Author's Notes: This came out of the need to make a timeline of Gil-galad's early life for a couple of cameo appearances in another story. Tolkien's final decision regarding Gil-galad's parentage made him the son of Orodreth, who became the son of Angrod. This would alter what little is told about Gil-galad's early history. There would be no reason to send him to Círdan after Fingon became High King, as Gil-galad would not be his heir - Turgon, Finrod and Orodreth would all have prior claim. I have used 445 as his birth year, as this seems to be a generally accepted date, and allows him to be quite young (ten, or about four years old) when the Dagor Bragollach occurs, but also makes him sixty-one (or twenty-two-ish) when he becomes High King.
The War of the Jewels, 'The Later Quenta Silmarillion', (p. 242, pub. Houghton Mifflin) has some details about Gil-galad not found elsewhere. Here, he is the son of Finrod by a Sinda of Eglarest named Meril. This is fairly close to Tolkien's final word on the subject in The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor', in which Gil-galad's mother is an unnamed 'Sindarin lady of the North' (p. 350, pub. Houghton Mifflin). 'North', I think, probably implies Mithrim. In this tale it is further related that he 'escaped and eventually came to Sirion's Mouth' - what he escaped, presumably, was the sack of Nargothrond. I've combined details from the various tales here, sending him to Círdan after the fall of the Falas, as his fostering by Círdan is a part of the original conception I thought should be kept.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien except Arphenion, who I needed briefly in another story and I figured would he serve equally well here. Translations of Elvish and additional notes are at the end of the story.
Ghosts
FA 512, Arvernien
Though he had not seen her since she was but a child, the ancient elf could not fail to recognize the golden hair glinting in the sunlight. He hailed Idril as she walked about the camp, offering encouragement to raise the spirits of her people. *1
She hurried toward the mariner. "Círdan! It is good to see you again. Eärendil," she called to a small, golden-haired shadow hiding behind his mother. "This is Círdan, the greatest shipwright, of whom Voronwë has told you."
Two luminous blue eyes looked up at the elf.
"Once he is over his shyness, you will not easily be rid of him," Idril promised, smiling at her son. She sobered. "Where might I find my kinsman?"
Círdan looked toward the harbor. "He will be yonder, not yet ashore. I will watch the young one, if you like."
Idril extracted the boy from her skirts and gently pushed him toward the grey-haired elf. "Go with Círdan, now, Mírenya." *2
She walked swiftly toward the harbor and crossed the gangplank to the boat. The shining white deck was hot under her bare feet, and she ducked down the stairs to the hold with relief. When her eyes had adjusted to the cool darkness, she found herself under curious scrutiny.
"You are him who I seek, for you are a dark-haired version of your father," Idril said.
"I must confess I have no memory of you, my lady." The elf turned up the lamp to give them a better light.
She laughed. "You would not - I last saw your father when he was hardly older than you are now. I am Idril, daughter of Turgon."
He grasped her hands. "I have heard much of you. I wish we met under happier circumstances."
Shadow passed over her blue-grey eyes. "Still I am blessed, for my son and my husband are with me and whole. Others lost much more. But for my father I shall yet shed some tears."
He turned away from her then, understanding the import of her words. He had not been prepared for this to come to him. A gentle hand on his arm restored his awareness of his kinswoman.
"I am sorry. You have lost your father, and my mind wanders to self-pity."
"You would not be a worthy king if you were not frightened. It is much to ask of one so young," Idril reassured him.
A once-great family had fallen. Three of Fëanor's sons remained, forever dispossessed, more so after their fell deeds in Doriath. Fingolfin and his sons had perished; so too the sons and grandson of Finarfin. In his short life, this had happened - Ereinion alone remained of the male line of succession. Recent history did not foretell his longevity. *3
"This, then, must go to you."
He found his arms intolerably heavy as he took the delicate circlet. From Fingolfin it had passed to Fingon, and the remainder of Fingon's men who fled the Nirnaeth Arnoediad with the Gondolindrim had given it to Turgon. Into Tuor's hands the King commended his crown as they parted, bidding him to bring it safely to his dead cousin's young grandson. *4
Ereinion supposed he must go to shore, must speak with the refugees. At Círdan's behest only had he come to the Havens. When he at last disembarked, he was overwhelmed by his memories - of other refugees, of ghosts who never came to the Havens. In the faces of the Gondolindrim he saw his mother, an innocent felled by a Doom pronounced for crimes against her own people. He saw his father, Finarfin's lone ally, persuaded nonetheless to join the rebellion only out of love for his own father and Finrod. He saw his sister, like himself born long after the rebellion, doomed from birth by the fault of her ancestors.
FA 497, Balar
"These are all who came to mouth of Sirion, híren, though it is thought some went north to Doriath." *5
With a shock, Ereinion recognized his father's people, hardly a handful of the great kingdom. Desperately he sought his mother and sister, or news of them. Of his father, none could tell - he had led forth an army from Nargothrond to meet Morgoth's forces, and these refugees - mostly women and children - were the few who escaped the palace when the enemy attacked. Neither his mother nor sister was among them. He still kept hope, however, that they had fled to Doriath. His mother was a Sinda, and there would be welcomed.
One name he heard repeatedly: Túrin, a man he would soon learn to curse, as did many of the refugees. Other tidings trickled in slowly, of the utter rout of his father's army, and later of the death of his sister. Never did he learn of his mother's fate, but Círdan's messengers soon confirmed she had not been among those to reach Doriath.
Bitterly he regretted that he had not returned to join his father; was he not of age now, and free to choose his path? In anger, he turned on the elf who had fostered him these many years.
"And ye would have gone to your grave as did your father," Círdan answered, understanding the grief behind the anger. *6
"Then what is left to me? For one by one we perish. The Doom cannot be avoided."
