he didn’t know how he’d previously mistaken it for sorrow, but it was seething now: boiling, screaming, raging in his ears so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself think. These men had killed his sons—dashed the broken bodies of his friends against the rocks—orphaned his wife, killed her brothers, given her the nightmares that even now woke her up screaming—Eӓrendil’s body was trembling like a leaf caught in a tempest, and he felt almost hollow in his rage, like a cracked doll thrown into a fireplace.

Círdan reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, hard enough to hurt. Eӓrendil didn’t know what his face was doing, but Maglor recognized enough of it to scurry back several feet, almost bumping into Maedhros, who was instinctively moving his body between them.

Not quick enough. Faster than the taller of the two monsters could react, faster than Círdan could restrain him, Eӓrendil punched the murderer of his sons squarely in the face. Fist met face with a sickening crunch. Maglor was flung a full cubit into the wall of a nearby washroom, and there was a clunk as his head crashed into the wood.

Maedhros automatically took a threatening step towards Eӓrendil before clearly remembering that he was unarmed and his enemy was not.

Círdan was still trying to hold him back, and he was saying something else that Eӓrendil couldn’t hear. But he took a few breaths, and mastered himself.

“I refuse,” he said, “to be fool enough to attack fellow-elves before the Enemy is defeated.” Another breath. “But some people make it hard. Do not approach me again.”

He flexed his fingers.

Maedhros’ eyes flickered over him, then his face set. He helped a bloodied Maglor up from the ground and gently but firmly led him away. With that, the Fëanorians were gone.

Círdan physically dragged Eӓrendil through some maze-like corridors of tents into a small pavilion that must have been his own.

“That was very foolish,” Círdan said sternly. He undercut the message by immediately bursting into tears and embracing him. “Aiya! Eӓrendil, Eӓrendil—little starlet, my heart, what are you doing here? How can this be? I saw you in the sky and I thought—I thought—”

He clung desperately to Círdan like a son to his long-lost father. “Eӓrendil is banned from the lands of Arda,” he said. His voice was rough and low, on the verge of breaking. “He would be too wise to break yet another ban. As Gil-galad, I wouldn’t know anything about that, obviously, but… it’s a shame, don’t you think?”

Círdan said nothing, but Eӓrendil felt hot tears running down his neck. “I’m glad you’re back, starlet,” Círdan whispered.

He hugged him back fiercely, and let his own tears fall freely into his master’s bristling gray hair.

~

Back in the main tent, Galadriel sat back down and exchanged a glance with her husband. Celeborn regarded the rest of the Beleriand commanders, and said, “Let us all be in accord on this.”

Galadriel inclined her head.

“Círdan’s lying out of his ass,” he said. “He has not been keeping a secret prince of the Noldor hidden in his back pocket.”

“It is possible,” Celebrimbor pointed out.

“It’s unlikely.”

“True, but not impossible. Even if the particulars are false, I don’t think Círdan would really present a false prince. Who knows? Maybe he really did dig up a real Finwëan somewhere.”

Another general waved him off. “The question remains. Who was that?”

“No, no,” Galadriel said, raising a finger. “A better question, I think, is why Círdan might be lying.”

“If he’s lying.”

“Celebrimbor,” Celeborn said kindly, “do try to be serious.”

“He looks Finwëan! None of us kept track of one another! It’s perfectly plausible!”

“Enough. Regardless. Think about it.” Galadriel rapped the table with her knuckles. “In all this time, the closest thing we’ve gotten to a king of the Noldor is my father. That is, frankly, absurd. We are people of Beleriand, not Valinor; we need a High King of our own. Consider our options. Maedhros and Maglor are obviously out—and you as well, Celebrimbor, no offense.”

“None taken.”

“Idril and her husband disappeared, and don’t seem likely to come back. Their only child was Eӓrendil, who is obviously otherwise occupied at the moment. His sons are barely Noldor, barely elves, and barely adults, and for that matter refuse to come to our meetings. And I…” Her face was inscrutable. “…have proven myself incapable of uniting the Noldor in our current state.”

Celeborn laid a hand on her shoulder.

“That is as fate wills, and in time may prove to be for the best. Nevertheless, the fact remains that we need a unifying symbol. The tide has turned in our favor—for now. Ancagalon was the chief of the winged dragons, but far from the last. In the meantime, morale is flagging badly. People want to look to the future, but they see nothing: no plan, no unity, just more of our endless infighting and petty squabbles. That lowers spirits, damages morale, and makes victory that much harder. I don’t know Gil-galad Ereinion. But if Círdan thinks this young man can bring unity to the Noldor of Beleriand… I am willing to play along.” She looked around.

“I am not as convinced as you that he is false,” Celebrimbor said, “but your logic is sound.”

A few other Noldor generals nodded.

“Then it’s decided.” Galadriel slapped the table and stood. “Blood-relative or no, we will give him a chance. And if Gil-galad proves himself worthy, we’ll stand behind him. Is it a consensus?”

Nods all around.

“Excellent.” Galadriel pushed her chair back and walked to the entrance. “Now let’s go kick some Enemy ass.”

~

A couple eventful months had passed since Gil-galad was first officially introduced to the lords of the Noldor. Two more dragons had fallen. The armies of the Free Peoples had regained much of their morale, even if they still lacked their former positioning. But today? Today was special.

It was going to be a good day for Elrond Half-elven, son by birth of Eӓrendil the Mariner, and foster-son to Maglor Fëanorian.

Last week, he told Maglor he was finally heading to make his fortune in service to a lord, several years after his twin brother had left for the mortal armies.

“You’ve chosen who you wish to follow, then,” Maglor said.

“I’m not certain. But I believe I have.”

Maglor had given him his blessing, just as a father might.

Since then, he’d been packing, and now he and his entourage were ready to leave. He smiled to himself and hefted his pack as he and his men walked out of the Fëanorian camp, to begin the weeks-long journey to the center of the Noldor forces.

Prince Gil-galad wouldn’t know what hit him.

Chapter Text

Elrond slipped into the Noldor camp like a ghost, and the first thing he did was look for Prince Gil-galad’s section of it. It was ill-defined—he had few sworn followers, Elrond was surprised to find—but a few days of walking the grounds confirmed his suspicions that Gil-galad's pavilion, tacked on to the side of the original set-up, was slowly but surely shifting the gravity of the camp as more and more elves moved their tents or buildings closer to him.

The fact was, Elrond simply didn’t know very much about Gil-galad. He’d dazzled him as a child, but Maglor had impressed on him again and again that, if he wasn’t planning to lead (he wasn’t), then he had to make sure that he followed someone worthy. (Someone not like me, Maglor had meant but not said.) He’d been hoping to learn about the man through his followers. Obviously that wasn’t going to work.

Under normal circumstances, of course, he could simply go up and talk to him, but the man had made his distaste for the Fëanorians quite clear (Maglor had nursed that broken nose for weeks!) and Elrond didn’t know if that would extend to their foster-son. Since he had no plans to forswear them, research was required.

Who was Gil-galad, anyway?

Word around camp was clear in some ways, and terribly murky in others. He was a terrific fighter and constant wanderer, always on his feet, always moving, like it hurt him to stay in one place. He avoided human contact like a ghost, and most people still didn’t know what his face looked like under his helmet. He was educated in many languages and obviously well-traveled, but neither a scholar nor a merchant. Half the time he wasn't even there, out going from fort to fort and leading assays against the Enemy. When he was at the main camp, he was mediating disputes and passing judgments. He drank but not to excess. He was fond of sweet cakes, like Elrond. And no one, no one, knew where he came from.

Elrond stood in the audience behind him at a judgement, watching attentively from a distance as he listened to the claimants and reasoned through his decisions. So far, there was nothing to complain about. He had a strange solemnity about him, a sort of distance, but he was kind and his judgments were sound, if a little more merciful than Elrond would have chosen.

Then some poor fool had the misfortune to question his family line to his face.

Gil-galad’s warmth drained out of him so instantly that Elrond abruptly found himself wondering if it had ever been real.

Gil-galad looked down at the claimant from his temporary dais, as cold and distant as a star. He said, “I am a true-born child of the House of Finwë. That much I will swear to: by my honor, or by any token you value more. I see no reason to divide us further. We are one Noldor. We have one aim, one goal, and one hope. To suggest we return to pointless, petty infighting is not only counter-productive, it is reckless and actively destructive. In times of war, it is treasonous. My ruling holds. You will abide by it willingly or by force.”

One of the claimants half-rose from his seat. “Swear on Eӓrendil!”

Gil-galad’s eyes flashed. Elrond had to crane his neck to see. “Excuse me?”

“You really want to unite us? Since Finwë, only one person’s ever done that.” The man pointed to the ceiling. “Swear on the Star of Hope. Tell me you are what you say you are.”

“I swear, on him, his ship, his silmaril, his ass, or whatever other damned silly thing you want now,” he snapped bitterly. “Anyone else?”

No one spoke.

“Good.” Gil-galad drummed his fingers on the haft of his spear. “Now leave.”

Elrond winced as the claimants bowed and fled.

“He might’ve handled that better,” he said to Lindamë, still his bodyguard, once they had left.

She shrugged. “He won’t be the first person I know to have trouble with his parents.” She tried to elbow him playfully, but he side-stepped her and walked faster.

~

The first person he went to was Círdan the Shipwright. “I am Elrond Peredhel, from the Fëanorian camp. I’d hoped to discuss Prince Gil-galad,” he said.

Círdan froze where he stood at the window, so still Elrond could see his individual beard-hairs tremble in a passing breeze. “Oh?” he said. His eyes flickered towards the window, where a white sea-bird had taken off right as Elrond opened the door.

Elrond cleared his throat and linked his hands behind his back. “The two of you are close, I am given to understand. I’d like to know more about him, while I decide whether I wish to enter into his service. I would very much appreciate if you don’t tell him that we spoke.”

“Mm..hmm…”

…Strange. Well, Elrond knew how to lead a conversation. “I’ve noticed that Gil-galad doesn’t seem to like talking about his parents, for one thing.”

Círdan unclenched slightly. “...Ah. Yes, that tracks. It’s a sensitive subject for him. They – He has a lot of complicated feelings that he doesn’t like talking about. He was my apprentice from a very young age, and by the time he grew up his parents had… they were out of the picture. I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s a Finwëan, and really, isn’t that the only thing anyone needs to know?”

“Maybe not the only thing,” Elrond said.

“Maybe not.” Círdan cleared his throat. “Well! I won’t share his secrets without his permission. So either get him to ask me to talk, find someone else, or be content with what he’s willing to give.” He paused. “—But, um. I also… trained your father. Eӓrendil. If—you want someone to tell you about him.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Master Shipwright. I’ll stick to Gil-galad for now, thank you.”

Círdan closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, so slightly that it could have been the wind.

~

“Who do you think Gil-galad’s parents are?” Elrond asked.

His Fëanorian-provided entourage shrugged. One of the mortals, Heregeard, offered, “I’d heard he was Orodreth’s?”

“No, no, he can’t be Orodreth’s,” said Lindamë. “Wouldn’t work. Don’t you remember the whole affair with his daughter? Nargothrond had as sole heiress the princess Finduilas, Gondolin had Idril. Finduilas’ hand was sought by the elf Gwindor, Idril’s by the elf Maeglin. Finduilas loved the mortal Turin, Idril loved the mortal Tuor. Except Idril married her man, and Finduilas lost hers. Parallel situations, I remember this. It wouldn’t make sense if Orodreth had a living male heir.”

“You’re saying he couldn’t be Orodreth’s because the parallels wouldn’t work?” Heregeard scoffed.

“The Song works in parallels! It’s really very common in elven kingdoms!” Lindamë defended herself stoutly. “And I’m saying, everyone speaks of it as parallels, and they wouldn’t have if Orodreth had had a heir. That was half the trouble with the whole affair.”

“You might just not have known about him,” Heregeard pointed out. “Maybe he’d gotten into a fight, killed someone, and been banished to Círdan.”

“Banished?” Elrond raised an eyebrow. “He’s hiding something, but I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

“Not to mention we would’ve known,” another elf chimed in. “I was there myself, following old Prince Curufin. If there was a way to discredit Orodreth, we’d have used it. A son? A secret son? Please. Give us some credit.”

“But it’s the only possibility.” Heregeard’s friend, an elf with feathers braided in his hair, slapped his thigh. “Orodreth would never have sent his son to Círdan. For his safety? We all know he was an arrogant, bridge-building son of a bitch,” some of the others booed “—and in that case why wouldn’t he send his daughter? Was it for his training? He was insecure enough, he’d never think another man better fit to raise his own son. Either Gil-galad committed a crime—”

“Deeply unlikely,” Elrond said.

“—or he isn’t Orodreth’s.”

Lindamë leaned in. “Maybe they covered it up!”

Elrond put a hand to his forehead. “They? Who’s ‘they’? Why is there a ‘they’ now?”

Heregeard sighed. “My lord, with all due respect. He doesn’t want anyone to know. If you really do want a productive relationship, you should just leave it be.”

~

Elrond did not leave it be.

“Gil-galad?” Elros, lying upside down on his bed with his arms dangling, looked up at Elrond indifferently. “He’s probably Fingon’s son.”

“Fingon? Not Orodreth?” Elrond, for his part, was leaning on Elros’ desk and fiddling with a paperweight. The Secondborn outpost laid out their rooms differently from the Noldor, but he didn’t think he was mistaken in thinking Elros’ room was very, very fancy indeed. It was made of fresh wood, for instance, despite the omnipresent wet-rot from the rising seas. Not to mention the rug, the vase of flowers, the paintings, the curtain divider giving him a private sitting room… He made a mental note to make fun of him later.

“No, no. Definitely Fingon,” said Elros.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well.” Elros pulled himself up and turned to face him. “First. He uses the same stars-on-blue that Fingolfin and Fingon used. It’s not a House of Finwë thing, you know as well as I do that the Fëanorians have their own crest. Presumably a prince of Finarfin’s line would try to split off with his own flag.”

“It could be a call-back to well-liked kings. Orodreth wasn’t very popular, so Gil-galad might want people to associate him with a different side of the family. And it does work with his name.”

“Are you asking me or telling me? Second. Some people say the House of Finarfin have their own look to them. Something about being part Teleri? Beats me, to be honest—I can barely keep track of the Secondborn’s arbitrary divisions, and I live with them—but I have it on good authority that Gil-galad looks more like Fingolfin’s line. Even if he’s blonde, he’s a muddy mortalish sort of blonde, not Finarfinwean gold.”

Elrond shrugged. “I can’t tell.”

“Doesn’t matter. The third reason’s the most compelling.”

“Okay?”

“Third. If he is the son of Orodreth,” Elros pointed at him meaningfully, “then the male Finwëans with the most direct claim to the Noldorin throne would be us.”

Elrond shuddered. “God, no.”

“Exactly.” Elros threw himself back down. “Son of Fingon, and that’s the end of it.”

~

“Could Finrod be Gil-galad’s father?” Celeborn speculated.

“No, I would’ve known,” Galadriel said.

“Even if it was with a mortal? He might’ve thought it shameful, after everything. He could’ve hidden it,” Celeborn asked.

“Even then,” Galadriel insisted. “I would’ve known.”

“What if he were Orodreth’s?” Celeborn suggested. “Would you be so sure then?”

“I… was never that close with Orodreth.”

“Aha!”

“But he did tell me when Finduilas was born. Or—well, he added a piece of paper to the envelope of Finrod’s usual letter.”

“So you wouldn’t know.”

“I might!” Galadriel said defensively. “I’ll say, it’s more likely than not he’d have told me.”

“What about Aegnor?” Elrond put in. Galadriel and Celeborn were excellent hosts once he’d introduced himself, and their banter was infectious. He sat across from them, sipping a wine they swore was from the early days of Beleriand. “Wasn’t he a great friend of the Lady Andreth? Would he have let you know if he had a child?”

Galadriel pulled a face. “…Probably? Almost certainly.”

“But Finrod disapproved,” Celeborn pointed out. “Mightn’t he have thought you would disapprove as well? It’s plausible!"

"Whose side are you on, anyway?” Galadriel poked him in the side, and he laughed.

~

On Elrond’s way out of Galadriel and Celeborn’s place, a short, dark-haired servant he didn’t recognize pulled him aside, his eyes alight.

“There’s someone they missed from the line of Finarfin, you know,” he said in a hushed tone. “Orodreth only had the one child, Princess Finduilas, everyone knows that. But King Gil-galad’s pretty short for a male elf, isn’t he? And he fights with a spear—the same weapon the princess was killed with. You wouldn’t fight with something that killed your sister, but maybe, just maybe, if everybody thought it killed you…”

“Wasn’t Finduilas a woman, though?” Elrond asked.

