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Chapter Text

The banners of Himring hung limply in the still air as Maedhros and his retinue approached Barad Eithel. The fortress that had once seemed impregnable now bore the scars of war. Smoke still rose from the plains beyond, where the Battle of Sudden Flame had consumed so much of what the Noldor had built in Middle-earth.

Maedhros rode silently, his face a mask of stone. The news of Fingolfin's death had reached him days ago—how the High King had ridden alone to Angband's gates and challenged Morgoth himself. A glorious death, perhaps, but one that left the scattered forces of the Noldor in disarray when unity was needed most.

And now Fingon was King. Fingon, who had rescued him from Thangorodrim. Fingon, who had become far more than cousin or ally in the quiet moments between their duties.

The great gates of Barad Eithel opened before them. Guards in silver and blue stood at attention, their faces grim. They had lost their king, and many comrades in the Dagor Bragollach.

"Lord Maedhros," announced the herald as he entered the great hall. "Son of Fëanor, Lord of Himring."

The court fell silent. Eyes turned to watch the tall, one-handed figure stride forward. Some gazes held suspicion—the shadow of the Oath of Fëanor hung over him still. Others showed respect for the Lord who had held the eastern marches against Morgoth's forces.

At the far end of the hall, upon the high seat that had belonged to Fingolfin, sat Fingon. The gold circlet of kingship rested upon his dark hair, braided with ribbons of gold as was his custom. His face was composed, though pale with grief. Their eyes met across the hall, and Maedhros felt the weight of all that remained unspoken between them.

Protocol demanded formal recognition of the new king. Maedhros had rehearsed the words during the long journey, yet still they felt strange on his tongue. He, who had once been High King himself before abdicating to Fingolfin, had never bent his knee to another. Not since the days of Valinor had he knelt before any throne.

The hall watched in silent anticipation as he approached. Then, with deliberate grace, Maedhros lowered himself to one knee before the dais.

"Fingon, son of Fingolfin," he said, his clear voice carrying through the hall. "High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth. I, Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of Himring, offer my sword and my service. May the alliance between our houses stand firm against the Enemy."

A murmur ran through the court. Few had expected such a gesture from proud Maedhros, bound by his father's oath. Fingon's eyes widened briefly before he mastered himself.

"Rise, cousin," Fingon said, his voice steady though Maedhros could hear the emotion beneath. "Your fealty is accepted, and your counsel welcomed."

The formalities continued—reports of the eastern borders, discussions of strategy, pledges from other lords. Through it all, Maedhros stood tall beside the throne, his face unreadable. Only Fingon could see how his hand occasionally clenched at his side, the only outward sign of his turbulent thoughts.

Hours later, when the court had withdrawn and the night guards took their posts, Maedhros followed a familiar path through the corridors of Barad Eithel. No guard challenged him; they knew his right to be there, if not the full reason.

He found Fingon in the King's chambers, standing before a window that overlooked the plains where his father had ridden to his doom. The circlet was set aside, his braids undone.

"You came," Fingon said without turning.

"Did you doubt that I would?" Maedhros closed the door behind him.

"The world has turned dark. I doubt everything now." Fingon's shoulders sagged, the regal bearing of earlier dissolving in private.

Maedhros crossed the room in long strides and turned Fingon to face him. The grief in those gray eyes was raw, unfiltered by the mask of kingship he had worn all day.

"Not everything need change," Maedhros said softly. "Not between us."

"I am King now." Fingon's voice broke on the word. "A title I never wanted, not like this. My father—" He could not continue.

Maedhros pulled him close, his one hand cradling the back of Fingon's head. "I know. Fingolfin was the greatest of us. His sacrifice will not be in vain."

"They say he wounded Morgoth seven times before he fell." Fingon's words were muffled against Maedhros's shoulder. "Seven wounds upon the Black Enemy, yet still we retreat on all fronts."

"Not all," Maedhros reminded him. "Himring stands. Hithlum stands. And you are not alone in this fight."

Fingon pulled back enough to look up at him. "You knelt today. In all our years, I have never seen you kneel to anyone."