"The Doom lies heavy on your people, but Ulmo does not forget them." Close in the counsels of the Lord of the Waters, Círdan knew that Turgon had sealed his own fate, and that of his city. Still, he had faith, for the star of hope would soon arise in Gondolin. "Your people are not without hope," the mariner added cryptically. 'At least, if I do not lose the High King's heir,' he thought to himself.
FA 512, Arvernien
He felt utterly drained when he returned to Círdan's ship that evening. The sorrow and fear of the people he had seen weighed on him. As a fellow elf, he felt sympathy; as their King, and somehow responsible for them, he felt overwhelmed. In spite of their tremendous losses and the hardship and peril of their escape, the Gondolindrim were less stunned than they might have been. Idril had been as a light before them, bringing hope to their darkest hour. Still, Ereinion had never seen so many needy people.
In the hold of Círdan's ship the circlet remained where he had gingerly placed it, telling himself that the Gondolindrim needed no reminder now of their lost King. Indeed, many years would pass before he could wear the delicate headpiece, and still more before it would be comfortable on his head.
Círdan sat in his cramped quarters below deck, musing on the events of the day, or perhaps communing with Ulmo or Ossë - it was often hard to tell what occupied the ancient mariner's mind. Roused by Ereinion's return, he invited the young elf to leave the doorway and sit at the table; he had already eaten, but a meal of bread and cheese awaited the High King.
Ereinion picked at the food, too nervous and upset to eat. Finally, he pushed aside the remainder, apologizing for his poor appetite. They sat in silence for a while; Círdan knew well the moods of the elf he had fostered, and let him come to words when he was ready.
When Ereinion at last spoke, his words came in a torrent, as though a dam had broken in his heart. "I know nothing of ruling a people; I am too young to bear this crown. It should go to someone else."
"To Maedhros, perhaps?" Círdan suggested gently, anticipating the other elf's wince. "Good - then we are of a mind on that, at any rate. There are none who can take this burden from you, and none should."
Ereinion left his seat to pace nervously. Finding the space for this activity insufficient, he rested near a porthole, leaning his head against the cool glass. "I should go elsewhere. I will bring the enemy upon us if I stay."
"Is that what worries ye?"
"No - yes, a little."
"'Tis no shame to be frightened, not when there is good reason. Ulmo is yet strong here, and the enemy has not yet found a way to swim. We shall be safe at Balar awhile, I think. Perhaps just long enough," he mused.
"What do you foresee?" Círdan made no answer, deep in his thoughts. "Círdan, you knew what would befall my father, and told me nothing of it. What more do you hide from me that I should know?" His soft voice rose querulously.
The mariner stood, fixing steely eyes on his charge. "Young elf, such knowledge as I am given is not for all ears. You know well why I could not tell you. You could not have saved your kin. 'Tis not yet your time - your destiny lies in other battles. Then will your people need you."
He went to his fosterling, who was again fruitlessly trying to pace in the small space. The elf's innocent eyes betrayed his misery. Círdan stilled him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Go now. Ye shall be better for sleep in the morning."
~~~
He woke suddenly, and hastened to light a candle, chasing the shadows that lingered in his mind. Many years had passed since this nightmare of his childhood had troubled him. He supposed it came now out of his unquiet mind, but he was nonetheless unnerved. Glinting in the candlelight lay the circlet, glaring at him. 'Ada, you never told me this would happen; you never told me how I was to do this.' Yet, how could the father teach the son when the father doubted his own ability to rule?
FA 457, Nargothrond
"Ereinion! Man bresta le?" Meril gathered the sweaty, shivering elf-child into her arms. *7
"Ada!" was all she could make out of his hysterical tears. *8
"He is at Minas Tirith, but he will send for us soon, when it is safe," she soothed, misunderstanding her son. This only upset him more.
"Ada, drego!" *9
"Shhh, it is only a dream."
"Is all not well?" Finrod looked in on them, wakened by the crying child.
"I am sorry, Ingoldo, if we disturbed you. He had a bad dream."
The elf came into the room and sat down on the bed. The little one, plainly still upset, peeked over his mother's shoulder at his kinsman. "Ingoldo, who is Sauron?" *10
The adults exchanged glances. "He is no one you need worry about, Ereinion. He is far from here," Finrod told the elf-child, stroking his damp, tangled tresses. He took the boy from his mother's arms and began to sing. Before long peaceful dreams had returned to the youngster, for few children of elves or men could resist Finrod's lullaby.
In the corridor, Finrod paused. "I apologize. It seems some of my people have been telling him tales not fit for a young elf." The culprit was one of his cousins, Finrod suspected, but said nothing of this.
Meril was disturbed. "Do you think Orodreth is in danger?"
"If it will ease your mind, I will send a party north tomorrow."
She looked at the Noldo gratefully. "I wish he were here. If it is too dangerous for my children and me to be with him, then perhaps it is not worth holding our home."
Finrod privately believed this to be true. The pass was part of Nargothrond's security, but its position was so tenuous, with Fingon beleaguered to the west and Dorthonion lost to the east, that it might be better to join the strength of their peoples here at Nargothrond. Yet, he understood also his brother-son's determination. Orodreth was a gentle soul, with little taste for war. To abandon Minas Tirith would be an affront to his honor, a confirmation of the doubts of his kin.
Her son's recurring nightmares did not lessen Meril's anxiety in the coming days, and almost with relief did she greet the early return of the elves sent to Tol Sirion. Though they brought grim tidings - Minas Tirith was lost - they brought also reassurance of her husband's escape. Orodreth's terrified household and guard soon followed, carrying little else, as though they had left without time to take even food or warm clothing. Last came Orodreth, a haunted look in his eyes, his youthful face haggard and strained.
~~~
Plainly, he did not wish to discuss the horrors he had fled in front of his son and daughter, nor would either child willingly take leave of their father. Ereinion struggled to remain awake, but at last slept in his father's arms. "Finduilas, please take your brother to bed," Meril urged.