“It’s a fair disguise, isn’t it? Or else… all I’m saying is, it’s an easy thing to confuse wanting to be someone with wanting to be with him. Elves don’t fall out of love often, and rarely favor mortals, but she lost interest in one man for another just as soon as the first one stopped being quite so brave and gallant and emulable…”

The servant winked and tapped a finger against his nose. “Take it from one who knows. It’s possible. Put her on your list.”

“...I’ll do that.” Elrond bowed and took his leave.

~

“I figured it out. Isn’t it obvious?” said Lindamë, sitting next to Elrond in a loud, raucous bar. It was small and low, enough that every corner was lit up by the crackling fire in the big central fireplace. One wall was made of brick, the rest of fresh-sawn wood and a sawdust floor, and purple, silver, and red streamers from the midsummer festival were wound about low-hanging square beams. The smell of the ocean never really let up these days, but here it was overpowered by sweat, alcohol, and overcooked meat.

“Think about it,” she slurred. “Blue eyes. Not shiny blonde, but not exactly dark-haired either. Has the look of a mortal, but the nature of an elf. It’s clear as the nose on his face!”

“Oh?” Elrond leaned forward on his stool expectantly.

Lindamë triumphantly crowed, “He’s the secret lovechild of Finduilas of Nargothrond and Túrin Turambar!”

The bar erupted into boos and jeers.

“You only hate me because I’m right!” she bawled.

~

“Who do you think his parents might be?”

“I don’t have an opinion,” Celebrimbor said.

“Really?” Elrond propped his chin on his hands. “You’ve consistently insisted on his legitimacy when even the other princes of the Noldor say nothing. You, cousin—of all people—really don’t have any thoughts on who Gil-galad’s parents might be?”

“I have thoughts,” Celebrimbor said. “Anyone can have thoughts. I just don’t have an opinion.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“…” Celebrimbor rolled an unmarked coin between his fingers. “Why might a Finwëan not want to be publicly known as a Finwëan? Why would someone refuse to speak of their parents, even to the point of disavowal? …Why, in the middle of a war where adversity makes for the strangest of bedfellows, would someone refuse to speak or even look at the remaining Sons of Fëanor?”

“You don’t suppose—”

“I’m not supposing anything,” Celebrimbor interjected. “I merely… think.”

~

“Or maybe,” Lindamë said over her drink, “he’s (hic!) Eluréd, or Elurín! Lord Maedhros never found the bodies, did he? They could still be out there!”

“They weren’t even Noldor,” someone shouted back from the opposite end of the bar. “Much less Finwëans!”

“He could lie, couldn’t he? He even looks (hic) a little like Elrond! It’s totally possible! He could’ve jus’ (hic) floated on down the river to Círdan…”

“Toddlers don’t float!” someone shouted.

Another: “This lady…”

And a third: “Barkeep, for fuck’s sake, would you do us all a favor and stop serving her?!”

“You can’t (hic) cut off the truth!”

~

“So what do you think?” Lindamë asked. She was rubbing her head and sipping a hangover cure one of the mortals had concocted. “Are you going to talk to him? I’m just saying, you’re not locked in. Galadriel is pretty… nice... I guess. And Celebrimbor! He’s an option. And a Fëanorian, even if he did leave the family. Or... we could go back home. To Maedhros and Maglor. They'd still welcome you, for as long as you needed.”

Elrond looked into the middle distance, and thought.

He still remembered those days after the first time he’d followed Gil-galad into battle. Elrond had fought many battles since, but he’d lost track of Gil-galad entirely, hearing reports from the eastern reaches of Beleriand one day and the far south the next. He showed up everywhere, it seemed, leading increasingly star-struck troops to victory after victory. Everywhere except for the Fëanorian outposts.

Then Maedhros and Maglor had returned from one of their rare visits to the main body of the Noldor forces, plopped down on a bench, and informed him that his childhood hero was now a prince, a cousin, and firmly ensconced in the central camp.

“He doesn’t seem to like us very much,” Maglor had griped, rubbing his broken nose. (Elros had re-splinted it as soon as Maglor arrived.)

“That’s a point in his favor, honestly,” Maedhros said.

“Oh, stop it. But seriously, Elrond, I have every reason to think he’s a good man. Círdan seems to think he walks the heavens, and the day Círdan makes a bad judge of character is the day I give up music for good and sell hats. Just don’t talk too much about us and I’m sure you’ll come out alright. Just remember, you’re Eӓrendil’s son, not ours.”

“And if I don’t want to be Eӓrendil’s son?”

Maglor and Maedhros traded glances. “That’s not an option,” Maglor said. “But.”

That same night, Maglor had presented him with a father's parting-gift: a small light-crystal, one of the few surviving works of Feanor’s own hands. “Remember always to keep your own judgment,” he’d said. Even in memory, Maglor’s voice was clear and resonant, like text printed in bold, as he pressed the gem into Elrond's hands. “Tie yourself to no one and no thing, oath or lord, that you deem undeserving, or even merely against your own temperament. Take me as a warning, if thou must, of what an unworthy lord can do! No, no, don’t argue. Thou art wiser now than I have ever been. Mine is a downwards course, but thine own road will lead thee to the light.”

Maedhros for his part had said little, but waited patiently for him at the outer gates. As Elrond guided his horse past, Maedhros reached out slightly to touch his leg.

Elrond stopped. His entourage paused with him. “Yes?”

“You… well! You know what you’re doing. Just… don’t get in trouble on the road.” He looked away, and Elrond’s heart swelled.

Of course he could never say it now that he was here, but he’d spent many years weighing his love for his foster-family against his loyalty to his blood-family. Was it betraying one to love the other? Could he have both? The scales came up short on both ends. He could not follow the Fëanorians, bloodstained as they were. Even if they would have accepted him—which they never would, hoping as they did that he might escape the fate they felt collapsing in on them—he could not choose to stay. But neither, too, could he forswear them.

His foster-family had raised him so that he might leave them. He would do so with love, as unlooked-for as it might be.

“I’m going to introduce myself to Gil-galad, and swear to him,” he said firmly. “He’s out at the Andram Fort, but we can still catch up to him if we go around. Pack your bags, everyone. Today is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

Chapter Text

A plume of fire burst above the treetops. Eӓrendil leapt down from his perch, alighting briefly on a few branches before dropping the last five meters onto his feet. As soon as his feet touched the ground, a shiver of pain rose up: not the fall, but the earth itself revolting against him. It was mostly ignorable, just a harsh twinge - except it never went away.

“God, I hate it when you do that,” grumbled the attendant the fort-master had assigned him. “Can’t you climb down like a normal person?” Amram Fort had a small but valuable position along the hills, and its master had decided to throw his lot in with Gil-galad—the only major lord who visited regularly—by gifting him an assistant while he was there. Why he thought that was a good way to win him over, Eӓrendil had no idea. He didn’t need to captain more sailors who’d get themselves into trouble for him. He worked fine alone.

“I’m heading north-north-east,” Eӓrendil said, ignoring the man and striding forward. “Looks like someone got himself into trouble nearby. I’ll head there first. Go back, get a squad, and follow me when you can.” There were teams of spare men floating around the fort in case of events like this. They’d be there quickly.

“But, sir—”

“Meet me there!”

Above him, a white sea-bird circled and called. Elwing could see much a great deal better than he could in this form, and something had gotten her terribly riled up. It bore investigating, not that he could tell anyone that.

He followed her to an area of cleared land: a former quarry. Orc-work, maybe elven make—it was impossible to tell. The hill had been chipped away in square chunks of stone, but all the recent tremors had tossed them around like children’s blocks. A slick layer of cold seawater puddled at the bottom. Well, cold except for the source of the fire: a balrog. Because of course it was a balrog.

God, Eӓrendil was sick of this fucking war.

He walked up to a pepper-bearded mortal who stood with a bow at the quarry’s upper lip, at the head of a group of mixed mortal and elven bowmen.

“Good morning to you, good sir! What might be your business here?”

The mortal jumped, then sagged in relief: someone from our side. “Trying not to die, sir! And with that monster between us and our master, sir, it’s a trick and a half, and let me tell you, we could damn well use some more hands.”

“What a coincidence. I had something similar in mind for myself,” Eӓrendil said. “Well, reinforcements are close behind, and then we’ll see about taking you all to Amram. The fort-master can decide your fates then.”

The mortal broke into a grin. “Good fortune indeed! A star shines on the hour of our meeting!”

More than you know, he didn’t say. Instead: “Who are you, what’s your purpose here, and who’s your master?”

“I’m Heregeard, son of Herethorn. We’re taking our master to offer our swords to Prince Gil-galad, who even now is at your master’s fort. —You seem like a likely man, sir. You might do well to join us, if you’re planning to work with elves. If rumor tells right, he’s no ordinary man.”

“Hm. I heard he’s not taking followers,” Eӓrendil said.

“He’ll change his mind when he meets our master,” Heregeard said confidently.

“Indeed?” Eӓrendil smiled lopsidedly, and made a little half-bow. “Ah, but I’m afraid I didn’t introduce myself. Ereinion Gil-galad, at your service, and I thank you for the compliments.”

The mortal stood up straighter. “Oh! Shit! You—my lord, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—you looked so much like a mortal in this light—”

“At ease, good man, I take it as a compliment. Who is this master of yours, if I may ask? Obviously someone special, if his men consider him so fondly.”

“I’m not just saying this because I’m his man, sir! He can introduce himself better than I can, but let me tell you, Master Elrond isn’t anyone ordinary. You won’t find him wanting.”

“…Elrond?” His face was doing—something. Not something pleasant. He knew mortals sometimes took elven names, but… Finally, he said, “Isn’t that in bad taste?”

Heregeard cocked his head. “What is, sir? —My lord, I mean.”

“Elrond was the name of one of Eärendil’s sons,” he said bitterly. “The dead ones. Isn’t it too soon to reuse the name?”

“But the little master is Eärendil’s son,” Heregeard said. “He and his brother were raised by those kinslayer elves. Didn’t you know that?”

Eӓrendil stepped back.

“You know,” he said, “I think I have a balrog to go fight.”

“What? By yourself?”

Eӓrendil had already left.

Heregeard blinked after him. “Elves!”

Eӓrendil wouldn’t say he enjoyed fighting, except that he did, just a little. It was like sailing. He liked being good at it. He liked knowing what he was supposed to be doing.

He leapt down on the rocks like a suicidal gazelle, flying forward more than he was falling, and he lunged with his spear and then he was on top of the balrog, thrusting the blade in as far as it would go. It bellowed. Easy. Simple. Behind him, arrows spun through the air. A distraction, to be considered later. His enemy was in his sight.

(When he still lived at Sirion, he had wandered over all the great breadth of the sea. It was said that no one alive knew more of the endless depths than he: sea, sky, and void.

He knew all manner of bird, beast, flower, and fiend. He fought spiders in the deep south with legs as wide around as a full-grown man, and trolls in craggy northern glaciers that knew no sun. He faced luminous green Watchers-in-the-Water with sinuous, ship-crushing tentacles, and he slaughtered bat-things the size of Manw ë’s eagles.

His troubles had only ever been elf-sized.)

He yanked his weapon free as soon as his feet started to burn and leapt off the creature’s back, landing on his feet with knees bent to absorb the shock. A whip of fire followed him, slamming into the ground by his elbow. He dodged, but the superheated air around the whip seared his off arm anyway, instantly blossoming into pain. Then he swung his spear down and up, lunged, and used momentum to thrust it once more into the burning shadows-and-flame that passed for the balrog’s flesh. It screamed, and he tugged the spear out and threw himself back out of range.

More arrows and javelins flew. The monster stumbled. It was wounded. Not enough. The soldiers of Amram Fort were close, but not that close. The only men here were Elro—were El—Elrond’s—Eӓrendil was in too close range now. He dropped the spear, whipped out his side-sword, dodged forward, and hacked at the balrog, over and over, as one would cut down a tree. His arms were sore, but still strong. There was a long streak of ash on his armor.

(There are fights you can't win. Everyone told him that, over and over, like they were trying to stamp it in his head as much as it had been stamped in theirs. He hated it, hated it so much he burned.

That was what made him such a good symbol of hope, Elwing said: that bloody-minded refusal to accept the world as it was. That desperate restlessness—that need to escape, to overcome, to find a way through. The echoes of Gondolin. It hadn ’t seemed so admirable to him, but he’d accepted her statement with as much grace as he knew how.

His sons were alive. His sons had been raised by the kinslayers—the men who killed their family. His sons were adults who had never known their father. And they never could, or he ’d be banished back into the unutterable void.

The fight wasn ’t just unwinnable, it was over. He could not go back. His sons were alive, and near enough to grasp, and forever out of his reach.

He couldn ’t win.)

He couldn’t win.

The balrog swiped back at him. He dodged and rolled, but he was too quick for his own good and lost control. He hit the rock with a clatter and a bone-deep jolt. Stone scratched his face and exposed hands. There was dirt and sweat in his eyes. Bad, but fixable. His sword was knocked away. That was worse. He was back on his feet in an instant, lunging for it, but the fire-whip flashed down and he had to scramble back uphill again, using both hands and legs like a crab. He blinked repeatedly to clear his vision. No sword. No spear. No backup, and it was his own damn fault for leaving them behind. Helplessness scratched at the inside of his chest like an animal trying to get out. He… wasn’t going to win this one.

(There were very few times in his life when Eӓrendil had felt true despair. The most he’d ever felt was that day on the Vingilot when he and Elwing had made a pyre for their sons. There were no bodies, of course, and little enough to burn on the open sea. But they made do. Twin threads of smoke climbed into the empty sky, and Eӓrendil had prayed the way he’d never prayed before.)

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone running forward from the woods holding a bow. A young man with Elwing’s hair. He stopped for a moment, still and calm as an oak tree; drew, and released.

The arrow flew true. The balrog screeched and clutched at its eye. Eӓrendil used the opening to grab his sword and run out of range. It roared for a moment, then its body collapsed on itself. Arms and legs fell apart into ash and flame, a conflagration without form or shape, and then even that died down into a pile of burning dark embers.

He stood there suspended for a moment, watching it dissolve, and then collapsed to his knees.

~

Eӓrendil was in an empty room at the Andram Fort, kindly vacated by the fort-master. A young man with his nose and Elwing’s face sipped tea, and gazed at him with a calm, composed, total lack of recognition.

“I am Elrond Half-elven, formerly of Sirion," he said.

“Until now I have lived alongside Maglor Fëanorian, who raised me and my brother since Sirion’s fall,” he said.

“Now I seek a more permanent placement. Your reputation is that of an honest and beneficent lord, and I ask for a chance to prove my skills at your side,” he said.

“I am well-learned in a variety of subjects. I was tutored in the lore and habits of princes, and proved an excellent student. I am a knowledgeable scholar and warrior, and I am battle-proven as soldier, adjutant, and scout captain. I was trained in voice and history by Maglor Fëanorian, and in weapons by Maedhros his brother. My abilities are unquestioned, and I will prove an asset to your side,” he said.

“Are you feeling quite alright, my lord? You’re looking rather pale,” he said.

Eӓrendil intelligently responded, “Hgrrk.”

Elrond looked rather touchingly concerned. No, that wouldn’t do. Eӓrendil tried to set aside the part of his mind that was currently screaming at the top of its lungs and think of what to say. Something sympathetic; natural; nonthreatening, wise, friendly, warm—maybe fatherly, if he could manage it?—

“So you aren’t dead?” he said weakly.

“No, my lord,” Elrond responded peaceably.

“Ah. That’s good. To know.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Um. Well.” Eӓrendil cleared his throat. “It’s… great to have you. I mean, of course you can join me, to be sure. I mean, if you want. Which I guess you do. I mean…” He helplessly asked, “Why?”

Whenever Eӓrendil had thoroughly humiliated himself as a young man (not uncommon), Elwing had a similar look of patience to the one Elrond wore now. It had taken him a great deal of time before he’d realized that it really was unfeigned. Not concealed laughter, as he’d feared, or judgment, as he’d expected; not even long-suffering silence, which would have hurt him worse than his own embarrassment. She simply waited for him to finish, then responded. Elrond’s expression at this moment was so recognizably hers that Eӓrendil felt his heart ache.

“As I said, your reputation is good, and I am currently looking for a liege-lord. To be blunt: I want to be where the future of the Noldor is, and right now, you’re it. Moreover, I served with you once—at the Broken Fields in Hithlum? I was impressed by the way you did things then. When I heard you were finally settled in one place, I did my research, and decided to offer my service.”