"I knelt to the High King," Maedhros said, then more softly, "And to my husband, though none but us know that truth."

"Husband," Fingon repeated, a ghost of a smile touching his lips for the first time. "Even in our darkest hour, that word brings me comfort."

They stood together in the quiet room, holding each other as they had in happier times. The world outside might be burning, but here they found a moment's peace in each other's arms.

"I cannot stay long," Maedhros said eventually. "Himring requires my return. But I needed to see you, to pledge myself properly to the new King."

"And to comfort that King, who feels like a child playing at rulership?"

"You will be a greater king than I would ever have been," Maedhros told him. "You have your father's courage and your own wisdom."

They moved to sit beside the hearth, where a fire drove back the spring chill. There they talked of strategy and defenses, of alliances and supply lines—the conversation of leaders in wartime. But their hands remained linked, fingers intertwined in the space between their chairs.

As the night deepened, talk gave way to silence, and silence to more intimate comforts. In the privacy of the King's chambers, they found solace in each other, a reminder of all they fought to preserve.

Months passed. Messengers rode between Himring and Barad Eithel, bearing news of skirmishes and small victories. The front lines held, though at great cost. And in their coded correspondence, Maedhros and Fingon maintained their connection across the leagues that separated them.

It was midsummer when Maedhros noticed the first changes. A persistent weariness that did not lift with rest. Nausea in the mornings. A strange sensitivity to smells that had never bothered him before.

At first, he attributed it to stress, to the constant vigilance required at the frontier fortress. But as the symptoms persisted and new ones appeared—a curious fullness in his abdomen, a tenderness in his chest—a different suspicion began to form.

Impossible, he told himself. Yet the signs continued, unmistakable as they progressed. In the privacy of his chambers, he examined his changing body with disbelief. There was a life growing within him—something that should not be possible.

The Eldar knew of no such occurrence in all their history. Males did not bear children. Yet here was evidence before his own eyes, a slight swell beneath his tunic where none had been before.

Was it some miracle of the Valar? Or perhaps a consequence of the intermingling of their fëar—their spirits—during their private union, some mystery of Elven souls that had never been recorded in the lore of the Noldor?

Whatever the cause, Maedhros found himself facing a situation without precedent. He should tell Fingon, he knew. But how to convey such news when they were separated by leagues of dangerous territory? And what would this mean for the fragile alliance of the Noldor, for the war against Morgoth?

As autumn approached and his condition became harder to conceal, Maedhros made his decision. He would ride for Barad Eithel once more, leaving his captains to hold Himring in his absence. The journey would be perilous, especially in his condition, but he could not bear this burden alone any longer.

The High King must know that an heir was coming—one born of an impossible union, in defiance of nature itself, yet perhaps a symbol of hope in these darkest of times.

Chapter Text

Winter had settled over Barad Eithel when Maedhros's time came. The fortress halls, normally bustling with the activities of court, fell quiet outside the King's private chambers. Few knew the truth of what transpired within—only Fingon's most trusted healers and advisors had been permitted entry.

Maedhros had arrived months ago, his condition concealed beneath heavy cloaks and deliberate misdirection. The story told to the court was that the Lord of Himring had been wounded in battle and sought the superior healing skills available at the High King's residence. It was plausible enough—Maedhros was known to drive himself beyond endurance in the fight against Morgoth.

The labor was long and perilous. No healer, not even those who had studied in Valinor under the tutelage of Estë herself, had knowledge of how to assist in such a birth. Maedhros bore the pain in silence, refusing draughts that might ease his suffering but harm the child. Fingon remained at his side throughout, their hands clasped tight as the impossible became reality.

When the first cry pierced the air—strong and defiant—tears streamed down Fingon's face. The child was small but perfect, with a tuft of dark hair like Fingon's own, but with eyes that held the fierce light of Maedhros's lineage.

"A son," the healer announced, her voice hushed with wonder. "Healthy and whole."

Fingon took the infant in his arms, cradling him with trembling hands. "Erenion," he whispered. "Scion of Kings."

Maedhros, exhausted beyond measure, looked upon their child with complex emotions warring across his face—wonder, love, and deepening sorrow. "Artanaro," he said softly. "Noble Flame."