Somewhat petulant at her mother's veiled implication that she, though nigh on fifty and old enough to earn the attentions of several lords in Finrod's house, was being sent to bed as well, Finduilas nonetheless did as she was told. She sensed her mother would have little patience for argument this evening. Her father was here with them, and unharmed, at least in body - that was what they had all wished for, but much had been lost. Her home, at least, and that brought tears to her eyes.
"Findas," her brother murmured, his exhaustion apparent in this babyhood name for his sister, "why are you crying?"
The elf-maid brushed her hand across her eyes and lifted her brother up to his bed. "I am only happy that Ada is with us again," she evaded, taking a comb from her own hair to untangle her brother's hair. "Honestly, one would think you were a Morben, the way you go about," she continued lightly. He let her braid his smoothed tresses without complaint; usually this was accomplished with much wriggling on his part and many sharp words from Meril's handmaiden, only for the braid to be undone before the morning meal was cleared away. When she was done, she found herself the subject of bright grey eyes, huge and solemn in the little elf's face. *11
"Who is Sauron?"
Finduilas recaptured her golden locks with her comb as she considered her answer. Her brother needed no more nightmares, but clearly, he would not be put off by the adults' elusive responses. She climbed up on the high bed and sat next to her brother. "Do you remember when Grandfather took us to Menegroth?" She was not certain he would - he had been but nine years old.
"The palace of the tall elf?"
"Yes, indeed. That was Thingol, the King of the Sindar. Do you remember his wife, Melian?" The little elf thought for a moment, then nodded again. "She was a Maia. The Maiar are like the Valar, only not so powerful. They can do great magic, and they can also do terrible things with their magic, if they turn to evil. Melian is good, but there are some Maiar who are very bad, and Sauron is one of them."
The elf-child was quiet for a moment. "I saw him in my dreams. He was looking for me. He did not hurt Ada and the others because he was looking for me."
"Ereinion, it was only a nightmare. Sauron is not concerned about a little elf-child." Finduilas kissed her brother's worried brow. "It has been a long day, and you are very tired." She slipped off the bed and tucked the covers around him, noting with some amusement that his fingers had already begun to undo his braid.
~~~
Meril awoke to a room dimly lit by candlelight. Her husband sat at the small secretary, intending to write but evidently failing. Carried away by his thoughts, he jumped slightly under his wife's touch.
"I failed."
"What more could you have done? You brought our people safely here, and you are safe. Sauron may have the tower."
"Others will not see it so."
"You throw away sleep lightly if you brood over the opinion of Fëanor's sons." Meril kissed him. "Come to bed, melethen. Your son will give you no quarter for rest the morrow." *12
His father had been much altered by the loss of Tol Sirion. Stung by criticism, he henceforth distrusted his judgment. The oppressive terror that had chased his people from their land might have lingered with him also, for he had endured longest under the shadow. In the chaos and hysteria, he had overcome his own instinct to flee and remained until he was certain that all of his household and guard had gone. Only then had he left, and so he had abandoned not a single elf to death or thralldom.
"There are many ways to be brave," Finrod told his brother's young grandson. "When one is wise and steady while others are swayed by emotion, that is bravery. There is courage in one who ignores the censure of those more reckless and impulsive, and clings to the wisdom of prudence. Remember this, Ereinion, and you will be called greater than your ancestors."
Yet, in the end the wisdom Finrod so admired in his brother-son had failed Orodreth, who put his trust in a foolish and proud man.
FA 512, Arvernien
Ereinion had now met the cousin of that man, and reminded himself with difficulty that it was unfair to judge the mortal by his kin. Indeed, he would not wish to be likewise judged, for he certainly had his own unfortunate relations. He had already noted that since word had spread of his ascent to High King, many of the Iathrim he had come to know in Arvernien saw him with new eyes. He was no longer the young fosterling of Círdan, but a symbol of the clan that had brought the Sindar to ruin. *13
'And our own people, as well,' he thought, surprised that his childhood memories could still arouse such pain. He recalled yet another proud man who had come to Nargothrond, another of the line of Bëor, who led Finrod into the very clutches of the Maia who had befouled Tol Sirion. He had come to believe that this heartbreak lay behind the nightmares of his childhood.
Beren, he knew, was not responsible for all that had followed his descent into the madness of love. By no fault of his own, the mortal had entangled himself in a web of familial betrayal - two great families of the Eldar destroyed by lust for Fëanor's cursed jewels. And thus had Finrod fallen, less by his love for the Edain than by his own cousins' treachery.
FA 466, Nargothrond
"Their designs are more foul than we even suspect, melethen. I cannot rein them in."
"Then I can best help you here, Orodreth. Not in Eglarest. Not fleeing as though you had already conceded Ingoldo's throne to them."
Ereinion jumped. Finduilas had come up behind him in the passageway, and now held her finger to her lips. Their mother's sharp voice had roused her, too, from her sleep.
"I will not be sent away like a child. What befalls you shall befall me, or do the promises of our bond mean nothing to you?"
"You know that is not so! But my heart warns me that should the devices of my kinsmen succeed, our very lives are threatened."
The little elf looked up at his sister questioningly. Finduilas shook her head. She understood no more than did he.
"And you? Do you not see the threat to yourself?"
"Would you have me abandon Ingoldo's trust? It is not enough that he is deserted by the people who owe him their loyalty?" An edge of strain had crept into his father's soft voice. "I would have you and our children safe."
A shadow grew larger as it neared the doorway and Finduilas took her brother's hand and pulled him away. In Ereinion's bedchamber, she settled the elf-child into bed just as her mother walked in. "Finduilas, we are leaving for Eglarest tonight. Prepare your things, and make haste. Ereinion, you must get dressed."
"Naneth! What has happened?" Finduilas questioned. *14
"I cannot explain just now. Please, do as I say." She wiped a stray tear from her cheek.