Eӓrendil… mostly remembered that. The small portion of his brain that was currently functional deliberated.

“I will accept your service,” Eӓrendil said, “but I ask one condition.”

“Ask it.”

“I would like to be your kinsman and friend first, before merely your liege-lord. We—have lost too much of our family already.”

Elrond smiled, a real, warm smile. “I accept,” he said, “and gladly.”

“Then I more than welcome your service, and thank you for it. I will need some time to gather the details, but we can discuss the details of your placement tomorrow.” Gather his thoughts, more like.

They spoke some more, just empty pleasantries, and then Eӓrendil’s son got up to leave.

The moment before he passed outside, Eӓrendil half-rose from his chair. “Eh—Elrond—”

“Hm?”

“One last thing. What… um, what’s your relationship to your family?”

Half-in and half-out of the doorway, Elrond’s smile faded.

“Is this about the Fëanorians?” he said. “Your dislike for them is quite famous, I know that. But I promise you—”

“Actually, I meant your birth parents,” Eӓrendil interrupted. “Um. Elwing. …Eӓrendil. Them.”

Elrond blinked.

“Oh,” he said, sounding genuinely confused. “I don’t know. They’re heroes to all Beleriand, of course.”

“And to you?”

He shrugged. “Am I not from Beleriand? No, they weren’t much in the way of parents, but I suppose they didn’t get much of a chance to be. I haven’t really thought about them very much.”

“Oh. Of course.” Eӓrendil swallowed, hard. “Well. I… I knew… you remind me of your mother, for what it’s worth. I can think of no greater compliment.”

“Thank you for telling me, my lord.” Elrond bowed politely, face inscrutable, and left.

Eӓrendil fell back into his seat and groaned.

Elrond left the outer wall of the fortress and walked through a drowning forest, lost in thought.

Gil-galad was certainly… odder than he’d imagined. Odd, but not bad. Quiet; he didn’t mind that. Someone who didn’t take himself too seriously—that was important. Abrupt, certainly. Solemn. And much more—nervous? maybe?—than Elrond had heard from others. A strange little man, all in all.

Honestly, it was a little worrying. He’d be eaten alive after the war.

He passed a copse of sinking trees. Thick, once-noble trunks listed hopelessly, falling into one another’s arms like the crooks of a fallen fence. The ground sloped down sharply, from black, salty mud into a clouded, slow-swelling saltwater lake.

He leaned his forehead against one of the fallen giants.

“You must have seen such marvelous things,” he told it. “All this talk of princes and lords must be quite nothing to you.”

He sighed and turned around, settling his back on the trunk and looking at the sky between the wilting leaves. It was getting towards evening, and only a single star was visible.

“I think,” he said conversationally, “that this Gil-galad will surely die if he doesn’t have someone to assist him. If it isn’t the Enemy, then he’ll be knifed by some courtier whose name he forgot. It’s a little sad.”

The leaves rustled slightly.

“I suppose someone’s got to take care of him, haven’t they? It’d be cruel not to.” He stood again and cracked his back. “Well! I’d better go get something nice to wear.”

~

Maedhros Fëanorian swore. “Ow! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want my bread? Is that it?” He threw a piece of bread away from himself, but the white bird attacking him persisted. “Every time, you do this! What’s the use? Do you really think you’re making my life any worse than it already is?” he demanded of it. “Because I’m a fair sight better at that than you are! You are just one - ow - feathery little stumbling block on the road to hell! My doom is nigh upon me, and you think one misbegotten, mangy seafowl more or less will make a difference?”

The bird screeched at him. He smacked at it uselessly with his right arm.

“Are you arguing with a bird?” an amused voice said from behind him.

He whipped around. “Elrond?!”

The bird fell dead silent as Elrond stepped into his little courtyard. Maglor’s foster son looked the same as ever—dark hair, gray eyes, a kinder smile than Maedhros ever deserved to see again—but he was wearing a blue-and-silver crest at his breast. “Maedhros,” he called back joyfully.

“Don’t get too close, this bird is—huh.” The bird had shut up completely and was now picking at his food. Its head was angled threateningly below its wings, dipping lower here and there to snatch up a piece of the pre-cut cubes of steak. Its beady eyes were trained on Elrond.

“Eating your dinner?” Elrond drew closer.

“Impossible to be reasoned with, I was going to say. But I suppose so. You were successful, then?”

Elrond proudly smoothed his crest. It was Gil-galad’s symbol: a deep, pleasant blue studded with stars. A little like a zoomed-out version of Eӓrendil’s single star, Maedhros mused. Ah, Elrond! He’s finally where he belongs—out of my reach.

Elrond must’ve caught the tail end of the thought flitting across his face, because he frowned. “Uncle? Aren’t you happy? I’m not gone forever, you know.”

You should be. You should never have been ours in the first place. “Don’t call me uncle,” he said instead, side-eyeing the bird. It had left the food beside entirely and was now simply watching them. Its little white head swiveled from side to side as each of them spoke.

“For god’s sake. You’re not infectious, Uncle. I won’t suddenly be inflicted with the curse of the kinslayers because I love the people who raised me. If it was your sin to love me, then it is my sin to care for you in return.”

The bird’s beak parted slightly. It made no move to continue attacking.

“Won’t you come celebrate with me? I asked Gil-galad for the day off now that we’re back at the main camp, but I’m going back tomorrow. Come, drink with us, or else I’ll have to call Elros to drag you in.”

“Anything but that,” Maedhros joked half-heartedly. He pushed the plate at the bird, which still looked as if it had stunned. “Enjoy,” he said to it quietly. “Since you can’t be who I think you are, I will assume you are one of her servants, and I would ask you to tell your mistress that I’ve kept her sons as best I could, that my doom will doubtless not allow me to trouble her much longer, and that I wish no bird had ever been born with the power to cross the ocean.”

“Maedhros!”

“Coming!”

~

“Our sons are alive,” Eӓrendil said.

<They are,> said Elwing in the language of the birds. She ruffled her feathers, and he combed a hand along her back.

“What do you make of it?”

Elwing nuzzled his hand. <Our sons are alive. They’re happy. They were raised by people who, presumably, loved them. The kinslayers have still hurt too many for me to ever think of forgiving, but having said that—Eӓrendil, they’re alive. That is a blessing before which all else must fade.>

“You’re right. Of course.” Eӓrendil focused on working a loose feather free from her wing. “What do we do now?”

<I don ’t know. You should tell them, I suppose.>

“I can’t. You know that.”

<Can ’t? Or won’t?>

He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the feather.

~

Elrond had thought that following Gil-galad would give him more of an insight into the man and his secrets. He soon realized he was mistaken.

Oh, to be sure, he was involved in his new lord’s life. Elrond followed him on his wanderings, gave him summaries of scout reports, conveyed messages to the camp, and overall took it upon himself to manage a little more of his lord’s public image the way he’d seen Maglor do for Maedhros. When people asked him about Gil-galad’s history, he gave evasive non-answers, as instructed. But they didn’t, you know, talk. And on those rare times when they did, Gil-galad would say nothing about himself, or shut down randomly.

It was maddening. For instance—

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save you,” Gil-galad said one day out of nowhere. “Um. At the kinslaying, I mean.”

Elrond shrugged. “How could you have been? Anyway, what’s done is done. I wouldn’t have known Maglor or Maedhros otherwise, right? I mean, they taught me how to play the harp, how to fight, how to read history. Played catch with my brother and me in the evenings, once we stopped being so terrified of them. You know, you can’t regret the events that made you, right? Family is so complicated already.” He imagined tearing himself open and showing his heart, bare and beating, in his chest.

Gil-galad’s hands twitched. “I suppose.”

“And—for yourself…?—”

Gil-galad looked to the side. “Complicated.”

And that was all.

~

Gil-galad’s coronation took place in a low valley in Ossiriand below the Blue Mountains, at the edge of a broad, shining new gulf. The new Grey Havens of Lindon still smelled like fresh-cut timber and stone-dust, and today they were strewn with flowers, ribbons, and scented herbs. In the center of it all was a tall wooden dais, and on it stood an wooden throne carved with scenes of feasting warriors, sailing ships, and silver-gilt stars. Noldor crowded about to acclaim him, and some Sindar, too. Gil-galad stood there, the crown of the Noldor on his head, and the light slanted forward onto his edges as if he were gilded. A man outlined in fire, shining like a star, and in every inch a king.

“Noldor, look to the future with gladness,” he told the waiting crowd. “Have hope, friends!”

Elrond cheered, and the crowd followed suit with a full-throated joyous roar that echoed so long and wild amid the mountains that he doubted for a moment if it would ever fade.

That night, as the last of the party faded, Elrond lay awake in bed. He’d eaten, drunk, and danced too much, and it turned out he still had enough mortal in him to suffer one hell of a stomachache. Finally, driven by some strange impulse, he got out of bed, tugged on an overcoat, and padded outside.

The night was clear and fine. The stars were brighter than usual, and the long stripe of the Milky Way glittered above him like a geode. The wind was soft with a promise of fresh rain, just chilly enough to shake him awake fully. Elrond felt springtime vibrating in the earth and air, a dark electric excitement running deep in the roots of the world. He took a deep breath, letting the currents wash over him, and he listened. Above the usual crickets and night animals, he heard a soft, rhythmic thudding in the distance.

Was that what had driven him out of bed? He walked over.

Near his and King Gil-galad’s temporary dwellings, there was an open, fenced-off dirt arena with a few beat-up training dummies. He saw Gil-galad himself, in white linen night-clothes, repeating a complex series of sword-moves ending with a slash at the dummies as if they had personally offended him.

Elrond leaned on the fence and watched. Gil-galad continued what he was doing.

Finally Elrond cleared his throat. “How are you feeling, Your Majesty? Peaceful at heart?”

For the first time, Gil-galad paused. He wiped some sweat off his forehead with his free hand. “It’s four in the morning. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Elrond ignored that. “Tell me, is it true that ‘heavy lies the head that wears the crown’?”

“It’s actually a fair bit less heavy than some other jewels,” he said. “It depends what your fate was beforehand, I suppose.”

Elrond waited, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Do you feel more noble, then, Your Majesty? Divinely-inspired? Touched by Eru Ilúvatar himself?”

“I’m… really not the person to ask that,” Gil-galad said enigmatically. “Anyway, didn’t I tell you to call me Gil-galad?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I notice you aren’t.”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Remind me why you’re my adviser again.”

“Because I’m the only member of your court who’s nearly as much of a hotshot as I think I am,” Elrond said peaceably.

“And humble, too.”

“Of course!”

Gil-galad finally barked a laugh. He let his sword arm fall and walked over to Elrond’s fence post, limping slightly.

“How are you doing, Elrond? I’ve hardly had the chance to speak with you all day. I know I left the party a little too early, but I hope that didn’t put too much of a damper on the mood.”

“Not in the least,” Elrond said. “I’m quite well indeed. A little too much celebration to properly sleep, but I’m not complaining about it! We can all use a little celebration these days.”

“Hah! That’s certainly true.” Gil-galad looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m out here.”

Elrond inclined his head. “You don’t look as happy as I might have expected. Did you not want to become a king?”

“I did! I do! Or - I can’t say my passions lie in the political arts, or in dealing with people, but I like solving problems. The elves of Middle-Earth need a leader. I need something I can fix. It works. And I have a lot of ideas for how things can be better run.” He looked down at his sword. “As for this… it’s a bad habit from my childhood, I’m afraid. I don’t much like parties.”

He scratched his head absently, as if that would distract Elrond from the fact that his grip on his sword had gone white. “I get nightmares. Can’t get back to sleep until I find a way around them. So, you know, if I was attacked like this and this—I’d respond with that—and that—“ he demonstrated the series of motions he’d been practicing earlier. “Once I think of how I’d be able to win, I drill it into myself, and then I can get to sleep. I don’t know if that makes any sense? It’s not the, um, healthiest way of coping, I suppose. But it does make me very good at fighting. So that’s what I do.”

Elrond hummed thoughtfully. “But what about the unwinnable? We’ve fought the Enemy for centuries. No one thought we would win until the last few years.”

Gil-galad smiled wryly. “Well, I didn’t sleep very much.” He looked into the middle distance. “I found fights I could win, wherever I could find them. Monsters, beasts. Quests. Far around the world. Anywhere that I could stop feeling so trapped.” He shook himself. “All of Beleriand felt like a trap there for a while.”

Elrond bit his lip. “Gil-galad. Were… you in Gondolin, when it fell?”

Gil-galad looked startled. “How did—” He stopped himself.

“Hardly any of the surviving Gondolindrim were at your celebration,” Elrond pointed out. “They were all standing guard. My foster-fathers were not so isolated that we didn’t hear the stories, you know. The city was attacked in the middle of a festival, stuck in the mountains with no escape—‘like rats in a trap,’ someone said. That matches what you’ve said, I think.”

“You’ve put some thought into this, haven’t you?” Gil-galad stepped aside to grab a rag, wiped down his sword, and sheathed it. “I know I’m not the most… open… of people.”

“Oh? You don’t say, Your Majesty.”

Gil-galad looked at him blankly, then noticed the sarcasm. “Hah. I deserve that. No, look, it’s not… Círdan told me you’d been asking around about me.” That rat, Elrond thought fondly. “My past, my family—I can’t tell you any more than I have. I promise, I’d like to share more, but there are certain—secrets—that I must keep, whether I will or nay. No matter how much I trust you, and I do trust you, I can’t tell you.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

Elrond considered. “I mean, no, to be perfectly honest I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about. But you’re saying that your lineage is not your secret to tell, for whatever reason. I can’t say I’m not curious, but I can respect that. Now that you’ve told me, at least.”

“That’s better than I expected.” Gil-galad smiled and stuck out his hand. “How about, I’ll be more open from now on, and when I can’t tell you something, I say it to your face? And you stop letting your people sow dissent behind my back. Some of these theories I’ve heard are verging on the bizarre.”

Elrond took his hand and shook it. “Works for me, Your Majesty.” Then he hesitated. “For my own part… Your Majesty has asked how I feel about my birth parents. I might as well tell you. I don’t know. I don’t… care for them the way I know I ought to. They did their best, but now they’re all the way over there, and… I’m here. I can’t blame them for anything, but I can’t seem to love them, either.” He shook himself. “Well! Anyway. That’s my own troubles, and better suited for another day. It’s still a time of celebration! Your Majesty, I know you’ve wanted to reach out to our family. What would you say of going to my brother in Númenor, once it’s built? As long as you don’t mind sea travel.”

Gil-galad’s eyes, which had gone dark and distant while Elrond was speaking, lit up. “I would love to!”

Chapter Text

Some people sailed on the ocean. Eӓrendil flew.

“Steady!” he laughed. Elrond sat below him, discreetly clinging to the railing as the bowsprit skimmed lightly over the water, leaping higher, higher, higher still. Any other sailor might’ve thought it odd, how light they flew. Rainbows danced in the foam, and the water was deep and clear.

Eӓrendil himself stood halfway up the mast, and looked down to shadows in the depths: half-imagined, half-remembered shapes of Beleriand’s mountains. But he hadn’t the heart to do more than pity them, poor dead drowned things. Here, now, the sunlight sparkled and sang to the tune of his soul, and every breath glowed through him; the wind was lightning, cleansing and joyful as a summer thunderstorm. This was sailing—not the kind stars did, nor heroes. This was how you sailed when the world rang in your heart like a clarion bell, and the air was so fresh that it burned, and to stay at home would be intolerable beyond your capacity to bear. On days like these, Elwing used to laugh and let him go, watching from the docks with her feet in the water. But now she skimmed through the air as a vision of bright feathers, free and wild over the water the way she’d never been as an elf. She kept one small, shining black eye on the ship and its riders. Perhaps noticing their lines of sight, she suddenly banked and did a barrel roll, then took an updraft and flung herself up like a great white kite. Elrond, below him, laughed aloud. He’d laughed so rarely since the Fëanorians had been lost.  

Oh, he thought. Life is beautiful. I almost forgot.

He looked down to where his son sat against the railing, face upturned to follow the track of the soaring bird. After checking one last time that the sails were set, he dropped down from the mast next to him.

Elrond spun back. “Holy hell, Your Majesty. Is it so hard to just climb down?”

Eӓrendil leaned back on the railing. “On a day like today? Definitely. How are you doing, kid? Not sea-sick?”

Elrond made a face. “A little?”