For a brief, precious moment, they were simply a family—two parents gazing upon their newborn son, marveling at the miracle they had created together.

But reality could not be held at bay for long.

"You know we cannot claim him together," Maedhros said three days later. He had recovered enough to sit by the window, watching snow fall beyond the glass. The child—Erenion to his court, Artanaro in private—slept in a cradle nearby.

Fingon looked up from the missive he'd been reading, his expression hardening. "Why not? We face Morgoth himself—what do we care for the whispers of court?"

"It is not merely scandal I fear," Maedhros replied. His voice was hollow. "Though that alone would weaken your position as High King in a time when our people need unity above all."

"Then what?"

Maedhros turned from the window, his gaze falling on their sleeping son. "The Oath," he said simply. "It binds me still. Each day it pulls at my spirit, demanding fulfillment. I will not have that shadow fall upon him."

"The Oath is not his burden to bear!"

"It becomes the burden of all who are close to me," Maedhros countered. "You know this. My brothers know this. And should I acknowledge him as my son, he too will be caught in its web—if not by blood obligation, then by the judgment others will place upon him."

Fingon crossed the room in quick strides, kneeling before Maedhros. "He is our son. Both of ours. A miracle in dark times."

"A miracle that cannot be explained," Maedhros reminded him gently. "Even if the court could accept two males as parents, how would we explain his very existence? Some would call it unnatural. Others would see it as some trick of Morgoth. Few would understand."

Silence fell between them, broken only by the soft sounds of their child's breathing. Fingon looked toward the cradle, his expression torn between pride and grief.

"So you would deny him," he said at last. "Deny your own son."

"To protect him, yes." Maedhros reached out, touching Fingon's cheek. "And to protect your reign. The Noldor need their High King strong and unchallenged."

Tears gathered in Fingon's eyes. "Then what tale shall I tell? That I betrayed our bond with some elleth?"

"A noble lady of your court," Maedhros suggested, each word paining him. "One who died heroically during the Dagor Bragollach. None will question a king's grief or his desire to honor her memory by raising their child alone."

"A lie."

"A shield," Maedhros corrected. "A shield for our son against the darkness that comes for all of Fëanor's line."

Fingon bowed his head, knowing the truth in Maedhros's words even as he rebelled against them. "And what of you? Will you simply walk away from him?"

"I will be his father's trusted ally. His mentor in arms when he is old enough. I will watch over him from afar and defend him with my life if needed." Maedhros's voice nearly broke. "But I cannot claim him, Fingon. Not if I wish him to have a future untainted by my father's madness."

In the cradle, the child stirred, small fists waving at unseen dreams. Both turned to look at him—this impossible son, born of their love in defiance of all natural law.

"Remember what your father told us about our people," Maedhros said softly. "The children of the Eldar are stronger when they are wanted, when they are loved from the moment of conception. Whatever miracle brought him to us, our son was wanted. He was loved before he drew breath. That power will sustain him."

"It is not enough," Fingon whispered.

"It must be."

Chapter Text

Spring came to Barad Eithel. The snows melted, and with the warming days came renewed activity along the borders. Morgoth's forces probed defenses, testing for weakness.

In the fortress courtyard, Maedhros prepared to depart for Himring. His retinue waited, horses stamping impatiently after the long winter's confinement. The Lord of Himring himself stood before the High King, exchanging formal farewells in full view of the court.

"Your counsel has been invaluable, cousin," Fingon said, his voice carrying across the yard. He wore the gold circlet of kingship, his bearing regal and confident.

"The eastern marches will hold, my King," Maedhros replied with a slight bow. "You may count on Himring as your shield."

The formalities complete, Maedhros turned to go. But Fingon gestured for him to wait, then nodded to a nursemaid who stood nearby. She approached, bearing in her arms a small bundle.

A murmur ran through the watching courtiers. Most knew by now of the King's son, born during the winter to a lady who had perished in the war. The child had been presented to the court two months prior, acknowledged as Fingon's heir in a solemn ceremony.