Guilin's long years of loyalty to Angrod bound his family now to Angrod's son. Amid his kinsmen's treachery, Orodreth turned to the elf-lord's son as one of the few he could trust to bring his beloved wife and children safely to Eglarest. "Follow the Ringwil and then skirt the forest. If you are approached do not stop," he told Gwindor. He turned to Ereinion and lifted him up to his horse. "My heart tells me we shall not be too long parted. Perhaps even by spring we shall again be a family, and Ingoldo will return from his quest with great tales to tell."
FA 466, Eglarest
Ereinion was taciturn over breakfast, thinking of the long grey months of that winter. In Eglarest they had settled with his mother's kin. Gwindor tarried longer than he should, knowing his lord had need of him, but unable to leave his lord's daughter.
"Will you bind yourself to him?" Ereinion asked his sister one day, as they walked along the chalky cliffs high above the sea.
She laughed. "I do not know. I am fond of him, but I do not yet wish to make such a choice." In truth, she enjoyed too much the attentions of her suitors. Though she was especially fond of Gwindor, she would have the freedom of her maidenhood awhile.
Meril's kin were not originally of Eglarest, but had fled there during the Dagor Bragollach from their ancient holdings near Lake Mithrim. They were a dour people, reserved and not disposed to welcome strange folk, who unfortunately included Meril's son and daughter.
"It was not always so," she confided to her children. "When the fell creatures of the enemy arose in Beleriand, the Mithrim were hard-pressed, and learned to live in secrecy. They endured much hardship before the Noldor came." The Exiles had saved them from certain extinction, but at a price; their scattered and independent lords such as Meril's father had ceded control of their lands to Fingolfin. Her marriage had been an arranged one, made in the hopes of restoring some status to her family, but as sometimes happens, convenience had blossomed into genuine love and affection between husband and wife.
The Mithrim had little to do with the Falathrim among whom they had settled, but Ereinion spent much time wandering the docks under his sister's watchful eye - both Noldor felt more welcome among the fishermen and shipbuilders than they did among their mother's kin. Círdan they knew, for he had been occasionally persuaded to leave his beloved sea to visit Finrod, with whom he had great friendship.
The ancient elf was troubled by all he heard of the tumult at Nargothrond and particularly by the quest of Beren and Finrod. His friend, he sensed, would not return. He was troubled also by the young Noldo. Upon the elf-child a heavy doom lay, and the dreams that upset his sleep carried portents even Ulmo could not interpret.
Orodreth's intuition proved both right and very wrong. In the stirring of spring, Gwindor came again with the welcome news that Orodreth bid their return to Nargothrond. Yet, tearfully he related the sad fate of their beloved kinsman. Their sorrow overshadowed their eagerly anticipated reunion, and they found the halls of Nargothrond somber, as if some of their light had been lost forever with the death of Finrod. The people of Nargothrond hardly knew, then, that the faithless deeds of Curufin and Celegorm would reach so far, setting in motion the very ruin of Beleriand; that by such deeds the little elf-child would grow to be named High King of a defeated people.
FA 512, Arvernien
Círdan saw that he had been wrong. His own breakfast soon finished, for it was not his habit to linger when work awaited him, he noted that Ereinion picked listlessly at his food, absorbed in his thoughts. The elf had not slept well. ''T'will be better when we are back on Balar,' the mariner hoped. His ward was too haunted by his memories, his family's tragic end, to be of much use here.
His ward…Círdan chastised himself. He had to change his own ideation. Ereinion was no longer his fosterling, had not been for a decade, even if he still looked to him for guidance. Grave was the onus cast upon the young elf, and so Círdan must not permit the youngster to remain in the twilight between elven childhood and full adulthood. Ereinion's turn to lead and guide had come, and he must do so, even if he had not the confidence or experience he should have had.
FA 512, Balar
The lapping of the surf against the shore was soothing in a mind-numbing way. Ereinion stood barefoot in the wet sand, letting the water wash over his feet. He and Círdan had talked long into the night. The ancient elf still held closely his knowledge of things to come, as was his wont, but he had revealed that the hope of the elves rested in the little community in Arvernien, and so its protection was crucial.
He must speak to Celebrimbor, who had become the nominal leader of those who had escaped Nargothrond, and to Arphenion, Fingon's acerbic steward, who held sway among the surviving Noldor who had sought the Falas when Dorthonion and later Hithlum fell. He must speak to Tuor. Círdan had pressed these errands upon him; he must assume some responsibility for his people, forge bonds between the Noldor now settled in disparate communities in Arvernien and on Balar. He must offer friendship to Celeborn, in the hopes of reconciliation between the Iathrim and Noldor - they could scarce afford division in these times.
His was a rule without a realm; there hardly remained any of his people. He had no idea what this new status required of him. If the Noldor were to have a future as a separate and strong people, he must win their loyalty, unite them under his authority as their King. They were not ill disposed to follow him, even if they might harbor doubts about his youth, but if they were to follow, he must lead, and the path he walked was obscure.
His people despaired. All of their realms had been lost, their numbers so reduced they could only await the next stroke of Morgoth. They had fled one refuge after another. Their only hope lay in the Valar, but Valinor had closed its ears to their cries of distress. And the High King had no idea what he was meant to do.
The War of the Jewels, 'The Later Quenta Silmarillion', (p. 242, pub. Houghton Mifflin) has some details about Gil-galad not found elsewhere. Here, he is the son of Finrod by a Sinda of Eglarest named Meril. This is fairly close to Tolkien's final word on the subject in The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor', in which Gil-galad's mother is an unnamed 'Sindarin lady of the North' (p. 350, pub. Houghton Mifflin). 'North', I think, probably implies Mithrim. In this tale it is further related that he 'escaped and eventually came to Sirion's Mouth' - what he escaped, presumably, was the sack of Nargothrond. I've combined details from the various tales here, sending him to Círdan after the fall of the Falas, as his fostering by Círdan is a part of the original conception I thought should be kept.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien except Arphenion, who I needed briefly in another story and I figured would he serve equally well here. Translations of Elvish and additional notes are at the end of the story.