“Shit! One second, I’ll luff the main—”

“No! No. It’s okay.” Elrond turned back to the water and drew his knees to his chin. A cloud passed over his face. “Um. Your Majesty… you said, once, that you knew Elwing, right?”

“That’s right.” Without looking, he picked through a rope behind his back to ease the sheet. That would stop the sail from catching all of the wind and slow them down a bit.

“What was she like?”

“She was the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” he said immediately.

Elrond side-eyed him. But the damage was done. Over the course of his years as Gil-Galad, Eӓrendil had been banned from his favorite conversation topic, and there was no stopping him now. Eӓrendil continued: “That’s to be expected from the line of Lúthien, I suppose. But, if you don’t mind, I always thought your line’s famous beauty wasn’t really in their looks, but the way their souls shined through—like sunlight reaching through a piece of paper.

“Half the elves I’ve met have dark hair and gray eyes, and most of them wear it perfectly well, but Elwing also had a little gap between her front teeth, and a couple freckles that she hated, and raggedy fingernails because she couldn’t stop biting them. When she was young, she was tall and gawky, like a bundle of sticks. She ran around from place to place because it was more logical than walking, and you’d never see her without a scraped knee. Then after she grew into herself she always walked at this dignified, stately pace like a queen. She said it was because she was grown up and sensible now, but she was lying. As soon as she got excited, she was back to bumping all the doorways, and she made herself move slowly just so no one else would see. —She’d hate that I told you any of that, by the way. She wanted to be graceful and perfect, like her idea of Lúthien. But she wasn’t, and that made her marvelous.”

Elrond fully leaned back from the railing to look at him. He’d raised a eyebrow at ‘Gil-galad’s’ level of detail, but the description (while suspiciously specific) was absorbing. Eӓrendil, for his part, was fully engrossed in what he was saying, and he looked up at her small white form dancing along the air currents.

“She was clever. Brave. Very stubborn. She would never bow to anything if she thought herself to be in the right. She was quiet, and shy, and a little too self-conscious, but she was the most loyal person in the world. She would follow Eӓrendil into the grandest messes, and she’d usually be the one to get him out of them, too. No matter how much she worried, she always kept her wits about her. She had a hidden fire to her, too, underneath the shyness, and it flashed in her eyes whenever she was passionate about an argument. She was like a hearth-fire in the deepest twilight: still, and quiet, and warm, and even if you crossed half the world you’d still find her calling you home again.” He swallowed. “She was the wisest person I’ve ever met. But her most special grace was that she made everyone around her feel wise, too. She would listen to your every word like it meant something, and it made you want to be worthy of her. I’ve never met anyone else like that.” He reached out and nudged Elrond’s shoulder. “Except you, maybe, kid. You’re a lot like her, you know.”

The spell was broken. Elrond blinked very quickly, and nodded, his face impenetrable. “That was very - informative.”

“Certainly!”

“You must’ve met Eӓrendil, too, then? You both trained under Círdan. What - was he like?”

Eӓrendil froze as a spasm of pain crossed his legs. He racked his brains. “He was… nice.”

“Nice.” Elrond regarded him evenly.

“Very… venturesome. He was a good sailor. Círdan liked him a lot.” Why couldn’t he think of a thing to say?

“I understand completely.” Elrond nodded emphatically, having apparently come to some conclusion. “Thank you, Your Majesty. This means a lot to me.”

“Of course,” Eӓrendil said, feeling a little baffled. Was he trying to say something? “You know you can talk to me any time.”

“I know.” Elrond paused. “Is the wind supposed to be doing that to the sails?”

“Oh, hell!”

~

Númenor was young by the standards of elves, but it was already a sight to behold.

Star-Dome Port faced Middle-Earth (Elrond was going to have words with Elros about the name), and the dock itself was clustered with small fishing boats with colorfully-dyed sails. The boardwalk was tiled in what seemed to be a repeating mosaic pattern resembling the ocean’s waves, but it was barely visible under a crowd of brown-haired mortals. A line of guards held them back, wearing burnished half-plate with winged helmets. The armor was of mixed mannish, elven, and dwarf make, and most of it was straight out of the War of Wrath.

Between the lines of soldiers, a mortal man identical to Elrond waited in dawn-colored robes of red, gold, and pink. He was tall and youthful, with a scepter topped by a leaping sea-bird. The mortal king of Númenor, and Elrond’s twin brother: Elros Half-elven.

Elrond leaped off the ship, stumbled, and then ran to embrace him.

Eӓrendil was slower, tying down the ship and double-checking all the knots. He saw one of the guards give him an approving nod before refocusing on his duties.

“I told you not to do a fancy entrance,” Elrond wheezed.

Elros released him and slung an arm around his shoulders. “And I told you not to bring an official delegation because we aren’t ready yet. Glass house, stones.”

“This isn’t an official delegation! You said I could bring one other person to sail the ship, since I am, quote, ‘hopeless.’ Well, I did.”

“Oh, yes? And he coincidentally looks identical to King of the Noldor.”

Eӓrendil sauntered uneasily up to his second son, hands in his pockets. “Officially, I’m just the transport.” Then nerves overtook him and he compulsively added, “Um, u-unless you really didn’t want me here… I can, um, go back to the ship…”

Elros looked at Elrond questioningly. “Is the King of the Noldor actually suggesting he live on a yacht for a month while you’re here?”

“He’s got some kind of guilt complex about the kinslaying,” Elrond explained, which, yes, was accurate, but uncalled for.

Eӓrendil wanted to say something, but then his eyes went back over Elros’ face. Open, friendly gray eyes; fine skin; a smile that had taught itself to look careless. He even had nicks on his chin where he’d tried to shave skin that didn’t need it. Eӓrendil used to do that too. The mortals he met at Círdan’s had such fine beards, and he’d felt so left out not being able to grow one at all…

All his words dried up. He wet his lips. “Something like that, yes,” he managed.

“Well, if it helps any, I forgive you for what you didn’t know and couldn’t do,” Elros said easily, “and I’m glad to meet the man that my brother talks so highly about. Even if, officially, he is just the transport.”

Eӓrendil ducked his head as his heart contracted under an ocean-weight of emotions.

“I think you might’ve just killed him,” Elrond said. “Look at him. Elros, you killed the king of the Noldor by forgiving him too fast. How am I supposed to write back and explain that?”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have brought him then,” Elros fired back.

 Eӓrendil glanced up. “I am very glad to meet you, Elros,” he said with a sincerity that surprised even him. “It has been a long time coming.”

Elros did a slight double take, then bowed his head. “And you as well.” His eyes flickered over to Elwing, who’d soared down to settle on the railing of the dock, watching them quietly. Then he shook himself, grabbed Elrond by the elbow, and started to tug him along, babbling happily about the work of building an island nation. Eӓrendil trailed behind them. His feet were sore, but his heart was lighter than it had been for a long time.

If Númenor wasn’t “ready” for an official delegation, Eӓrendil had no idea when it would be. The public roads of Armenelos were patterned after the constellations, with the palace echoing Gil-Estel: Eӓrendil the star. The king’s rooms were at the very center, where the starlight was brightest. One side was a wall-to-wall folding window, flung open to reveal a sunny balcony over a courtyard with a fine white tree. The west-facing wall was paneled in black walnut, and carved with miniature scenes of the great heroes of Men. Bëor around his campfire, set in fire opal; Haleth and her men, armored in jade, fought orcs; Andreth in chalcedony sat among her books; Beren, his fist surrounded by a gold halo, stood against the silver-lined maw of Carcharoth; Túrin slayed Glaurung with a sword of inlaid black jade; Tuor walked the sea, shorn in pearls and seashells. In the place of honor above Elros’ desk, dwarfing all the others, a carved vision of Eӓrendil in gleaming silver armor stood at the helm of a flying ship, his sapphire eyes staring straight ahead.

Eӓrendil stood in front of the carving, his glance tracing its smooth wooden face.

“I have no idea how accurate it is,” Elros said, walking up behind him. “But doesn’t it look nice?”

“It’s magnificent,” Eӓrendil said honestly.

“The sculptor wanted to use a jewel substitution for the silmaril initially, but I vetoed it,” he explained. “They’re inimitable, after all, and failed mimicry would cheapen the whole piece, don’t you think? Instead I wanted him to focus on the eyes. We often forget this in favor of the whole silmaril affair, or the extended descriptions gifted to Lúthien’s line, but the poets say Eӓrendil’s eyes were bluer than the southern sky. A striking description, I thought. Actually, that’s the one memory I have of my father—we were on a cliffside, and as he held me in his arms and spun me around, I noticed that his eyes were exactly the same blue as the sky. It’s not a very meaningful memory, maybe, but all the same, it’s something. I’d like future generations to remember it. Elrond, you had a memory too, right?”

“Just the day he left, and I’ve forgotten it since,” he said.

“Ah, but I forget myself—you’re one of the lucky few who knew our father directly, weren’t you? Maybe you could tell me. Have I diminished my men’s artistic vision for nothing? Was he gray-eyed like the rest of us, and is that memory of mine mere imagination, inflamed by the madness of poets?”

Eӓrendil stiffened, and shifted from foot to burning foot. “I think your recollection is probably right, Majesty. Indeed, Eӓrendil’s eyes were a very brilliant blue.”

 “Your eyes are blue too, aren’t they?” Elros pressed. His eyes were very sharp. “I noticed that earlier. I’m curious, are they the same shade? Maybe it runs in the family.”

“Elros, leave him alone,” Elrond interrupted sharply.

“What was he like? Were you two very close? What did he do outside of sailing?”

Eӓrendil froze like a mouse in the eyes of a snake. Pain was shooting up his legs in little flickers of fire.

“Do you think he regretted choosing to be an elf? Did he ever talk about us?”

“Elros, for fuck’s sake! Can’t you see he doesn’t want to talk about it?”

Eӓrendil shook himself and moved away from the carving of his face. “I don’t, um, object.”

“Well, I do.” Elrond folded his arms. “We hardly even knew Eӓrendil. You don’t have to make this whole trip about him.”

“Oh, come on. You’re around Gil-galad all the time. I only have this one chance!” whined Elros. “What if I die? What then?”

“You—stop that! You’d have more chances if you actually let us sail into Númenor publicly. Really, why don’t you? And don’t start spouting bullshit about being ‘ready.’”

Elros shrugged expansively. “What can I say? I think we need to settle into ourselves. A generation or two, maybe. I don’t want Númenor to be a miniature Lindon or a small Valinor. We’re very fine mimics now, but can we have a town, a city, a nation, that’s truly Mannish? A society that can live, change, and die? I don’t know. We’ve never done it. I want us to have some weight behind us first, before we bring in other artistic influences.”

“So I was right. The isolationism is an art thing,” Elrond accused.

“No! I mean, it’s not just that. So much of mortal culture is about copying elven habits, and, you know what, I don’t need to defend myself to you. When I’m dead and gone you can assess the damage and see that I’m right.”

Elrond winced, and Eӓrendil did too. “Must you keep bringing that up?” Elrond asked.

“What? The fact that I’m going to die, and you aren’t, because you left me?”

“Me? I’m the one who left?”

“We grew up like Men. We spend our whole lives thinking we’d die, by the Enemy’s hand if nothing else. Then you refuse the Gift? That looks a hell of a lot like leaving to me.”

“But it’s not leaving to fuck off to an island, refuse to open trade, and—and use this world while you have it, then shimmy off this mortal coil as soon as you’re done, like a shoe you’ve outgrown? I’m the one who’s sticking around! I’m going to take care of this world, not just—abandon it! Enough people have left us! Including—“ Elrond stabbed a hand at the wall—“your precious Eӓrendil! I’m sticking around!”

“This world isn’t for us to keep! You know it as well as I do! It doesn’t belong to us! We can enjoy it, but we can’t live here forever!”

Eӓrendil coughed.

The twins spun around to face him, identical eyes blazing. Eӓrendil physically took a step back.

“Um,” he said. “Not to get in the middle of - this. I see that emotions are high. But… you’ve only just reunited. The future is long, and you’re both still young. Do you really want to let a fight spoil this visit?” His eyes fell on Tuor on the wall. His father; the twins’ grandfather, if they cared to know it. “When I think of my dead friends, I don’t wish I’d fought with them more about their fates.”

“Hmph!” Elros leaned back on a corner of his desk. “We have a peacemaker, I see. A good quality for a king. No matter how annoying.” His gaze—cool, analytical—swept over Eӓrendil, and Eӓrendil ducked his eyes at the last moment. “Well. Elrond, I suppose I don’t have you here very long. Peace? For now?”

Elrond folded his arms. “Fine. But stop being a pest.”

“Fine, fine.” Elros fluttered a hand, then gestured towards the door. “Now follow me. We’ve been experimenting with developing a Númenorean cuisine, and I bet you’ll like it.”

Elrond left in the direction Elros had pointed. Eӓrendil made to follow, but Elros tugged slightly at his sleeve. He paused, and Elros swept by him, whispering in his ear, “This evening. After he goes to sleep. We need to talk.”

~

Elrond was… fine.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine.

Elros guffawed loudly as Elrond opened the door to his receiving room, blinking at the influx of brilliant morning light. “No, no,” he told Gil-galad, “you can’t tell him, by any means. God, it’ll be too funny. His face!”

Gil-galad had somehow contrived to end up sitting atop the king’s desk, precisely overlaying the fresco of Eӓrendil’s figure, with Elros leaning on a side wall. Gil-galad sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know where the two of you get this sense of humor from. Certainly not from either of—oh! Elrond! Welcome!”

He turned around and beamed.

Elros, next to him, looked inordinately pleased with himself. Elrond knew that expression too well from his own face to trust it. He sped forward. “When did you two start getting along?”

“How’d you sleep? Has young Númenor been treating you well?” Elros asked. “Good food? Pretty ladies? Made you reconsider any important decisions?”

“Not hardly,” he said, “and you’re avoiding the question.”

Elros smirked. “I know something you don’t know.”

Gil-galad glanced at him sharply, but said nothing.

Elrond sniffed. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

“It’s no fun if I tell you!” Elros folded his arms. “You’re the one who wanted all that extra time. Good luck, you’ve just gotten a chance to use it. You’ll have to guess.”

“Elros—”

“Gil-galad here will tell you if you’ve gotten it right! Won’t you, Gil-galad?”

Gil-galad nodded.

“There you go! A great big guessing game.” Elros had a striking resemblance to a cat who has gotten not just the cream, but an entire creamery. Elrond had the overwhelming urge to pour a pitcher of water down the back of his shirt like when they were kids.

“Is this revenge for when I didn’t tell you about the snake incident?”

“Might be. Or the forest thing. Or the one with the kitchens and the paint. Or the water-bucket affair. Or the thing with all the feathers.”

“You remember that?!”

Gil-galad glanced from one to the other. “What is—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Elrond said sharply. He was staring levelly at his brother. His brother was grinning infuriatingly back.

Finally Elrond threw up his hands. “Fine! Whatever! Have it your way! I’ll guess your stupid secret!”

Elros’ smile grew even wider. “Not in a million years.”

Gil-galad looked away.

That night, Elrond, Elros, and Gil-galad staggered beside the stone balustrade at the top of the Númenorean king’s palace after a long evening of sampling the kingly wine cellar. The stars hung like silver flames above them, precisely reflecting the fires and lights of the city below.

Elros not telling Elrond something was, if anything, less surprising than the other way around would have been. What was upsetting was Gil-galad’s apparent compliance with it. It obviously had to do with his past. His precious secret, and he’d gone and revealed it to Elros? Just like that? And then agreed with Elros to keep it a secret?!

And it wasn’t as if Gil-galad was even so unhappy about having his secret revealed, Elrond thought resentfully, looking at him sideways. Look at how he walked—so lightly it was as if the ground was hurting his feet!

Finally they collapsed on benches on a turret. Gil-galad tucked his legs up to massage them.

“Say, Gil-galad,” Elrond said, glancing at him sidelong. “I think I’ve got you figured out.” He saw their glances turn to him, and reconsidered: “Some of you, anyway.”

Gil-galad froze with his hands on his legs. “…Oh?”

“You lived at Sirion, didn’t you?”

“…Oh?”

“And then you got kicked out,” Elrond continued triumphantly, “because you were in love with our mother.”

“...ah.”

“—Or at least, you chose to leave after she preferred Eӓrendil over you. That’s why you feel like you should’ve been there to save us, and still feel guilty you weren’t. But you also don’t want to step over the place where our father should have been. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t—I never—I mean, you know she was married—“

Elrond stared at his king sardonically. “Go on. Say it. Look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t in love with Elwing.”