"Before you depart," Fingon said, his voice pitched for all to hear, "I would have my son receive the blessing of his father's most trusted ally."

The nursemaid presented the infant to Maedhros. With practiced ease belying his single hand, Maedhros received the child, looking down into eyes that mirrored his own. No one watching would see anything but polite interest in his expression, but Fingon knew better. He saw the nearly imperceptible trembling of Maedhros's shoulders, the fierce love and anguish hidden behind his composed features.

"May you grow strong and wise, Erenion son of Fingon," Maedhros said formally. "May you know peace that your father and I have not."

Then, in a voice so low that only Fingon could hear, he added, "Artanaro, my flame. Know that you are loved."

He returned the child to the nursemaid and mounted his horse in a single fluid motion. With a final salute to the High King, Maedhros led his company from Barad Eithel, riding east toward Himring and the frontlines of the long war against darkness.

Behind him, Fingon stood tall, the tiny hand of his son clutched in his own as they watched the departing riders. To the court, they were King and prince, father and son—a lineage assured. Only Fingon knew the truth that would remain hidden for centuries to come: that the child who would one day be known as Gil-galad, Star of Radiance, carried the blood of both Fingolfin's and Fëanor's houses, a union of two lines that should have healed old wounds but instead became another secret casualty of war.

"One day," Fingon whispered to his son, "one day you will know all of it."

But that day would not come. The vagaries of fate and the long defeat of the Noldor would separate father from son, and son from father, until only legends remained—and the truth of Erenion Gil-galad's parentage became just another lost tale in the long sorrow of the Eldar in Middle-earth.

Chapter Text

The Havens of Sirion sparkled in the spring sunlight, white ships gliding across the bay as gulls wheeled overhead. Young Ereinion, not yet called Gil-galad, stood on tiptoe at the window of his chambers in Lord Círdan's house, watching the coastal road with growing excitement. The scouts had reported riders approaching—riders bearing the blue and silver banners of the High King, his father Fingon, and among them, the crimson standard with an eight-pointed star that marked the presence of Lord Maedhros of Himring.

"Come away from the window, young prince," his nursemaid chided gently. "We must prepare you to receive your father and Lord Maedhros properly."

Ereinion, five years old and brimming with impatience, reluctantly allowed himself to be bathed and dressed in formal attire—a small blue tunic embroidered with silver stars, and soft leather boots that he was already trying to scuff despite his caretakers' best efforts.

"Will they stay long?" he asked, fidgeting as his dark hair was combed and arranged with the customary braids of his father's house.

"The High King will remain three days," the nursemaid replied, deftly weaving a silver thread through one braid. "Lord Maedhros, I believe, somewhat longer. There is much to discuss with Lord Círdan regarding the defense of the coast."

Ereinion knew there was more to these visits than his caretakers told him. Though young, he had already learned that adults spoke differently when they thought children weren't listening. He had overheard Círdan and his advisors discussing the "growing shadow in the North" and "preparation for the union of Maedhros." Whatever this union was, it seemed to be why he had been sent to the Havens two years ago, away from his father's court at Barad Eithel.

"Why can't I come with you father?" he had asked Fingon during his last visit, six months before.

"War is no place for a child to grow," Fingon had answered, his expression grave as he knelt to Ereinion's height. "Here, you are safe. You learn from Lord Círdan, who is wise in ways I am not. And when the time is right, when we have pushed back the darkness, you will return to Barad Eithel."

Now, as the sound of hoofbeats and the Noldorin horns announced the arrival of the royal party, Ereinion could barely contain himself. He stood at Círdan's side in the great courtyard, shifting from foot to foot until a gentle hand on his shoulder reminded him to stand still.

The courtyard filled with the High King's escort—tall Noldorin warriors in gleaming armor. At their center rode Fingon himself, resplendent in blue and silver, gold ribbons woven into his dark braids. And beside him, a striking contrast, rode Maedhros—taller than any other, his copper hair caught back in a simple warrior's knot, his bearing regal despite the absence of his right hand.