Though he had not seen her since she was but a child, the ancient elf could not fail to recognize the golden hair glinting in the sunlight. He hailed Idril as she walked about the camp, offering encouragement to raise the spirits of her people. *1
She hurried toward the mariner. "Círdan! It is good to see you again. Eärendil," she called to a small, golden-haired shadow hiding behind his mother. "This is Círdan, the greatest shipwright, of whom Voronwë has told you."
Two luminous blue eyes looked up at the elf.
"Once he is over his shyness, you will not easily be rid of him," Idril promised, smiling at her son. She sobered. "Where might I find my kinsman?"
Círdan looked toward the harbor. "He will be yonder, not yet ashore. I will watch the young one, if you like."
Idril extracted the boy from her skirts and gently pushed him toward the grey-haired elf. "Go with Círdan, now, Mírenya." *2
She walked swiftly toward the harbor and crossed the gangplank to the boat. The shining white deck was hot under her bare feet, and she ducked down the stairs to the hold with relief. When her eyes had adjusted to the cool darkness, she found herself under curious scrutiny.
"You are him who I seek, for you are a dark-haired version of your father," Idril said.
"I must confess I have no memory of you, my lady." The elf turned up the lamp to give them a better light.
She laughed. "You would not - I last saw your father when he was hardly older than you are now. I am Idril, daughter of Turgon."
He grasped her hands. "I have heard much of you. I wish we met under happier circumstances."
Shadow passed over her blue-grey eyes. "Still I am blessed, for my son and my husband are with me and whole. Others lost much more. But for my father I shall yet shed some tears."
He turned away from her then, understanding the import of her words. He had not been prepared for this to come to him. A gentle hand on his arm restored his awareness of his kinswoman.
"I am sorry. You have lost your father, and my mind wanders to self-pity."
"You would not be a worthy king if you were not frightened. It is much to ask of one so young," Idril reassured him.
A once-great family had fallen. Three of Fëanor's sons remained, forever dispossessed, more so after their fell deeds in Doriath. Fingolfin and his sons had perished; so too the sons and grandson of Finarfin. In his short life, this had happened - Ereinion alone remained of the male line of succession. Recent history did not foretell his longevity. *3
"This, then, must go to you."
He found his arms intolerably heavy as he took the delicate circlet. From Fingolfin it had passed to Fingon, and the remainder of Fingon's men who fled the Nirnaeth Arnoediad with the Gondolindrim had given it to Turgon. Into Tuor's hands the King commended his crown as they parted, bidding him to bring it safely to his dead cousin's young grandson. *4
Ereinion supposed he must go to shore, must speak with the refugees. At Círdan's behest only had he come to the Havens. When he at last disembarked, he was overwhelmed by his memories - of other refugees, of ghosts who never came to the Havens. In the faces of the Gondolindrim he saw his mother, an innocent felled by a Doom pronounced for crimes against her own people. He saw his father, Finarfin's lone ally, persuaded nonetheless to join the rebellion only out of love for his own father and Finrod. He saw his sister, like himself born long after the rebellion, doomed from birth by the fault of her ancestors.
FA 497, Balar
"These are all who came to mouth of Sirion, híren, though it is thought some went north to Doriath." *5
With a shock, Ereinion recognized his father's people, hardly a handful of the great kingdom. Desperately he sought his mother and sister, or news of them. Of his father, none could tell - he had led forth an army from Nargothrond to meet Morgoth's forces, and these refugees - mostly women and children - were the few who escaped the palace when the enemy attacked. Neither his mother nor sister was among them. He still kept hope, however, that they had fled to Doriath. His mother was a Sinda, and there would be welcomed.
One name he heard repeatedly: Túrin, a man he would soon learn to curse, as did many of the refugees. Other tidings trickled in slowly, of the utter rout of his father's army, and later of the death of his sister. Never did he learn of his mother's fate, but Círdan's messengers soon confirmed she had not been among those to reach Doriath.
Bitterly he regretted that he had not returned to join his father; was he not of age now, and free to choose his path? In anger, he turned on the elf who had fostered him these many years.
"And ye would have gone to your grave as did your father," Círdan answered, understanding the grief behind the anger. *6
"Then what is left to me? For one by one we perish. The Doom cannot be avoided."
"The Doom lies heavy on your people, but Ulmo does not forget them." Close in the counsels of the Lord of the Waters, Círdan knew that Turgon had sealed his own fate, and that of his city. Still, he had faith, for the star of hope would soon arise in Gondolin. "Your people are not without hope," the mariner added cryptically. 'At least, if I do not lose the High King's heir,' he thought to himself.
FA 512, Arvernien
He felt utterly drained when he returned to Círdan's ship that evening. The sorrow and fear of the people he had seen weighed on him. As a fellow elf, he felt sympathy; as their King, and somehow responsible for them, he felt overwhelmed. In spite of their tremendous losses and the hardship and peril of their escape, the Gondolindrim were less stunned than they might have been. Idril had been as a light before them, bringing hope to their darkest hour. Still, Ereinion had never seen so many needy people.
In the hold of Círdan's ship the circlet remained where he had gingerly placed it, telling himself that the Gondolindrim needed no reminder now of their lost King. Indeed, many years would pass before he could wear the delicate headpiece, and still more before it would be comfortable on his head.
Círdan sat in his cramped quarters below deck, musing on the events of the day, or perhaps communing with Ulmo or Ossë - it was often hard to tell what occupied the ancient mariner's mind. Roused by Ereinion's return, he invited the young elf to leave the doorway and sit at the table; he had already eaten, but a meal of bread and cheese awaited the High King.
Ereinion picked at the food, too nervous and upset to eat. Finally, he pushed aside the remainder, apologizing for his poor appetite. They sat in silence for a while; Círdan knew well the moods of the elf he had fostered, and let him come to words when he was ready.