“I’m not… I mean, I don’t… I wouldn’t… I don’t have to say anything! What do I have to prove?! I’m not in love with, um. I mean, why do I have to say it? I could be in love with lots of people! Or no one!”

“Give it up,” Elros advised vaguely, taking another slug out of his bottle. Númenorean wine was absolute shit, he’d told them, but it made the winemakers so discouraged to tell them that, so he’d been stuck with an absolute warehouse of the stuff. He claimed that putting a dent in it was a ‘patriotic duty.’

“I… fine. You’re not wrong,” Gil-galad said faintly.

Then, because he was curious, he asked, “Was I really that obvious?”

“Yes,” Elros and Elrond immediately chorus. Which, rude.

“You’ve been bringing her up non-stop since we started drinking,” Elros added, which… was not inaccurate.

Elrond leaned in. He looked bright and serious as he said, “Listen, Gil-galad. The Kinslaying wasn’t your fault, okay? We’re okay. We’re alive. What happened, happened. It’s past.” He rose and stumbled unsteadily towards the railing. “And you know what? I’m glad that I have you around! I had the Fëanorians to raise me, and now I have you to be my cousin. So what if my heart is a little twisted up? I’m fine! I don’t need a dad anyway!”

“Not this again,” Elros said.

Gil-galad said carefully, “I don’t think your heart is twisted.”

“But it is,” Elrond exploded. “I don’t miss him like I should. Or our mother, either. I never did. I tried so hard not to love Maglor and Maedhros, but I do, I love them, and I miss them both so, so much, even with all the terrible things they did. And my blood family did such good things, but I don’t miss them at all, or when I do think about them, I just get angry about the part of me that’s missing because of them being gone. No matter what I’m feeling, it’s always wrong. Isn’t that messed up? Isn’t that marred?”

“…you don’t need to miss them,” said Gil-galad, twisting his hands. “There’s been so much grief already. I think—I think your father would be happy if you were happy. I mean… he did what he did so that you would have a future, right? Not for you to keep looking back.” He looked back to Elros desperately. “Elros—”

“See, just like that! You always have some dumb old mentor thing to say.” Elrond kicked the railing. “I wish you were my dad instead of stupid fucking Eӓrendil.”

Gil-Galad flushed. He leaned forward to say something, but Elros stood up, shoved him back, and grabbed Elrond’s arm. “You are drunk, and you’re acting miserably,” he informed him. “I loved Maglor and Maedhros just as much as you did. Are you calling me twisted? Stop acting like there’s some Father Authority who’s going to call the Father Magistrate on you if you don’t pick one father to have an incom, uncomplicated relationship with. Anyway, even if you don’t want him, Eӓrendil is my father, and I am very happy to have him, thank you very much. It is time for you to get your ass back in bed.”

“You…” Elrond twisted a little, but he was too drunk to do much more than that. “Fine. Whatever. I’m going. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t. But I wish I did.”

Finally the month ended, and Elrond was back on the small boat, letting Gil-galad skim them over the slate-gray waves back to Lindon.

“You told Elros your secret,” Elrond said dully as they skipped over the waves like a thrown stone. God, he was sea-sick.

“He figured it out himself,” Gil-galad said, “but - yes.”

“But you won’t tell me.”

“No.”

After untying some ropes, Gil-galad limped over to a bench, pulled his feet up, and winced. With half of his mind, Elrond noticed that Gil-galad hadn’t jumped around the ship at all this time.

Not for the first time, he thought, What a terribly strange little man. (But there was a little note of resentment, there, that hadn't been there before.)

Chapter Text

After their visit to Númenor, Gil-galad complained often of a pain in his feet that he never let anyone look at. But it didn’t seem to stop him from moving. Lindon had no capital city, aside from the Gray Havens of Círdan; Gil-galad set up an itinerant court instead, passing through the towns and cities like a gentle breeze. Elrond accompanied him loyally as his right-hand man.

Time wore on, as it tended to do. The centuries wore at the mountains and dug riverbeds into the earth. So slowly that no one perceived it happening, the sheer stone cliffs bordering sunken Beleriand were getting beaten into sand.

~

(After Elros died, there was a long time when Elrond didn’t take notice of anyone, friend or foe.

“The hands of a king ought to be the hands of a healer,” Elros had said, so often it became an aphorism among his subjects. He even healed the white sea-birds that came so often to his balcony. He’d built up a veritable library of medical codexes with fine illuminated pages, most of them written, illustrated, and bound by his own hand. He left every single one to his brother, and in the darkness of his grief Elrond finally decided to learn the healer’s art.

They called him the greatest healer in Middle-Earth. “The greatest has left these shores,” he would respond, “but I do my best.”)

~

“He’s nice, but he’s strange,” a friend of Elrond’s said of the king. “He doesn’t go to parties. He doesn’t talk about himself. He talks to sea-birds more than he talks to his courtiers. He won’t meet anyone’s eyes. He’s just so distant—out of place, above it all. Sometimes he barely acts like an elf at all… I don’t know. I guess I just feel like he’s not all here?”

“I want to be his friend,” Lindamë said. “He just won’t let me.”

It wasn’t that people didn’t respect King Gil-galad, or like him. His claim to the Noldorin throne was weak, but he was acclaimed by the Noldor and even some Sindar. He could strike hope into a crowd like no one else, and appeal to one’s better nature as if he were born for it. He kept to himself and lacked any notable scandals. And perhaps it was just that he took his duties too seriously, but he held himself tense and apart—a herding dog protecting its flock; a star watching over its people, protective and pitiless. He only ever really seemed to relax around Círdan and his sailing companions, and sometimes not even then. Even Elrond, his mentee, lacked his confidence.

…sometimes, Elrond thought he trusted him even less than everyone else.

It was hard not to resent those walls, after centuries. But you had to pity him, too.

~

They were working late. Gil-galad’s office in this particular city—Harlond—was dark and close. Rain slammed against the windows in howling gusts and thunder rattled at the panes. Both king and assistant sat on armchairs close to the fireplace, bathed in the light.

“You can leave, you know,” Gil-galad said. “I’ll finish up.”

“For how long, Your Majesty?”

“When I’m done. It’s fine. You go get some rest.”

“Your Majesty, you’ve been at this for days. When was the last time you slept without being reminded? Or ate?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I think you actually had a healthier manner during the war. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Don’t worry about me, Elrond. I can take it.”

“But you don’t have to take it. We’re not at war anymore, Your Majesty. You don’t have to make the road construction policy precisely perfect. —Just like you don’t have to send your guard away when you’re attacking a demon, or have to throw yourself into every dangerous situation you see, or have to push away everyone who tries to reach out to you. Lindamë tried to talk to you the other day and you picked a fight about the Fëanorians. You didn’t have to do that.” Elrond glanced sidelong at his king. “Your Majesty. If there’s one thing Maglor and Maedhros taught me, it was how to forgive. Not just them—but myself, for the crime of loving them. In the end, I decided that the world is better with more mercy in it. I don’t know what grudge you hold against yourself, my lord… but perhaps you ought to learn the same.”

Gil-galad’s gaze was locked on the hearth. The firelight flickered over his face, like lapping tongues of shadow. “And what if my transgression was not yet over? What if I could reach out a hand—say a few words—render myself vulnerable, and resolve the shadow on my heart—except that I am unwilling?”

“Change is one thing, Your Majesty. I spoke of forgiveness, and that is something else.”

Gil-galad stared into the fire.

Finally he cast his eyes back to the ground. “Go back to your rooms, Elrond. Get some proper sleep, not just a trance. That’s an order.”

“Fine. But I’m right, and you know it too.”

~

Six hundred years after Beleriand sank below the waves, and a hundred and fifty since the death of Elros, a Númenorean sailing-captain named Vëantur ventured to the mainland—the first Númenorean to do so since its rise. He was a pleasant fellow, broad-shouldered, with a strong beard streaked by early gray. He landed in the Gray Havens, but it was in Gil-galad’s lands that he dwelt, and they spent every waking moment outside of formal negotiations discussing the intricacies of sailing. It bored Elrond to death, but he tolerated it for the chance to talk to one of Elros’ people.

They had been discussing the relative benefits of elven craft compared to the new Númenorean style, innovated in the past few generations since they’d contacted the mainland (the new ships were larger, more geometric, and lacked the classic swan-ship prow, which was apparently some fantastic break from the norm that was entirely lost on Elrond) when Gil-galad offhandedly said, “It reminds me almost of the ships of Rhûn in the far east. Their ships are unlike any I’ve seen, with snarling monstrous beaks painted on the fronts, but they’re wonderous sailors—they rescued my ship from a week-long stint becalmed, and since then I’ve thought there was no sight finer in the world.”

Elrond blinked. “You went to Rhûn? Really? That's so far we don't even list it on our maps!”

Vëantur leaned in. “I knew you sailed, sir, but not so far! How long were you a career sailor?”

“I am—” Gil-galad cut himself off—“an enthusiast.”

“Goodness! If every enthusiast was as knowledgeable as you, your Majesty, Númenor’s ships would be flying the skies.”

“Hah. Ah. Ahem.” Gil-galad’s eyes darted over to Elrond. “Yes, well. That was a long time ago.”

“I’d love to hear more someday,” Vëantur said, and Elrond nodded enthusiastically.

Gil-galad avoided their gaze again—Elrond’s gaze in particular, he noticed.

Odd.

~

Galadriel and Celebrimbor walked with Elrond through the alleys of the Gray Havens one day while Gil-galad and Vëantur were out sailing. He had a general idea that they had an aim in mind, and indeed, they soon steered him towards a secluded plaza with fine stone benches under a circle of shady elms.

After a few pleasantries, Galadriel got to the point. “We’re planning on establishing our own realm outside of Lindon,” she said bluntly. “We’ll still owe fealty to the High King, of course, but Eregion will be our own land to rule over and build. We want you to join us.”

“Our capital city will be close to that of the dwarves,” Celebrimbor continued eagerly. “I am bringing all the craftsmen I know, and Galadriel all her scholars and artisans. We have plans—I can show you—but I daresay Eregion will be the most beautiful place in all of Middle-Earth. Maybe even the whole world! A land to rival Valinor itself, cousin!”

“Perhaps,” Galadriel said. “Perhaps not. But it will be great, and it will be beautiful, and more to the point it will be ours. Would it also be yours?”

Elrond hesitated. “You’re trying to poach me.”

“We most certainly are!” Celebrimbor said gleefully.

“I know you’re faithful to Gil-galad, and that you’re happy in your station. But you cannot keep moving around forever,” Galadriel said. “You can benefit Eregion, and Eregion, I think, can benefit you. If the darkness in the east continues to grow, we will be lucky to maintain light and life while we can. Don’t you want a home that is truly your own?”

That bore some thought. Still— “Maybe so, but not yet, I deem. I thank you for your offer, but I don’t believe it is my fate to settle down just yet.” Elrond said. “But I wish you luck. Eregion sounds like it will be wonderful.”

“Rest assured, little cousin, it will be,” Celebrimbor said. “But don’t tell Gil-galad just yet, would you? We’d like to tell him ourselves, when our preparations are more firm.”

Elrond inclined his head. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Galadriel, if I may. Your, uh, daughter—Celebrían—”

“She is joining us, for now. But I’m sure she’d be most happy if you were to visit,” Galadriel said. “You two are great friends, are you not?”

“…yes, that’s right.” If Elrond had been the type to blush, he would’ve been pink. Not that there was any reason to be! Indeed, Celebrían was just his friend. His gentle, charming, gorgeously attractive platonic friend whose mother was standing right in front of him... New subject! He needed a new subject!

~

Vëantur’s mission was an exceptional success. He found wealth and success back in Númenor; his daughter married the crown prince; and in his old age, he brought his grandson to the Gray Havens, and he and young Prince Aldarion remained there for two years.

If Elrond had ever been concerned about Gil-galad’s lack of friends, he no longer needed to worry. At least not while Aldarion lived. The sailor-prince of Númenor hung around Gil-galad whenever he wasn’t out voyaging, and they were often sending letters across the wide sea. Together, they created the Guild of Venturers to sail from the darkest reaches of the Nether Darkness all the way to the Walls of the Sun, all the while investigating the evils curdling in the outer lands. Even when the king of Númenor banned his son from using Númenorean timber, or indeed from sailing at all, Aldarion snuck out to the ocean like a toy boat pulled away by a riptide.

Gil-galad said, “He’s like myself in my youth. His heart and soul belong to the depths.” His voice was fond, but half-regretful. "It's not an easy fate to have, nor a kind one."

“How did you cut yourself free?” Elrond asked, thinking of Aldarion’s young wife waiting at home. (He’d mentioned her once or twice in total, and Elrond didn’t even know her name. Gil-galad spoke of Elwing far more, and he’d never even won her love. It was disturbing in a way Elrond couldn’t name; except that there was something he was missing, a lost piece to a puzzle he didn’t know he was putting together.)

“Do you know,” Gil-galad said, massaging his legs absent-mindedly, “I’m not sure I have.”

Still, Gil-galad was cheered marvelously by his new mentee, and Elrond couldn’t help at wonder at the marvelous openness which he had never known for himself. He didn’t need to be the man’s best friend. He didn’t begrudge Aldarion that. But—at this rate he wasn’t entirely sure if he was any kind of friend, and it was an uncomfortable position to be in. What was so different about him, that Gil-galad could smile and laugh with others, then look at him and grow so solemn?

It would be different if Gil-galad would only talk to him. But he never, ever did.

During one of Aldarion’s many visits to the Gray Havens, Círdan pulled Gil-galad aside for a brief meeting, and Elrond and Aldarion went as well. He sat—Gil-galad was always taking weight off his legs—and they stood peering over his shoulders as Círdan took a roll of parchment out of a drawer with a proposed plan for civic adornment.

“A statue of Eӓrendil,” Gil-galad echoed dully.

“Isn’t it excellent? I didn’t even suggest it. The people insisted it would make for a good luck charm, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Of course the king’s blessing is just a formality here, but I thought you’d want to see this one. They had this excellent idea of hooking it up to a harbor light—here, take a look at the plans.”

He slid over the roll, which Gil-galad took up delicately. “Oh. I see.”

“Not impressed?”

“…I rather think he wore more clothes than that.”

“It’s artistic license, starlet!” Círdan boomed. “Anyway, he’s got… drapery. The important bits are covered. What more could you ask for?”

“A shirt?”

“Don’t be such a prude. Only, the face is a little off. I thought they could get some inspiration from you? Since you have such a Finwëan face, of course. Just the face, mind you. Obviously the sculptor’s got the body well in hand. Hah.”

Gil-galad gave him a look.

Elrond gently tugged the plans out of Gil-galad’s hands.

The sculpture would be made of marble. It showed a noble-looking half-elf, muscular and bare-chested, leaning forward to something beyond the Western horizon. Fountains arced away in the shape of a six-pointed star, similar to the ones in his sigil. (And Gil-galad’s, for that matter. Was there a political undertone to think about?) It would be the centerpiece of the dock, dwarfing the rest of the plaza. It didn’t look terribly similar to Elrond.

Aldarion craned his neck to see. “Goodness. Is that actually what he looked like?”

“…It’s close enough,” Círdan allowed. “Maybe a little exaggerated.”

“Very exaggerated,” Gil-galad said.

Aldarion looked over to Elrond expectantly. He had an open, expressive face, on which his emotions were written clearly and in large letters—the opposite of Gil-galad, in a way. His eyes were very wide. Elrond, for his part, could only shrug. “I never met him.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Elrond shrugged again.

“I think having a statue is an excellent idea,” Aldarion said. “I mean, it’s the Mariner! What better symbol for the best sailors and shipwrights this side of the sea? You know, I used to basically worship him back when I was a child. I asked the minstrel to sing about him every single night. My father got so sick of it, he said he’d fire the man if he took any more of my requests! Hah, I got so upset… I wouldn’t talk to him for days. My grandfather had to step in and request the songs himself to shut me up. And I don’t regret it, either! They say he was the greatest sailor of the Noldor—and with King Gil-galad as his match, he must have been excellent indeed! And even now, he helps light our way and guide us on the sea. God. I wish I could’ve met him.”

Gil-galad had a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. Elrond couldn't tell heads or tails about boats, but he imagined that the comparison was a high compliment indeed.

“I suppose. The statue looks very… noble.” Elrond laced his fingers. “If that’s what the people want, I for one won’t stand against it. I don’t care either way.”

Gil-galad took the scroll up again. “I suppose it’s not too bad,” he allowed. “Only, where’s Elwing?”