Ereinion's face lit up at the sight of his father, but protocol demanded he remain in place as Círdan stepped forward to offer formal greetings. Only when those were complete did Fingon dismount and approach his son, a broad smile breaking through the formal mask of kingship.

"Ereinion," he said warmly, kneeling to embrace the boy. "You've grown taller since winter."

"Father!" Ereinion flung his arms around Fingon's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and leather that always clung to the High King. "I've learned three new sword forms and Lord Círdan says my letters are improving and I found a gull's nest on the cliffs but I didn't touch the eggs because—"

Fingon laughed, rising with Ereinion in his arms. "All this we will discuss, my son. But first, greet Lord Maedhros, who has ridden far to see you."

Ereinion turned in his father's arms to face the tall, solemn figure who had approached. Maedhros's face was more lined than Ereinion remembered, his eyes bearing the weight of constant vigilance on the northern borders. Yet when those eyes met Ereinion's, something in them softened.

"Prince Ereinion," Maedhros said, offering a formal bow. "You honor us with your welcome."

"Lord Maedhros," Ereinion replied, carefully reciting the greeting he had been taught. "Himring's lord is always welcome in the Havens." Then, formality satisfied, he added with a child's directness, "Did you bring me anything?"

"Ereinion!" Fingon admonished, though his eyes crinkled with amusement.

A rare smile flickered across Maedhros's face. "As it happens, young prince, I may have something of interest." He reached into a pouch at his belt with his left hand and withdrew a small object wrapped in soft cloth. "Though perhaps it should wait until after you have properly greeted all your father's captains."

Ereinion's gaze darted between the mysterious package and the line of warriors waiting to be acknowledged. With visible effort, he composed himself and nodded solemnly. "Of course, Lord Maedhros. Duty first."

Fingon's eyebrows rose in surprise at this display of patience from his normally impetuous son. He exchanged a glance with Maedhros, a silent communication passing between them that Ereinion could not yet understand.

The formalities of welcome occupied the next hour—the washing of hands, the exchange of news, the presentation of gifts brought from the North. Ereinion sat at his father's right hand, striving to emulate Fingon's regal bearing, though his gaze kept straying to Maedhros, who sat opposite them at Círdan's table.

It was not until the meal concluded and the adults turned to more serious discussions that Ereinion found himself momentarily forgotten. Slipping away from the table, he made his way to the gardens where he knew Maedhros often walked during his visits.

He found the tall lord standing beneath an ancient cypress tree, looking out toward the sea. Without the press of ceremony around them, Maedhros seemed different—less the stern warrior of legend and more like someone carrying a private sorrow.

"Lord Maedhros," Ereinion said, approaching cautiously.

Maedhros turned, his expression warming at the sight of the young prince. "Ereinion. Should you not be with your father?"

"He's talking with Lord Círdan about border defenses," Ereinion said with a slight shrug. "They always talk about the same things."

"Important things," Maedhros corrected gently.

"I know." Ereinion kicked at a pebble on the path. "Father says I'm here because war is no place for a child to grow. But I'd rather be with him at Barad Eithel. I wouldn't be afraid."

Maedhros studied him for a long moment, then gestured for Ereinion to join him on a stone bench beneath the cypress. The bench was sized for elves, not children, and Ereinion had to clamber up beside him.

"Your father makes many difficult decisions," Maedhros said. "None more difficult than sending you here, away from him."

"Then why did he?"

Maedhros seemed to weigh his words carefully. "Because he loves you more than his own happiness. Because he would rather bear the pain of separation than risk your safety." He paused, then added quietly, "Both your fathers would."

Ereinion's brow furrowed. "Both?"

"Fingon," Maedhros said smoothly. "Both your father and your king. He carries two heavy burdens."

Ereinion considered this, not fully understanding but sensing there was more beneath the words than he could grasp. "Do you have children, Lord Maedhros?"

Something flickered in Maedhros's eyes—pain quickly masked. "No," he said softly. "That joy was not granted to me. But if I did..." He looked down at Ereinion, his gaze intense. "If I did, I would want a son exactly like you."

Ereinion beamed at the compliment, then remembered his manners. "Thank you, Lord Maedhros."