When Ereinion at last spoke, his words came in a torrent, as though a dam had broken in his heart. "I know nothing of ruling a people; I am too young to bear this crown. It should go to someone else."
"To Maedhros, perhaps?" Círdan suggested gently, anticipating the other elf's wince. "Good - then we are of a mind on that, at any rate. There are none who can take this burden from you, and none should."
Ereinion left his seat to pace nervously. Finding the space for this activity insufficient, he rested near a porthole, leaning his head against the cool glass. "I should go elsewhere. I will bring the enemy upon us if I stay."
"Is that what worries ye?"
"No - yes, a little."
"'Tis no shame to be frightened, not when there is good reason. Ulmo is yet strong here, and the enemy has not yet found a way to swim. We shall be safe at Balar awhile, I think. Perhaps just long enough," he mused.
"What do you foresee?" Círdan made no answer, deep in his thoughts. "Círdan, you knew what would befall my father, and told me nothing of it. What more do you hide from me that I should know?" His soft voice rose querulously.
The mariner stood, fixing steely eyes on his charge. "Young elf, such knowledge as I am given is not for all ears. You know well why I could not tell you. You could not have saved your kin. 'Tis not yet your time - your destiny lies in other battles. Then will your people need you."
He went to his fosterling, who was again fruitlessly trying to pace in the small space. The elf's innocent eyes betrayed his misery. Círdan stilled him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Go now. Ye shall be better for sleep in the morning."
He woke suddenly, and hastened to light a candle, chasing the shadows that lingered in his mind. Many years had passed since this nightmare of his childhood had troubled him. He supposed it came now out of his unquiet mind, but he was nonetheless unnerved. Glinting in the candlelight lay the circlet, glaring at him. 'Ada, you never told me this would happen; you never told me how I was to do this.' Yet, how could the father teach the son when the father doubted his own ability to rule?
FA 457, Nargothrond
"Ereinion! Man bresta le?" Meril gathered the sweaty, shivering elf-child into her arms. *7
"Ada!" was all she could make out of his hysterical tears. *8
"He is at Minas Tirith, but he will send for us soon, when it is safe," she soothed, misunderstanding her son. This only upset him more.
"Ada, drego!" *9
"Shhh, it is only a dream."
"Is all not well?" Finrod looked in on them, wakened by the crying child.
"I am sorry, Ingoldo, if we disturbed you. He had a bad dream."
The elf came into the room and sat down on the bed. The little one, plainly still upset, peeked over his mother's shoulder at his kinsman. "Ingoldo, who is Sauron?" *10
The adults exchanged glances. "He is no one you need worry about, Ereinion. He is far from here," Finrod told the elf-child, stroking his damp, tangled tresses. He took the boy from his mother's arms and began to sing. Before long peaceful dreams had returned to the youngster, for few children of elves or men could resist Finrod's lullaby.
In the corridor, Finrod paused. "I apologize. It seems some of my people have been telling him tales not fit for a young elf." The culprit was one of his cousins, Finrod suspected, but said nothing of this.
Meril was disturbed. "Do you think Orodreth is in danger?"
"If it will ease your mind, I will send a party north tomorrow."
She looked at the Noldo gratefully. "I wish he were here. If it is too dangerous for my children and me to be with him, then perhaps it is not worth holding our home."
Finrod privately believed this to be true. The pass was part of Nargothrond's security, but its position was so tenuous, with Fingon beleaguered to the west and Dorthonion lost to the east, that it might be better to join the strength of their peoples here at Nargothrond. Yet, he understood also his brother-son's determination. Orodreth was a gentle soul, with little taste for war. To abandon Minas Tirith would be an affront to his honor, a confirmation of the doubts of his kin.
Her son's recurring nightmares did not lessen Meril's anxiety in the coming days, and almost with relief did she greet the early return of the elves sent to Tol Sirion. Though they brought grim tidings - Minas Tirith was lost - they brought also reassurance of her husband's escape. Orodreth's terrified household and guard soon followed, carrying little else, as though they had left without time to take even food or warm clothing. Last came Orodreth, a haunted look in his eyes, his youthful face haggard and strained.
Plainly, he did not wish to discuss the horrors he had fled in front of his son and daughter, nor would either child willingly take leave of their father. Ereinion struggled to remain awake, but at last slept in his father's arms. "Finduilas, please take your brother to bed," Meril urged.
Somewhat petulant at her mother's veiled implication that she, though nigh on fifty and old enough to earn the attentions of several lords in Finrod's house, was being sent to bed as well, Finduilas nonetheless did as she was told. She sensed her mother would have little patience for argument this evening. Her father was here with them, and unharmed, at least in body - that was what they had all wished for, but much had been lost. Her home, at least, and that brought tears to her eyes.
"Findas," her brother murmured, his exhaustion apparent in this babyhood name for his sister, "why are you crying?"
The elf-maid brushed her hand across her eyes and lifted her brother up to his bed. "I am only happy that Ada is with us again," she evaded, taking a comb from her own hair to untangle her brother's hair. "Honestly, one would think you were a Morben, the way you go about," she continued lightly. He let her braid his smoothed tresses without complaint; usually this was accomplished with much wriggling on his part and many sharp words from Meril's handmaiden, only for the braid to be undone before the morning meal was cleared away. When she was done, she found herself the subject of bright grey eyes, huge and solemn in the little elf's face. *11
"Who is Sauron?"
Finduilas recaptured her golden locks with her comb as she considered her answer. Her brother needed no more nightmares, but clearly, he would not be put off by the adults' elusive responses. She climbed up on the high bed and sat next to her brother. "Do you remember when Grandfather took us to Menegroth?" She was not certain he would - he had been but nine years old.
"The palace of the tall elf?"
"Yes, indeed. That was Thingol, the King of the Sindar. Do you remember his wife, Melian?" The little elf thought for a moment, then nodded again. "She was a Maia. The Maiar are like the Valar, only not so powerful. They can do great magic, and they can also do terrible things with their magic, if they turn to evil. Melian is good, but there are some Maiar who are very bad, and Sauron is one of them."