Círdan paused, sensing danger. “It’s a statue of Eӓrendil, starlet.”

“Still, it ought to have Elwing in it.”

“Why should it? Eӓrendil was the sailor,” Aldarion piped in. Gil-galad’s face darkened, but he continued obliviously. “You could put her statue on a dovecote, for instance, or falconry mews, if you have to have one at all. But there’s no point putting her on the harbor.”

“If Eӓrendil was a hero, then Elwing was one equal or greater. He could not have done anything without her,” Gil-galad said sharply.

“Why not? If he’d had the silmaril with him in the first place, there’d really be no reason for her to come along. My own lady is very much a creature of the woods and lands. I imagine the Mariner’s lady was much the same.”

“You imagine! Do you think it is so easy, to wait for a man who may never return home? She was the one blessed by Ulmo, not him! How far do you think Eӓrendil could have gone, if she were not there to guide him through the waters? If she had not reasoned with the Teleri where they landed, all the armies the Valar could promise them would come to naught for lack of ships to take them! Elwing was valiant beyond measure, and the idea—”

“Let’s not make this a fight,” Círdan said, palms out. “Certainly, Elwing was very important to Eӓrendil’s journey.”

“Their journey.” Gil-galad’s face was positively stormy.

“Yes, their journey. But it’s true that the sculpture would be unmanageable with an extra person. We could have him hold a sea-bird, for instance—“

“That’s not a lot.”

“My people asked for a statue of the Mariner. Singular.”

“Like I said,” Aldarion half-whispered.

“Then your people are fools! I won’t sign off on it and I damn well won’t bless it.”

Elrond had enough. He stood up. “Your Majesty, why are you being so pushy about this? Just add the damn sea-bird! So Eӓrendil is shirtless, so Elwing is sidelined, what does it matter? They’re not here to get offended! But Círdan’s people are, and if you deny them their good-luck-charm they’ll riot. For god’s sake, this isn’t worth fighting over!”

“And let people like him—” he waved a hand at Aldarion, whose wide face registered first confusion, then offense “—say that Elwing was just Eӓrendil’s wife?!”

"How did I become the villain here?" Aldarion said. "It's simply a fact that—"

“Both of you, enough! The fact is that I am their son and heir. If anyone would like to prove a better claim to their memory, feel free to do so. Otherwise, since neither of them are here to give their opinion, let mine suffice and let us be done with it.”

Gil-galad and Círdan traded one of their secret glances, and a wave of bitterness swept over Elrond before he forced it down.

“Are we settled?” he snapped.

Aldarion and Círdan inclined their heads. After a moment, Gil-galad followed suit.

~

Aldarion’s last voyage took place on nearly the thousandth year since Beleriand had fallen. The year his (now-former) wife died, he returned to Númenor one last time, to voyage no more.

It was not a warm welcome. The erstwhile queen of Númenor had resented waiting for him, and raised their only child to do the same. After a life spent pursuing the still-unnamed evil hiding at the corners of the world, Aldarion’s homecoming was nothing more nor less than the hateful and unhappy house he’d abandoned. His daughter wrote Gil-galad briefly to state that her father had died, and that as her first act as queen, she would reverse Aldarion’s policies and refuse any further aid or collaboration with the elves of Lindon. No further messages would be sent from Númenor for the next two centuries.

“I’ve failed again,” Gil-galad muttered to himself. Elrond was sitting in a corner, doing some paperwork, while Gil-galad paced back and forth in his outer chambers like a bird in its cage. He limped with every step, just slightly. As if in echo of his mood, a white sea-bird was sitting on his windowsill, smoothing its feathers worriedly. “I knew he was too much like me… I had a second chance and I ruined it. And for nothing! I tread this path over and over again… God!”

The bird flew over to Gil-galad’s shoulder and started tugging at the shining rings tied in his hair. He let out a laugh that was almost a sob.

—Elrond did not know very much about his mother. Elwing had rejected Gil-galad himself, obviously, but he was told she’d waited patiently for her husband for months or years at a time. Was that the situation Gil-galad was thinking of? But how could it have been a ‘second chance’?

There was no point asking him, obviously. He’d just look pathetic and dodge the question. Again.

Elrond continued his work, and tried to ignore the resentment building in his heart.

~

Celebrimbor’s eyes burned with a queer, foreign fire as he told Elrond, “You would do so well in Ost-in-Edhil.”

“Oh?”

“We’re doing better than ever before! I know Gil-galad keeps fear-mongering about the shadow in Mordor—” Celebrimbor waved a hand breezily to show what he thought of that—“but it’s obvious by now that he’s just paranoid. It’s just as Annatar says. Gil-galad needs something to fight, and when there isn’t something he’ll create it. You’ve met him. The man’s mad for self-destruction. It’s unfortunate, but that’s all there is to it. But listen, we have been creating something truly marvelous. If you want to be where the future is, you need to be with us.”

“And Galadriel, of course. Celeborn. Celebrían,” Elrond said.

“What? Oh, yes, they’re all there too, of course. Celebrían’s your friend, you like her. But, Elrond, we could really use you. You’re a great scholar, a great healer, and more than that, everyone trusts you. You have good judgment. You can prove that what we’re doing is art, not madness! If you give us your approval, Gil-galad won’t have a leg to stand on.”

“So, what, you want me to be your yes-man?” Elrond crossed his arms. “Celebrimbor, you’re my cousin, and I love you. I won’t say the idea of settling down away from the court” (away from the king) “doesn’t have its appeal. But you’ve been different ever since you started keeping company with Annatar, and I don’t like the things you quote from him... I trust you. But I don’t trust him.”

"Not you, too? He's done nothing to be upset with!"

Elrond sighed and let his arms fall back to his sides. “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

“Hmm.” Celebrimbor looked displeased. “So, what, you’ll keep wandering around Lindon like a ghost? Always hanging onto Gil-galad’s coat-tails?”

“Phrase it as you will.”

“Fine, then!” Celebrimbor stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, Annatar said not to come back until you’d agreed to join, so once again I'm very glad he's my friend and not my master. I know there’s not a force in heaven or earth that can move the heart of one raised by the Fëanorians. I’ll tell you this, though, you’ll regret it someday. A fellow needs something solid he can hold onto, and you’re never going to get that from Gil-galad.”

~

Aldarion’s death had hit Gil-galad hard. He’d never made friends easily, especially among the elves. But then someone new came from beyond the sea.

Lord Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin—and also formerly dead—swaggered onshore like Middle-Earth was built for him to walk on. He had a large white bird showing him the way. As soon as he landed at the Gray Havens, it flew towards Elrond, swooped around him a bit in joy, then pulled away. He didn't react to it; this often happened with sea-birds. 

“But you’re dead,” said one of Gondolin’s survivors. “You were reborn in Valinor. No one comes back from Valinor! It’s banned!”

Glorfindel shrugged and grinned from ear to ear. His hair was long, golden, and curled, and he’d pinned it into place. “Sure is. But if you’re very lucky, very brave, and very foolish, you’ll find that sometimes they turn a blind eye - a lady friend of mine taught me that. A real smart bird, if you get me.”

No one did. Regardless, Elrond showed him in to Gil-galad, and for the first moment since he’d arrived, Glorfindel looked altogether shocked.

“Elrond,” Gil-galad interrupted, “could you leave us for a moment?”

Elrond left.

When he next saw Glorfindel, the elf still had his swagger and grin, but he’d also acquired a tight-lipped silence whenever Gil-galad was concerned, and he would look at Elrond with a strange sympathy when he thought he couldn’t see.

At one point he took him aside.

“You know, I knew your father back in Gondolin,” he said. “He was only a child back then, of course, but, um, I knew him pretty well. Just, you know, if you ever wanted to know more—”

“And Gil-galad too?” Elrond asked. “He survived the city’s fall as well, I believe.”

Glorfindel hesitated. “…Yes, Gil-galad too.”

“No thank you,” Elrond said. “I don’t really feel the need to know.”

Glorfindel stared at him for a moment, then hurried off, like as not to some other who-knows-what secret activity.

Truth be told, he liked Glorfindel a lot. He couldn’t resent him simply for whatever connection he had to Gil-galad; for being drawn into his confidence when Elrond alone, it seemed, was banned. If anything, he’d have to be upset at Gil-galad.

…He was upset at Gil-galad.

~

Not long after Glorfindel’s arrival, during a warg hunt, Gil-galad crouched on top of a cliff, his favorite starting position. The sun illuminated him like a star fallen to earth. He ran, jumped down to the rocks—

and missed.

His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground. Elrond heard armor clang, and the wet sound of bone snapping.

Elrond, Glorfindel, and a few others had been hidden at the flank waiting for their king’s signal. For a moment they were dumbfounded. Glorfindel was the first to recover. He scrambled to his feet and ran to place himself by Gil-galad’s body with his spear raised.

“You want him? You go through me!” he shouted at the circling wargs.

Elrond followed after.

The wargs snarled and snapped. They beat them back with spears while Gil-galad slowly got back to his feet.

“Stay down,” Elrond ordered him.

“I can do this!”

“Your bones are broken, Your Majesty!”

“I don’t mind a little (hsst) pain!”

“I am a healer! I know what I’m talking about! Your Maj—for god’s sake, Gil-galad! You’re only making things worse for yourself. Stay! Down!”

Gil-galad unsteadily raised his spear. His eyes darted from side to side, big and blue and wild. “Just show me what I need to do!”

Glorfindel cursed. “Listen to Elrond! You can ask for help for others, why can’t you for once in your life stay down and let us help you?!”

Gil-galad stilled. He stayed standing, and kept a close grip on his spear—but he didn’t try to attack, and that was something, at least.

~

Gil-galad ended up healing perfectly, which was a relief, but he withdrew. It seemed like every time Elrond looked, Gil-galad was sitting with his legs drawn up or lying on a couch. His limp was more pronounced than ever before, and he no longer leaped about from place to place, plummeting from any high place in sight like a fallen star consumed with light. It should’ve been a blessing.

It felt more like the last act in some great tragedy whose beginning he had missed.

~

“Your Majesty,” he said one day out of sheer frustration, “let me help you.”

“Hm? Elrond?” Gil-galad blinked at him. His eyes were bright and sky-blue, and Elrond couldn’t help a surge of resentment at how open and guileless they looked, as if nothing at all was the matter.

“I am the greatest healer in Lindon,” Elrond said. “I’m not stupid. You’re in pain, and I can’t just stand by and pretend it isn’t happening. I don’t know why Your Majesty hasn’t asked me already, but as your loyal servant, your cousin, and, as I once believed, your friend: let me take a look. Let me try. Unless—” he swallowed. “Unless you don’t trust me enough.”

“Of course I trust you,” Gil-galad said, as if it were obvious. “It’s just something I have to face by myself.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Very well. I’d appreciate any help you could give, but I only ask you not to be concerned if you can’t.”

He unhooked his boots, and Elrond examined him.

After some time, Elrond threw his hands up.

“It’s no use!”

“Elrond—”

“You’re perfectly healthy—for someone who’s been spending his free time as an anvil. It’s like the ground decided it had enough of being dirt and wanted to try being hammers instead, but only for you, personally. You’re being wrecked from the ground up, but I can’t see anything independently wrong with you! It’s a normal, healthy reaction to an external stimulus that simply doesn’t exist! It’s useless. I can help you with the pain, but I can’t stop the damage.”

“Elrond, calm down. I told you, there’s nothing anyone can do. I’ll be okay. I can live with it.”

“But why?” Elrond snapped back. “Why are you living with it? What’s causing it? You know. I know you know. It’s something to do with your secret. Círdan knows, Glorfindel knows, even Elros knew, but you aren’t telling me! I—I was just accepting it as the price of your friendship, but that isn’t it anymore, is it? I figured it out with Aldarion. You’re so much more open than you were. You laugh, you smile, you sing—just not around me. God! You’re my mentor, my cousin, my king—I’ve given you my oath of loyalty. I trust you with my life. After all this time, haven’t I earned the same?”

“You have, a thousand times over you have, but—”

“Is there something so twisted in me that it is I alone you cannot trust?”

“Not in the least! Elrond!”

Elrond stood up and let Gil-galad’s feet fall back to the ground. Gil-galad hissed in pain, then looked up, eyes watering. “Elrond—“

Elrond wiped tears away with the back of his hand. “I need to get back to my work.”

~

Time kept passing, year after endless year.

Ost-in-Edhil was destroyed. Eregion was wrecked. Celebrimbor died in agony at the hands of Sauron—no myth, and closer than any of them had dreamed—and somehow Elrond had to learn to live with that.

“The last of the House of Fëanor is gone,” he said to Lindamë dully, sitting on the floor in a corner of his rooms. “The closest thing the elves have got to a Fëanorian now is myself. Me. And isn’t that pretty sad for the Free Peoples of Arda?”

Lindamë curled in on herself morosely. Abruptly, she said, “As soon as the war is done, I’m going to Valinor. I need a place to rest my head. I can’t keep going like this… I don’t know how the rest of you can.”

Elrond closed his eyes and sank his forehead on his knees. “Me neither.”

~

He was called into Gil-galad’s office. Gil-galad had his legs curled around him in his chair, and he was fiddling with something small, his eyes downcast.

“What is it, Your Majesty?” Elrond asked. Elrond’s eyes were red and swollen from tears, and his heart still felt like someone had hollowed it out and thrown away the center.

“Come in. Close the door.” He toyed a few more times with the object in his hand. “Elrond. You know, of course, that should anything—unexpected—happen, that you are my heir?”

Elrond physically took a step back. “I’m your what?”

Gil-galad looked up, clearly not expecting that reaction. “My heir. My successor. My crown prince, if you will.”

“I most certainly am not!” Elrond said, aghast. “Your Majesty, I don’t want to be a king. You can’t make me do that. I refuse, absolutely.”

“I thought you already knew. Who else would it be but you?”

“Well, pick someone else!”

“There isn’t anyone else.” Gil-galad looked at the thing in his hand, then back at Elrond. “Don’t worry. It won’t come to that.”

“The hell it won’t!” Elrond gestured widely. He was talking too loud, too fast, too sharp. Uncharacteristic grief and rage were bubbling inside him. “Sauron is still out there! We’re at war! I’m not going to let you make me your heir and just hope that nothing happens. What if something does? I’m not suited to be king. It’d kill me!”

Gil-galad’s eyes dropped again, and he put his head in his hands. “Elrond…”

“Celebrimbor didn’t think he’d die, and look what happened to him! If you needed an heir you should’ve had a son. You can’t just spring this on me and expect—”

“If I’m gone, there won’t be a kingdom left to rule over.”

Gil-galad spoke quietly, but surely. His gaze was fixed on the table.

“There will still be elves. The kingdoms of the dwarves will stand, and Númenor is strong. But we are so few in number, Elrond. There’s less of us every day. I am doing my best to keep us united, but when there is no court circling Lindon - when there is no Finwëan to parade himself before our people in a crown - how long do you think our spirit of togetherness will last?” He lifted his head and looked Elrond in the eye. “So I wouldn’t worry. You won’t be a king. But you are still my heir.”

He handed him the object that he’d been fiddling with—a ring with a great blue sapphire in the center.

“Vilya. The Ring of Air, and the chief of Celebrimbor’s rings. It will be yours when the time is right.”

“You keep saying when,” Elrond said. “Are you expecting something to happen, Your Majesty? Is there some kind of time limit?”

“That’s all I wanted to say. You are dismissed.”

“Why do you keep avoiding this conversation? Why do you—” Elrond threw his hands in the air. “Fine! If you want me gone, I’m leaving!”

A day later, Gil-galad suggested they go walking on a nearby hill. Elrond accepted. Gil-galad struggled a bit with the walking, and soon enough he raised his hand for a break. He swung himself over a large rock. Elrond sat on a ledge with his legs dangling.

“I wanted to talk to you,” they both said at once.

“You go first,” Gil-galad said.

“No, no, Your Majesty, you start.”

“It can wait. You go.”

“Well then.” Elrond clasped his hands loosely and swallowed. This was it. There was a knot in his chest and he had to let it loose somehow. “I have truly enjoyed serving as your herald. But it’s time for me to settle in one place. There is an unsettled valley in the north of Eregion called Rivendell. I ask your permission to claim that valley for myself and a set of my people, and build the roots of a new settlement. There, we can defend more strongly against Sauron—and perhaps build something worth remembering.”

“Oh. That’s. Fine,” Gil-galad said. “I guess… it was always coming… and maybe it will make this next thing easier…”

“Your Majesty?”

“Never mind all that! I won’t stand in your way, if that’s what you’re asking. Permission granted.”