"Now," Maedhros said, reaching again for the small package he had shown earlier, "I believe I promised you something."

He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a small carving—a horse, cunningly wrought in pale wood, its mane and tail flowing as if in motion. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each muscle and sinew perfectly captured.

Ereinion's eyes widened. "It's beautiful," he breathed, reaching out tentatively. "May I?"

"It's yours," Maedhros said, placing it in the boy's hands. "Carved from the wood of a rowan tree that grows near Himring. I thought you might like a reminder of the horses of the North, since you seem to have inherited your father's love of riding."

Ereinion turned the carving over in his hands, marveling at its detail. "Did you make this?"

Maedhros nodded. "During the long winter nights. It helps to have something to occupy the mind when darkness falls."

"But how...?" Ereinion gestured hesitantly toward Maedhros's missing right hand.

"I have learned to do many things with my left hand that once seemed impossible," Maedhros said, without a trace of self-pity. "When the need is great enough, we find ways to overcome our limitations."

They sat in companionable silence for a time, Ereinion examining his gift while Maedhros gazed out at the horizon. Finally, the tall lord spoke again.

"I have been thinking, young prince, that you are old enough now to begin proper weapons training. If your father agrees, perhaps during this visit I might show you some forms uniquely suited to someone of your stature."

Ereinion's face lit up. "Would you? Father is always so busy, and the tutors here are too cautious. They won't let me use anything but wooden swords."

"We would start with wooden swords as well," Maedhros said firmly. "But I could teach you techniques that will serve you well when you are ready for steel." He paused, adding more gently, "Things I wish I had known when I was young."

"Ereinion!" Fingon's voice called from the garden entrance. "Ah, there you are." The High King approached, his formal robes exchanged for simpler attire. "I might have known you would seek out Lord Maedhros."

"Look what he gave me, Father!" Ereinion held up the carved horse proudly.

Fingon examined it, his expression softening. "Exquisite work, as always," he said, his gaze meeting Maedhros's. "You have a gift for creating beauty, my friend."

"A small thing," Maedhros said, with a slight shrug. "But it pleases me to see it appreciated."

"Lord Maedhros says he'll teach me to fight properly," Ereinion announced eagerly. "If you agree, Father."

Fingon raised an eyebrow, looking to Maedhros. "Does he indeed?"

"Only with your permission," Maedhros said. "The prince shows promise, and I thought perhaps some instruction in the Noldorin forms might complement what he learns here."

Fingon seemed to consider this, though Ereinion had the impression a silent conversation was passing between the two lords. "Very well," he said at last. "But mind you listen carefully to Lord Maedhros, Ereinion. He is the finest swordsman among our people, despite what his modesty might lead him to say."

Ereinion nodded eagerly. "I will, Father!"

"Good," Fingon said, smiling. "Now, I believe you have a history lesson with Master Pengolodh this afternoon, do you not?"

Ereinion's face fell. "Must I? You've only just arrived."

"Duty before pleasure," Fingon reminded him. "We will have time together this evening. All three of us."

Recognizing the tone that brooked no argument, Ereinion slid reluctantly from the bench. "Yes, Father." He turned to Maedhros, offering a formal bow. "Thank you for the gift, Lord Maedhros. I shall treasure it."

"Until tomorrow, young prince," Maedhros replied, inclining his head. "For our first lesson."

As Ereinion made his way back toward the house, he glanced back once to see his father take his place on the bench beside Maedhros. The two sat close together, heads bowed in conversation, Fingon's hand resting briefly on Maedhros's arm in a gesture of comfort or reassurance.

There was something in the way they leaned toward each other, something in the way the tension seemed to leave Maedhros's shoulders at Fingon's touch, that struck Ereinion as significant—though he could not have said why. It was as if he were glimpsing something private, something meant only for them.

He tucked the carved horse carefully into his tunic and continued on his way, storing the memory away with other puzzling observations about the two lords who took such interest in his upbringing. Someday, he thought, he would understand the currents that flowed between them, and why they looked at him sometimes with such fierce, shared pride.