The elf-child was quiet for a moment. "I saw him in my dreams. He was looking for me. He did not hurt Ada and the others because he was looking for me."
"Ereinion, it was only a nightmare. Sauron is not concerned about a little elf-child." Finduilas kissed her brother's worried brow. "It has been a long day, and you are very tired." She slipped off the bed and tucked the covers around him, noting with some amusement that his fingers had already begun to undo his braid.
Meril awoke to a room dimly lit by candlelight. Her husband sat at the small secretary, intending to write but evidently failing. Carried away by his thoughts, he jumped slightly under his wife's touch.
"I failed."
"What more could you have done? You brought our people safely here, and you are safe. Sauron may have the tower."
"Others will not see it so."
"You throw away sleep lightly if you brood over the opinion of Fëanor's sons." Meril kissed him. "Come to bed, melethen. Your son will give you no quarter for rest the morrow." *12
His father had been much altered by the loss of Tol Sirion. Stung by criticism, he henceforth distrusted his judgment. The oppressive terror that had chased his people from their land might have lingered with him also, for he had endured longest under the shadow. In the chaos and hysteria, he had overcome his own instinct to flee and remained until he was certain that all of his household and guard had gone. Only then had he left, and so he had abandoned not a single elf to death or thralldom.
"There are many ways to be brave," Finrod told his brother's young grandson. "When one is wise and steady while others are swayed by emotion, that is bravery. There is courage in one who ignores the censure of those more reckless and impulsive, and clings to the wisdom of prudence. Remember this, Ereinion, and you will be called greater than your ancestors."
Yet, in the end the wisdom Finrod so admired in his brother-son had failed Orodreth, who put his trust in a foolish and proud man.
FA 512, Arvernien
Ereinion had now met the cousin of that man, and reminded himself with difficulty that it was unfair to judge the mortal by his kin. Indeed, he would not wish to be likewise judged, for he certainly had his own unfortunate relations. He had already noted that since word had spread of his ascent to High King, many of the Iathrim he had come to know in Arvernien saw him with new eyes. He was no longer the young fosterling of Círdan, but a symbol of the clan that had brought the Sindar to ruin. *13
'And our own people, as well,' he thought, surprised that his childhood memories could still arouse such pain. He recalled yet another proud man who had come to Nargothrond, another of the line of Bëor, who led Finrod into the very clutches of the Maia who had befouled Tol Sirion. He had come to believe that this heartbreak lay behind the nightmares of his childhood.
Beren, he knew, was not responsible for all that had followed his descent into the madness of love. By no fault of his own, the mortal had entangled himself in a web of familial betrayal - two great families of the Eldar destroyed by lust for Fëanor's cursed jewels. And thus had Finrod fallen, less by his love for the Edain than by his own cousins' treachery.
FA 466, Nargothrond
"Their designs are more foul than we even suspect, melethen. I cannot rein them in."
"Then I can best help you here, Orodreth. Not in Eglarest. Not fleeing as though you had already conceded Ingoldo's throne to them."
Ereinion jumped. Finduilas had come up behind him in the passageway, and now held her finger to her lips. Their mother's sharp voice had roused her, too, from her sleep.
"I will not be sent away like a child. What befalls you shall befall me, or do the promises of our bond mean nothing to you?"
"You know that is not so! But my heart warns me that should the devices of my kinsmen succeed, our very lives are threatened."
The little elf looked up at his sister questioningly. Finduilas shook her head. She understood no more than did he.
"And you? Do you not see the threat to yourself?"
"Would you have me abandon Ingoldo's trust? It is not enough that he is deserted by the people who owe him their loyalty?" An edge of strain had crept into his father's soft voice. "I would have you and our children safe."
A shadow grew larger as it neared the doorway and Finduilas took her brother's hand and pulled him away. In Ereinion's bedchamber, she settled the elf-child into bed just as her mother walked in. "Finduilas, we are leaving for Eglarest tonight. Prepare your things, and make haste. Ereinion, you must get dressed."
"Naneth! What has happened?" Finduilas questioned. *14
"I cannot explain just now. Please, do as I say." She wiped a stray tear from her cheek.
Guilin's long years of loyalty to Angrod bound his family now to Angrod's son. Amid his kinsmen's treachery, Orodreth turned to the elf-lord's son as one of the few he could trust to bring his beloved wife and children safely to Eglarest. "Follow the Ringwil and then skirt the forest. If you are approached do not stop," he told Gwindor. He turned to Ereinion and lifted him up to his horse. "My heart tells me we shall not be too long parted. Perhaps even by spring we shall again be a family, and Ingoldo will return from his quest with great tales to tell."
FA 466, Eglarest
Ereinion was taciturn over breakfast, thinking of the long grey months of that winter. In Eglarest they had settled with his mother's kin. Gwindor tarried longer than he should, knowing his lord had need of him, but unable to leave his lord's daughter.
"Will you bind yourself to him?" Ereinion asked his sister one day, as they walked along the chalky cliffs high above the sea.
She laughed. "I do not know. I am fond of him, but I do not yet wish to make such a choice." In truth, she enjoyed too much the attentions of her suitors. Though she was especially fond of Gwindor, she would have the freedom of her maidenhood awhile.
Meril's kin were not originally of Eglarest, but had fled there during the Dagor Bragollach from their ancient holdings near Lake Mithrim. They were a dour people, reserved and not disposed to welcome strange folk, who unfortunately included Meril's son and daughter.
"It was not always so," she confided to her children. "When the fell creatures of the enemy arose in Beleriand, the Mithrim were hard-pressed, and learned to live in secrecy. They endured much hardship before the Noldor came." The Exiles had saved them from certain extinction, but at a price; their scattered and independent lords such as Meril's father had ceded control of their lands to Fingolfin. Her marriage had been an arranged one, made in the hopes of restoring some status to her family, but as sometimes happens, convenience had blossomed into genuine love and affection between husband and wife.