Elrond side-eyed him. “…Of course I hope I will still have your company, Your Majesty. If you don’t visit me at least as much as you do Círdan, I will wonder whether all this time as your herald was well-spent.”

“Oh! Right! Yes, certainly! Yes. I will absolutely visit. If you still want me to, that is.”

Elrond looked at him for a moment and felt an old familiar rage boil inside of him. “…What was it you wanted to tell me?” he asked.

Gil-galad swallowed nervously and looked to the sky, where the light of Eӓrendil was beginning to peek through the sunset. “There is something I should… tell you…” He brought his knees up to his chin.

“Oh?” Elrond said carefully.

“…well, you know by now I’m reticent with my past. I don’t… I’ve done things… and I suppose they’re good, but, you know, I don’t know if you specifically will feel that way… since you’re sort of involved… um.”

“Sir?”

“I didn’t actually mean to hide things from you, it’s just, everything happened so fast and then I was here and I was a king and there were consequences. But, no, I’m making excuses for myself, I could’ve dealt with the consequences. I was just - scared, you know? If I faced it then I’d have to face it and, and you had such strong opinions about your birth parents and everything, and I knew I’d mess up—not to blame you or anything, I was the one getting in my head about it—and that’s not really an excuse but it’s what I’ve got. Um.”

“Your Majesty,” Elrond said tetchily, “I have literally no clue what you’re trying to say.”

“I’m trying to say… What if I was hiding something from you? Something very important?”

“As if I didn’t already know?” Elrond stood up.

“Elrond?”

“Gil-galad, what is wrong with you?” Elrond’s eyes flashed, and his hands tightened to fists. He started pacing along the ledge, seething. “I have done everything you’ve asked of me. I’ve served as your herald. I’ve managed your court. I’ve been a friend, I think, not that you’ll let me! I risk my life at your side over and over, defend your honor, give you everything, and for what? Why don’t you trust me? It’s been centuries, I suggest maybe settling down and, what, you think I’ll never want to see you again? What the hell, Gil-galad? What could be so bad that you think I’ll hate you?”

“Elrond—careful—”

“Maybe, if I was going to hate you, it’d be because you’re constantly trying to make me!”

“Elrond!”

Gil-galad lunged forward just as Elrond slipped.

The sickroom was dark, the window open, and the ocean smelled like a memory of long ago. Elrond lay on the bed with a fever, one leg bound. His eyes were closed.

Gil-galad leaned down and hesitantly kissed Elrond on the brow, as one would a child. As he did, a lock of burnt-blonde hair fell past Elrond’s face, smelling of salt and the sea. Gil-galad pushed it back, then straightened and, with one last glance behind him, closed the door.

A long-forgotten memory of his father, dark and hazy around the edges, shifted its weight.

In the bed, Elrond’s eyes snapped open.

Chapter Text

Eӓrendil always had a knack for throwing himself onto his own sword.

When he first started living in Sirion, no one knew what to do with him. He didn’t sleep, and hardly spoke; he threw himself into martial training when he ought to have been playing or studying; he was by turns aggressive and impulsive, or gloomy and withdrawn. Worst of all, whenever the adults looked away, he would creep out to the cliffs and crawl on his belly right to the edge, where the winds whipped like knives and the sea seethed dark and black against the sharp bitter rocks. He would stay there for long hours, staring deep into the deadly waves as if they would reach up and devour him. His least-favorite auntie had said he was “morbid.” He couldn’t argue. But he went anyway.

Sometimes, Elwing would go with him. He liked those days the best. She would sit with her knees to her chin, back on stable ground away from the edge, but still close enough that her white dress whipped around in the wind. She didn’t say much, which he liked.

One day, she did.

“Are you scared of heights?” she asked. Her voice was rusty from disuse. She was nine, and he had just turned eight. He’d lived in Sirion for almost a year.

“No,” he said, staring at the precipitous drop into the sea.

“Oh.” She considered. “So why are you here?”

“What if I become scared of heights?” Eӓrendil gripped the soil so hard it crumbled. “It’d make sense if I did. Uncle Maeglin tried to throw me off a cliff, did I tell you about that? He held me there out on top of nothing, and I was just kicking and screaming. I couldn’t do anything. I nearly died. I need to make sure that I don’t get scared, because if I do, then I won’t be able to go to the mountains or climb a ship or do anything fun. I’d think about being scared all the time, and that’d make me get dizzy and fall, and then I would die but this time it would be because of me.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Elwing said, utterly confident.

That surprised him enough that he craned his head back to look at her. “What? How’d you know?”

“Just don’t fall,” she said primly. “If you think you’re going to fall, don’t.”

“That’s not how it works. What are you even saying?”

“It is. I’m telling you not to.”

“You can’t just tell someone not to be scared of heights.”

“Obviously you can’t,” she sniffed, as if he was being the ridiculous one here. “I’m just telling you not to fall. That’s different. You can be scared all you like, but if you lose your balance and die, I will be very upset with you. You’re the only other kid here, and the only other half-elf in the whole world. Do you know how hard it would be for me to find another best friend?”

“…Huh.”

He looked down at the sea. It was still seething and howling against the rocks, but the draw he felt was… lessened, maybe. Just a little.

“You still can’t just choose not to fall,” he said, without heat. “It’s an accident. You don’t choose whether you get vertigo or not.”

“That must be a Noldor thing. If I ever fall off a cliff, it’ll be because I wanted to.”

“That’s so not true.”

“Is too!”

He jumped up: not on his belly, but fully on his feet, right there on the edge with his feet half-suspended over thin air. He hesitated for a single moment—felt the edge of the world crunch and shift a little under his weight, felt the vastness of the depth below him—and then she was off, and he was too, and he thought of nothing at all besides racing her downhill.

And who had been waiting for them at the bottom but his parents: Tuor and Idril? They’d been so relieved when he stopped going to the cliffs so often! They didn’t whisper worriedly in the night when they thought he was sleeping, or at least not as much. (He was rarely sleeping.) They stopped bothering him to talk about his feelings, or draw or talk to puppets or other nonsense. When he yelled at his caretakers or bit people, they told him to stop without muttering to each other in pity. They even let him practice fighting instead of playing, as long as he agreed to play with Elwing when she asked. (“She’s gone through a lot, too, baby,” Idril said seriously. She knelt in front of him with her hands on his shoulders. “We were attacked by the Enemy, but she was attacked by elves. It’s hard for her to trust people, but she likes you. You have to take care of her. Okay?” He nodded, and that promise lived in his heart like an oath.)

He would never be a cute child, nor cheerful, nor healthful. That was alright; neither would Elwing. Anyway, he was born for a different fate than the ordinary sort of person. Even the blind could see that.

Oh, Tuor and Idril been decent parents by any measure. They were kind, even when they didn’t exactly understand him. They helped Elwing, his best and only friend, on those days when servants weren’t enough and she needed someone to talk her down from the edge. Most considerate of all, they’d waited patiently for Eӓrendil to get settled among Círdan’s apprentices before they’d followed the call of the sea.

It hadn’t helped. When they left, he’d loved them, and hated them, and wondered why he wasn’t good enough to come along. Wasn’t he a sailor? Couldn’t he have saved them? Did they even want to come back? He’d drowned his feelings in that same sea that had devoured them: scouring it first for them, then for their bodies. He traveled every corner of the ocean, and he’d loved and hated it, too.

And all the while, Elwing waited.

He’d thought his own purpose more noble than theirs, and more desperate. He’d thought it better for his sons to grow up with a future, even if without a father. By most measures he’d been right. But it was still true that he’d followed his parents’ water-stained footsteps right off the edge of the pier.

When he’d stood before the Valar and made his plea, how lonely it had been! He’d invaded those high sacred walls at the festival-time like the Enemy had invaded Gondolin, and in the dim half-light he’d walked what seemed like every one of those beautiful empty stone streets. He’d screamed in all the tongues of Men and Elves until his voice was hoarse.

The last time he’d seen stone streets at all was Gondolin, and the style was both deeply alien and eerily familiar. He knew now that his grandfather had built the city as an echo of Valinor-that-was, but back then it had been like a terrible dream. The only light was the stars and a sullen red glow on the horizon, as of distant fires. The houses and streets turned and twisted at bizarre angles, plunging between dimness and shadow as if at random (built, he would later learn, for a time before the sun.) And every single one of them was empty. Elegant arches and mosaics, fine courtyards and fountains, twisting walkways paved with stones an armspan long: each one abandoned and forgotten in the dim red light and choking dust. The dust! It clung to his clothing, rasped on the inside of his throat. (There had been dust when he fled Gondolin, too, and smoke. The same smoke and dust he’d seen rising from Sirion in the distance. When Elwing had shed the form of a bird for the first time, her dress and arms were as smudged by soot as her wings had been.) Was it any wonder that he’d thought this the work of the Enemy?

At the foot of the Valar’s halls, he had learned the truth. The bonfires were simply the work of the feast. The empty houses, a function of the party. The dust on his body glimmered and shone, revealed at the last to be a powder of diamonds. It was beautiful, and terrible too in its carelessness. He knew in an instant that if he ever lived to see another party, it would take him back to this moment: standing before the Lords of the West, a broken, tattered shadow, begging mercy for his people in a coat of glittering dust.

They asked him and Elwing to choose the fate of men or the immortality of the elves. Before they did, Elwing asked Mandos, Vala of the dead, whither could be found their children.

Mandos had said to her, “Manwë King has granted thee the mercy of life, but mine own judgment bid me the opposite. Thou hast set thy profane foot on the sacred lands and broken a law whose punishment is death. My silence to thee and thy husband is as of the grave.”

She turned to him. “Beloved?”

“Choose, and I will follow,” he told her simply. “I have no care now for this life of mine.”

So—he didn’t tell Elrond who he was. He could have, but he didn’t. Why?

Scabs were for picking. Bruises were for pressing. Scars were for reopening. Eӓrendil had never felt a wound without the urge to pick at it. Like some mental case of scurvy, he never let his injuries close. He reacted, and repeated, and, God, he was sick and tired of making himself miserable!

“But how else am I supposed to live?” he asked himself aloud.

“Your Majesty?”

Eӓrendil started. There was a young elven healer standing timidly in the sickroom door. She flushed as soon as he looked over. “U-um. Lord Elrond wishes to see you, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you for your help. Please, you’re dismissed.” He grabbed his spear. Leaning on it heavily, he limped into the room. Elrond—his son—sat propped up in his bed, and his gray eyes were a question.

Eӓrendil bowed a little, jerkily, as he sank into his seat. “You wanted to know my secret. Here it is. My name, given to me by my parents, is Eӓrendil. Formerly of Gondolin, formerly of Sirion. Often called the Mariner. Son of Tuor and Idril. Your father.” He swallowed dryly. “I was able to separate myself from my ship, for a time. However, because I am banished from these lands, I am unable to live publicly under that name. …and unwilling. I didn’t tell you the truth of my identity because your knowing would speed the day on which I must leave once more. That, and—I was scared. I feared that you would hate me, or forgive me. I preferred to live in uncertainty. That was wrong of me. But now you know. And I have nothing more to hide.”

All these centuries a king, and Eӓrendil still squirmed under the weight of his son’s gaze.

“So… Elwing didn’t spurn you, after all.”

“Fortunately no. My feelings towards her were quite reciprocated.”

“Círdan knew. And Glorfindel?”

“Círdan recognized me. Glorfindel knew Elwing skirted the edges of her own banishment, and put the pieces together.”

“…Elros?”

“Elros figured it out the first night we met.” Eӓrendil grinned lopsidedly. “Don’t ask me how.”

Elrond snorted, then looked surprised at himself. “That’s classic Elros.”

“Absolutely classic Elros,” Eӓrendil agreed.

“I miss him.”

Eӓrendil said, with raw emotion, “I do too.”

Elrond closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he asked, “How long do you have left?”

“Not… long. Every additional person who knows increases my injuries. It’s getting worse. I think… the next person who learns my secret will be the last.”

Elrond clenched his fists on the blanket. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

“I’m proud of you. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Emotions were warring over Elrond’s face. “Do you know how I figured it out?” he said finally. “It wasn’t from your babbling, in case you wondered. Did you know that the only memory I have of my father is of you leaving? Do you even realize how much time I spent resenting you? —And not just Eӓrendil, either.

“Do you know what it’s been like to be there as your herald, every day, knowing that you never trusted me? So, you had your reasons. Good for you! Just - fucking swell! You get your fucked-up family bonding while you want it, and then you wander off back to the sky and I get to be abandoned, again! Why did you even come back down if you were just going to leave me behind a second time?! Why did you have to make me like you?!” He was sobbing freely now. “God! I wish you’d stayed a star!”

Then he took a few deep breaths. “We still have Sauron to fight,” he said. “What was it you said to Maedhros and Maglor, when you met them? Ah, right—‘I refuse to be fool enough to attack fellow-elves before the Enemy is defeated. But some people make it hard. Do not approach me again.’ Well, there you have it. From the fathers who raised me to—you. I’ll work with you. From Rivendell. But don’t imagine I’ll forgive you.”

He glared at Eӓrendil as if willing him to speak, to fight back. But his father—his king—said nothing. Just sat there and took it.

Finally Eӓrendil said, “I understand.” He stood up, turning his head away as if that would prevent Elrond from seeing the spasm of pain that resulted, and limped out of the room.

~

Elrond stood at the shore again. The stones were lower than before, and there was already a stretch of sand forming, but he had no eyes for it. The horizon fell away in front of him. The sea was wide. Never before had it looked so utterly empty, bereft now of the island that had once shadowed the skyline. Once, seeing Númenor had been a comfort; then it had been a source of concern; later fear; at the last it was a source of pity, and now it was—nothing. Gone. Even here, the waters seethed in hatred. Dark clouds hulked in the distance, the remains of the greatest storm he’d ever witnessed. But already, clear winds were dispersing them as if they had never been. As if God’s wrath had never fallen on the earth at all.

The ocean was still beautiful. The setting sun sparkled gaily on its waves, southerly of the tempest in the north. And yet the sea had never seemed so evil to him as it did this day.

Standing at Elrond’s shoulders were Gil-galad, leaning on his spear, and, looking shell-shocked, Elendil: distant descendant of Elros, new king of Men in Middle-Earth.

“My brother Elros said that a civilization ought to live, breathe, and die. With grace, if it can,” he said, half to Elendil, half to himself. “But this… this was a poor end.”

Gil-galad—Eӓrendil—put a hand on Elendil’s shoulder. “You never saw Númenor at her prime. But even at her heights, she would be proud to have sons such as you.” He did not say anything to Elrond. As promised.

Elendil nodded minutely. “I loved my country, for all her flaws.” He looked to Elrond. “Great-uncle, will you join me? We surviving Númenoreans will have a bonfire such as this world has never seen, so that we might mourn Númenor as she once was, and as she should have been. It would be an honor to be joined by the eldest of our people. And if I reckon correctly—I think you could use the company.”

“I certainly could.” Elrond forced a smile, but the loss was too close. He took Elendil's arm.

As they walked away, he couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. Gil-galad’s silhouette was black and stark against the horizon. He looked into the dissipating depths of the storm as if they would swallow him.

His memory spoke with the voice of his brother: “Even if you don’t want him, Eӓrendil is my father, and I am very happy to have him, thank you very much.”

…I am not quite the eldest of the half-elves, after all.

“Gil-galad,” he called out. “Do not be alone, on this night of all nights. You mislike parties, I know, but you loved Númenor greatly, as we did. Join us. Skulk around the edges of the fire, if you must. But do not be alone tonight.”

“Indeed!” Elendil said. “Do not do that to yourself.”

“…thank you.” Gil-galad hesitated for a long moment. Then he said, “It would be a joy to join you.” Using his spear heavily, he slowly picked his way over the rocks and followed them.

They walked down the beach path, past tufts of tall switchgrass and marram grass and low flowering beds of rock rose. Elendil leaned towards Elrond. “Was Gil-galad so close to Númenor as all that?”

“He was a great friend of Elros, and my brother was an uncommon judge of character,” Elrond said. “Even after, he was close to many of Númenor’s great kings, like Tar-Aldarion. I daresay he has more mortal friends than elven! He has long been a friend to Men. I hope I did not overstep in inviting him.”

“Mm. Not at all, my friend. I shall simply have to try harder to make his acquaintance. I see there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“Hah. You’re telling me,” Elrond said.

In the next century, friendship grew between Elendil and Gil-galad, and Gil-galad built the Tower Hills for the Men under Elendil’s rule. The alliance was made formal when Sauron, too terrified of his enemies to wait, invaded the young nation of Gondor.

For three years, they camped in Rivendell under the care of Elrond. Elendil noticed a certain - coolness - between his host and his fellow-king, but then again there were far more important concerns at hand.

(Eӓrendil wrote some pages correcting misconceptions about the far distant places of the world. Elrond had wanted him to do that, once, before he knew just where Gil-galad’s knowledge had first come from. He still did not approach his son.)

(Elrond had the pages bound, copied, and placed in his library.)

They formed their army, and soon their forces passed Caradhras, where they were joined by the elves of Lothlorien and Mirkwood and the dwarves of powerful Moria. They passed the burned gardens of the Entwives; fought and died in Dagorlad, which would ever after be known as the Dead Marshes; broke open the Black Gates of Mordor; and for seven years besieged Sauron in his tower at Barad-dûr.

“Have you ever held a siege this long?” Elendil asked.

“Thousands of years ago, in the First Age, there were sieges that lasted centuries. We two even fought in a war that lasted forty years,” Elrond said. “But this Enemy is not that old Enemy, and he will break sooner.”

He did.

Sauron exited his tower himself, clad in armor spiked like thorns. He was taller than any man or elf could ever be, so that even the tallest came only to his shoulders. His presence was heavy with a malevolence so thick that it was hard to move. Strong warriors turned helpless at his approach; he grabbed brave men by the neck and dashed them against the rocks as if killing a rabbit for dinner. Where he walked, wells bubbled and blackened, and a hot, stinking wind walked with him, ripping the breath from his foes’ bodies even as his hatred turned the air to a miasma. The sky was tattered with clouds, blotting out and revealing the stars in waves, so that all his orcs might be out in force. Beneath his armor, one could catch glimpses of a tormented body, once-fair, now blackened and burning from within with a continual unearthly fire. To meet his gaze—yellow and rimmed with fire—was to be stricken with despair. Some men, at the sight of that gaze, fell to their knees; Sauron hardly paused long enough to flick his wrist and cut their throats. The gold ring on his hand blazed like something living.

Elendil fought him on the slopes of Mount Doom. Away from his people - at least he could give them that, while he lived. His blade, Narsil, sang aloud when it crashed against Sauron’s own weapon. The air around him was hot and dry. Elendil panted. The lining of his armor was soaked in sweat. They stood on dull black, cracked, harsh volcanic rock, a wretched broken terrain that strained against itself like a wounded animal. Stone rasped beneath his boots. Asphalt could not be so ugly, nor concrete so bleak. Not even lichens lived here.

Elendil, from the lower slope, looked into Sauron’s eye and saw his death.

Then a glint of light shone behind and above him. Elendil looked up.

Gil-galad had somehow managed to position himself at the height of the slope. He crouched on a rock outcropping, spear in hand. His smile was pained, but there was a harsh joy in it too: the pleasure - once obtained, then forgotten, now at long last found again - of being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

Elendil couldn’t help but smile too. Sauron, raising his iron hand, hesitated.

Gil-galad leaped from one stone to another. Each fall was hard, heavy, painful, but he kept accelerating, using momentum to fall more than jump from stone to stone. Thud. Thud. Thud. Elendil laughed, and joy sparkled through him like lightning, lifting the shadow from his heart and freeing him from paralysis. “Like a star out of the darkness!” he called. “Jewel in the sunset! Radiant in the morning!”

Sauron paused before his prey—turned around—

Gil-galad crashed into him, spear-first, blazing like a falling star. And behind him, Elendil pierced forward, his blade like ice inflamed by the sun. For the first time, they heard Sauron scream.

~

The battle for Mordor raged on, and the duel between Sauron, Elendil, and Gil-galad raged above it, half apart.

“Keep your head down!” Elendil scolded Gil-galad when they ended up side to side. “His gaze brings despair, haven’t you noticed?”

“Hah! Doesn’t feel any different from usual!”

“You’re crazy!”

“So’re you!”

Then Sauron lunged forward, faster than anything that size should move, and they split apart, each leaping to attack a flank. Gil-galad staggered, but Elendil pressed on while he caught himself, so that there was no opening for their enemy.

Attack, defend, attack again. Man and elf - sword and spear - against the wrath of Sauron. They couldn’t possibly win.

They were winning.

Elendil cut into Sauron’s side, and spattered the black rocks with even blacker blood. It steamed and hissed like acid where it fell. Gil-galad stabbed into his shoulder, and Sauron screamed and fell back. Behind him, Gil-galad got a glance of another pair working their way up the slope: Elrond, with Elendil’s son Isildur at his side. Gil-galad grinned madly.

It was working. After all these years—

Sauron suddenly lunged forward. Gil-galad stumbled back in a frenzy, but it wasn’t enough, not now. Pain spiked, and his legs betrayed him; Sauron caught up, grabbed him by the neck, and held him aloft. Gil-galad gasped and choked beneath that burning hand, and beneath the pain he smelled cooked flesh.

“Who are you?” Sauron hissed. His voice was powerful and sibilant, as if it was snaking its way directly into your subconscious. You could no more ignore it than you could block out your own thoughts. His eyes narrowed and analyzed Gil-galad’s body. Where his gaze passed, Gil-galad felt a wave of heat, like the last hot breath of the tradewinds sending a ship to the doldrums. He struggled, but he couldn’t wrest himself free. Sauron said, “There is something wrong with your Song. Interwoven with the world, but not. Two different fates, overlapping each other. What does it mean? What are you?” He shook him, helpless like a trapped rabbit.

“Hgrrk,” Gil-galad said.

Elendil screamed defiance and rushed Sauron wildly. “N-n-” Gil-galad tried, but it was too late. Sauron turned around, sidestepped, and, with his free arm, pulled Elendil forward, using his own momentum to fling him forward and into the ground. Elendil crashed against the stone.

There was a hard crack. Elendil’s sword had snapped beneath him, and his spine with it. Peace filled his eyes. Then nothing.

Sauron held Gil-galad higher against the sky and stared at him with that red-hot glance. Gil-galad closed his eyes and let the pain wash through him. Somewhere, underneath it all, he felt a familiar little buzzing in the back of his mind, almost too faint to notice. Oh, he thought numbly. I suppose the Vingilotë is passing overhead. I wonder if she’ll keep flying when I’m gone…

Sauron’s gaze narrowed further, then opened again. “You’re not—no. That’s impossible. You’re not him. He’s up there. But - who else -?”

His grip relaxed, just a bit. Gil-galad gasped and coughed, which turned into a too-painful chuckle. Sauron’s presence drew the words out of him, by force: “You yourself… escaped the Valar’s gaze,” he said through cracked lips. “Did you th-think… you were the… only one who could?”

Sauron’s laugh was a horrible, grating thing, torn from the throat of a dead man. He flung Gil-galad against Elendil’s corpse. Every part of Gil-galad's body blazed at contact with the ground, but the burns on his throat and chest far overwhelmed him. “I’m going to enjoy snuffing you out, Star of Hope,” Sauron said, and he reached out his hand towards him, the golden ring with its red script flaming brilliantly.

“Father!”

Elendil’s son Isildur ran forward. He grabbed the broken sword beneath his father’s body, ripped it out, and before Gil-galad could process it he’d sliced the ring from Sauron’s hand. Sauron bellowed, louder than he’d ever screamed before. Isildur pitched forward and jabbed the shattered sword into his throat, and the scream turned into a sickening gurgle.

Gil-galad had no eyes for it.

Two voices had screamed ‘Father.’ And the owner of the second was crouching beside him now, shaking him desperately.

“Father,” Elrond said, his face white. “Father. Please. Speak to me. Please, not like this…”

Gil-galad coughed, and Elrond’s face collapsed in relief. After a moment, his worried expression returned. He started ripping off Gil-galad’s armor, slicing through the straps with his knife. “Shit. This is bad. I don’t…”

“You.. can’t… fix it.”

Elrond shook his head.

“I… kn-know. Elrond.” He reached out, half-blindly, fumbling to Elrond’s shoulder. “G-get me… to a cliff. Wh-where no one can see.”

“What? But, Father—”

“Stars… don’t feel pain. Stars don’t… feel anything.”

Elrond looked stricken, but he nodded. “Isildur!” he called. He nodded towards Sauron. “That ring. Take it, meet me at the Crack of Doom.”

Isildur nodded and picked it up. Elrond wrapped one of Gil-galad’s arms around his shoulders and half-carrying, half-dragging, brought him around the mountain. Behind them, Isildur knelt beside his father’s body.

Step by agonizing step, Elrond brought him to a furrow in the mountain where the lava flow had crumbled and left a sharp slope. Gil-galad winced whenever his boots dragged against the earth.

“Okay,” Elrond said, voice high and tight. “What now?”

“Just… l-look.”

A star descended. The light grew, and suddenly a ship was descending before them, its prow like a swan, with a silmaril held securely in a lantern on the deck and glowing like heaven itself. “The Vingilot,” Gil-galad whispered. “Isn’t she… beautiful? H-her… sails… Elwing helped me make them…”

“She’s gorgeous,” Elrond assured him. He was weeping freely, and his tears made tracks on his soot-stained cheeks. “Gil-galad… Father… I didn’t mean what I said back then.”

“I… know.”

“I wanted you to fight for me. The way you didn't back then. You... well. I’m glad I met you. My father. And I’m glad… that I’m going to see you again. Because I am. You understand that? It doesn’t matter how long it takes. When I’m done with my work here, I’m going to go to Valinor, and I’m going to climb to the top of E-Elwing’s tower, and you’re going to dock there, and I’m going to give you a piece of my mind for leaving me like this. Do you hear me?”

Gil-galad bobbled his head loosely, too weak to nod. “U-until.. the ends… of the earth.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Elrond’s throat bobbed nervously. “Take care of yourself. Okay, Father?”

“I… p-promise…”

“Good!”

Elrond gently let go. Gil-galad sank down to sit on the cliff’s edge, then pushed himself off.

He fell. The Vingilot moved. He fell past the crow’s nest, past the masts…

Then he caught himself on the base rigging. Elrond could see the pain seep out of him. Eӓrendil clung on the rope nets with both hands and feet, and then, as fresh as the day he’d first sailed to Númenor, he scrambled up the nets and swung himself into the crow’s nest. The Vingilot rose again, quickly, its sails billowing with a cool wind.

In the distance, Elrond could see his father waving at him. He waved back until the ship faded once again into just a star.

He exhaled. Then he turned back, and walked alone to the Crack of Doom.

Gil-galad was an elven-king.

Of him the harpers sadly sing;

the last whose realm was fair and free

between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen.

His shining helm afar was seen;

the countless stars of heaven's field

were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away,

and where he dwelleth none can say;

for into darkness fell his star

in Mordor where the shadows are.

Chapter Text

Elrond stood on the top of Elwing’s tower with the wind whipping his hair. He was holding hands with his wife, Celebrían, who was looking at the sunrise and smiling. She noticed his glance. “Elrond,” she scolded, “Stop looking at me! You’re going to miss the best part.”

“You are the best part,” he said.

“Shh! You’re such a romantic. Isn’t he?”

“He gets it from the best,” Elwing said proudly. She was standing sedately in the center of the tower, her hands clasped and her face turned towards the rising sun. She really did look like a female version of Elrond, which now seemed a resemblance to his daughter Arwen. He’d always known his first real meeting with his mother would be painful; he hadn’t even remotely guessed that. Celebrían had visited Elwing often since she’d first come to Valinor, but she’d confided in him that she still hadn't really gotten used to it. (His sons, for their part, had a skill and penchant for fighting that he suspected came directly from Eӓrendil.)

“I’m surprised you’re so calm about this,” Galadriel noted. “This is the first time you’ve ever met your father, isn’t it?”

Elrond shrugged.

The sun at last detached itself from the horizon in a flood of pink and violet. A small light shone brightly below it. “Ooh! Ooh! This is it!” Celebrían said, tugging at Elrond’s sleeve. “Look carefully!”

“Just be careful,” Elwing said. “The transition back home can be hard for him sometimes, especially after these longer trips.”

Before she could explain, the light at the horizon grew in size. Larger, and larger, and then suddenly it was a ship, sailing steadily towards the tower. Celebrían and Elwing whooped and clapped, and after a moment Elrond joined in, followed by Galadriel.

The Vingilot looked just as he remembered it. And above it, heaving a rope ladder over the side—

Eӓrendil.

Gil-galad.

His father.

Elrond hesitated for a moment, then climbed up the ladder. (Behind him, he heard Galadriel splutter. Good! About time she was surprised by something.)

Elrond’s father reached out a hand and pulled him up the last few steps. Elrond hopped onto the deck, and regarded him.

Eӓrendil had the silmaril bound to his brow, glowing with a beauty so sharp that it hurt to look upon. His raiment was of pure pearlescent silk below a long sleeveless surcoat threaded with gold and silver. His clothes were open about the neck, a sailor’s shirt, but there were no scars or flaws there—not even a memory of the burning hand that Elrond had seen clasp around his throat. Even his old scars, the burn on his arm that Elrond eventually learned came from his fight with Ancagalon, were missing. His hair was a golden halo about his head, cut about the shoulders in an unfamiliar mannish style. He stood slightly lifted on his toes, as if he himself was flying.

His eyes were the same shocking blue as always, but there were no shadows in them, nor recognition. Eӓrendil looked at him evenly, calmly, and for a suspended moment Elrond didn’t know if his father even knew who he was.

Stars don’t feel pain. Stars don’t feel anything. …All these centuries, and Elrond hadn’t really thought about what that might mean.

“Greetings,” Eӓrendil said. “My name is—”

Elrond lunged at him and flung his arms about his neck.

Eӓrendil stepped back, then, hesitantly, curled his arms around Elrond’s back.

“El—El—”

“It’s me,” Elrond said. “Your Majesty, don’t you remember me? It’s Elrond. It’s your son!”

“You… Elrond?“ Eӓrendil hesitated a moment longer—then he cried out and embraced Elrond back with a fervor, and buried his head in Elrond’s shoulder. “Oh! Elrond! I’m so sorry! I’m so… I’m sorry, Elrond, I’m sorry for everything.”

Elrond nodded into his shoulder.

Behind them, Celebrían clambered off the ladder. Elrond finally let go and turned back to his wife.

“Well, as I told you ahead of time, there won’t be any issues making introductions at all,” Celebrían said primly to Galadriel. “See? All done. So you really didn’t need to keep reminding me.”

Galadriel informed her, “I am restraining myself because we are in polite company. But we will be talking about this.” She stabbed a finger at Eӓrendil. “You too, Gil-galad, you bastard. Everyone told me you were still locked in the Halls of Dead! There’s talk of rioting if they don’t let you out soon! People miss you, goddammit!”

Eӓrendil bowed. “I apologize for the deception. It was a necessity, but an unfortunate one.” He was clearly still off-balance.

“Didn’t you always tell me not to share other people’s secrets, Mother?” Celebrían asked, batting her eyes innocently.

“You are a different problem altogether!”

Celebrían laughed, then looked around. “Where did Elwing go?”

On cue, a white bird landed on the railing, shimmered, and turned into a woman in a white dress. “Just keeping an eye out,” she said cheerfully. “Eӓrendil, darling, did you remember the gift?”

“The what?” Eӓrendil blinked. Then recognition hit. “Oh! Right! Yes! One moment please.” He dashed over to a random section of the deck, yanked open a panel, and returned with a piece of stone dangling from a cord.

“Elrond. I… It’s been a long time. So much has happened that I could only see from afar. I wasn’t there with you, and—you were right, and—”

“Don’t try to say it,” Elrond said. “I understand.”

Eӓrendil struggled with himself more, then finally said, “I got you a present. It might not be a gem of Fëanor like you got from Maglor, but I think it’s quite a tidy gift regardless.”

Elrond examined the stone closely. It was made of nothing he’d ever seen before, in all his thousands of years on earth. He looked at Eӓrendil questioningly.

“A moon-rock. From the moon—but not from Tilion. It seems that when the world was bent, removing Valinor from mortal lands and rounding the world to a sphere—well, there were some side effects. There’s a lot more to heaven and earth than we ever dreamt of, Elrond, and since I’m not quite a full elf, I’ve been - well. Exploring. Some of my friends join me from time to time. Celebrimbor has returned, and he joins me from time to time. If—you ever want—you’re welcome to as well.”

“You found another way to cheat the system,” Elrond said.

Eӓrendil smiled crookedly. “I suppose I did.” He took a deep breath. “God. I’ve missed you, kid.”

“Yeah,” Elrond said. “Me too.”