The Mithrim had little to do with the Falathrim among whom they had settled, but Ereinion spent much time wandering the docks under his sister's watchful eye - both Noldor felt more welcome among the fishermen and shipbuilders than they did among their mother's kin. Círdan they knew, for he had been occasionally persuaded to leave his beloved sea to visit Finrod, with whom he had great friendship.
The ancient elf was troubled by all he heard of the tumult at Nargothrond and particularly by the quest of Beren and Finrod. His friend, he sensed, would not return. He was troubled also by the young Noldo. Upon the elf-child a heavy doom lay, and the dreams that upset his sleep carried portents even Ulmo could not interpret.
Orodreth's intuition proved both right and very wrong. In the stirring of spring, Gwindor came again with the welcome news that Orodreth bid their return to Nargothrond. Yet, tearfully he related the sad fate of their beloved kinsman. Their sorrow overshadowed their eagerly anticipated reunion, and they found the halls of Nargothrond somber, as if some of their light had been lost forever with the death of Finrod. The people of Nargothrond hardly knew, then, that the faithless deeds of Curufin and Celegorm would reach so far, setting in motion the very ruin of Beleriand; that by such deeds the little elf-child would grow to be named High King of a defeated people.
FA 512, Arvernien
Círdan saw that he had been wrong. His own breakfast soon finished, for it was not his habit to linger when work awaited him, he noted that Ereinion picked listlessly at his food, absorbed in his thoughts. The elf had not slept well. ''T'will be better when we are back on Balar,' the mariner hoped. His ward was too haunted by his memories, his family's tragic end, to be of much use here.
His ward…Círdan chastised himself. He had to change his own ideation. Ereinion was no longer his fosterling, had not been for a decade, even if he still looked to him for guidance. Grave was the onus cast upon the young elf, and so Círdan must not permit the youngster to remain in the twilight between elven childhood and full adulthood. Ereinion's turn to lead and guide had come, and he must do so, even if he had not the confidence or experience he should have had.
FA 512, Balar
The lapping of the surf against the shore was soothing in a mind-numbing way. Ereinion stood barefoot in the wet sand, letting the water wash over his feet. He and Círdan had talked long into the night. The ancient elf still held closely his knowledge of things to come, as was his wont, but he had revealed that the hope of the elves rested in the little community in Arvernien, and so its protection was crucial.
He must speak to Celebrimbor, who had become the nominal leader of those who had escaped Nargothrond, and to Arphenion, Fingon's acerbic steward, who held sway among the surviving Noldor who had sought the Falas when Dorthonion and later Hithlum fell. He must speak to Tuor. Círdan had pressed these errands upon him; he must assume some responsibility for his people, forge bonds between the Noldor now settled in disparate communities in Arvernien and on Balar. He must offer friendship to Celeborn, in the hopes of reconciliation between the Iathrim and Noldor - they could scarce afford division in these times.
His was a rule without a realm; there hardly remained any of his people. He had no idea what this new status required of him. If the Noldor were to have a future as a separate and strong people, he must win their loyalty, unite them under his authority as their King. They were not ill disposed to follow him, even if they might harbor doubts about his youth, but if they were to follow, he must lead, and the path he walked was obscure.
His people despaired. All of their realms had been lost, their numbers so reduced they could only await the next stroke of Morgoth. They had fled one refuge after another. Their only hope lay in the Valar, but Valinor had closed its ears to their cries of distress. And the High King had no idea what he was meant to do.
- 1 Though he had not seen her since she was but a child
- I'm thinking of the Mereth Aderthad, in FA 21. According to the 'Annals of Aman' in Morgoth's Ring, the Doom of the Noldor was pronounced some 38 years prior to the rising of the Sun, and the crossing of the Helcaraxë took about 30 years. This seems a little ridiculous to me (even more that they spent some nine years in the Valar-forsaken wilderness debating the issue). I've interpreted the final five years in the Annals to be in years of the sun.
- 2 Mírenya
- My jewel (Q) - Eärendil's mother-name is Ardamírë, Jewel of the World (Q)
- 3 Ereinion
- The names of Gil-galad are a story in themselves. Ereinion (meaning 'Scion of Kings') has an obscure origin - it was used by Christopher Tolkien in The Silmarillion, but came originally from 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' (The Peoples of Middle-Earth). It is never clear how he acquired the name, only that it was not used later. I have supposed that it was his mother-name, as his father-name was Rodnor (Artanáro in Quenya). However, it is also told in 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' that his mother called him Gil-galad, an epessë (nickname) meaning either 'starlight' (according to The War of the Jewels, in which he was named thus for his bright eyes) or 'star radiance'. The latter explanation comes from a second and slightly different account in 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor', stating that he was named for the device on his shield. This seems to me to be a name that would be acquired some time after he became King, and not a name given by his mother, and that is the reason I have used Ereinion in this story.
- 4 Gondolindrim
- People of Gondolin
- 5 híren
- my lord
- 6 ye
- 'ye', I'm aware, is the plural form of 'you' - I'm using it more for the sound of the word rather than its meaning. Círdan and his people had a distinctly different dialect of Sindarin, and I wanted to give his character a bit of that flavor.
- 7 "Ereinion! Man bresta le?"
- "Ereinion! What troubles you?" - I'm assuming that presta would be lenited following the interrogative pronoun man, as it functions as the subject of the sentence.
- 8 "Ada!"
- "Daddy!"
- 9 "Ada, drego!"
- "Daddy, flee!"
- 10 Ingoldo
- Finrod - Ingoldo, meaning 'The Noldo' was a name of honor used by those who loved him. (ref. The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor')
- 11 Morben
- One of the Avari or an Easterling
- 12 melethen
- my love
- 13 Iathrim
- People of Doriath
- 14 Naneth
- Mother