For now, it was enough to know that both his father and Lord Maedhros had come to see him, and that tomorrow would bring new lessons and perhaps new understanding.

Chapter Text

The sea breeze carried the tang of salt and smoke as Ereinion Gil-galad stood at the high window of his tower in Balar. The western sky was stained with the distant fires of war, where the Host of the Valar battled against Morgoth's forces in the north. Each day brought new reports of lands cracking and sinking beneath the weight of the conflict—Beleriand was breaking apart, piece by piece.

"My lord," came a voice from behind him. Gil-galad turned to see Círdan in the doorway, his ancient eyes grave. "Riders approach under the banner of the Star of Fëanor."

Gil-galad's hand tightened around the windowsill. "Maedhros sends envoys? Now?"

"Not Maedhros himself," Círdan clarified. "A small party, bearing what appears to be... children."

The High King's brow furrowed. Children? The sons of Fëanor had no children, save for Celebrimbor who had long since renounced his father. Then understanding dawned cold and sharp as a blade. "The twins," he breathed. "Elwing's sons."

Círdan nodded grimly. "I believe so."

Gil-galad smoothed his expression into the mask of kingship he had worn since his father's death. "Bring them to the reception hall. I will hear what message the Fëanorians send with Eärendil's heirs."

The boys stood before him like mirror images—dark-haired, gray-eyed, with faces that echoed their father's mortal blood and their mother's elven grace. Yet there was something else there, a wariness that no child should possess. They were perhaps fifteen summers old by mortal reckoning, caught between childhood and the cusp of adulthood.

"Elrond and Elros Eärendilion," Gil-galad announced, his voice filling the hall. "You are welcome in the court of the High King of the Noldor."

The twins exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. The one on the left—Elrond, Gil-galad surmised from reports—stepped forward and bowed with perfect courtesy. "We thank you for your welcome, Your Majesty, though we come not by choice."

The bluntness startled a small smile from Gil-galad. "Few journeys in these days are made by choice, young one."

"We were sent here for our safety," Elrond continued, his voice steady despite his youth. "Lord Maedhros insisted as the war grows more perilous."

The other twin—Elros—scowled. "We should be with him. He needs us."

"Does he?" Gil-galad asked, studying the boy's defiant stance. "The son of Fëanor needs two half-elven children at his side?"

"We're not children," Elros snapped, earning a warning glance from his brother.

"And he's not just 'the son of Fëanor,'" Elrond added more diplomatically. "He is our guardian. He has been for seven years."

Seven years. Since the sack of Sirion. Since these boys' mother had thrown herself into the sea rather than surrender the Silmaril to the sons of Fëanor. Gil-galad felt a familiar knot of pain and anger form in his chest. Maedhros's actions had been indefensible, and yet...

"And how has he treated you, these seven years?" Gil-galad asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Elrond's eyes never wavered. "With care and honor, Your Majesty. He has taught us history, languages, strategy. He has shown us how to wield sword and bow, though he says he hopes we never need such skills."

"He taught us to think," Elros added, his anger momentarily forgotten. "To question everything—even him."

"Especially him," Elrond said softly.

Gil-galad nodded slowly. That sounded like the Maedhros he remembered from his own youth—the tall, solemn figure who had visited the Havens with his father, who had taught him the stars and the ancient songs of Valinor when his father was occupied with matters of state. The Maedhros who had looked at him with such strange, sad eyes.

"Come," he said, stepping down from his throne. "You must be weary from your journey. We will speak more once you have rested."

As the twins followed him from the hall, Gil-galad noticed the way they walked—shoulder to shoulder, as if expecting to face the world together. It reminded him of tales he'd heard of his father and Maedhros in their youth.

Later that night, after the twins had been settled in chambers near his own, Gil-galad sat alone in his study. On his desk lay a sealed letter, delivered by the warriors who had escorted the twins. Maedhros's personal seal—a star encircled by flame—was pressed into the red wax.

For a long moment, Gil-galad simply stared at it. Then, with a quick motion, he broke the seal.

The letter was written in Maedhros's distinctive hand, the letters precise despite being formed by his left hand. The script was as familiar to Gil-galad as his own, though he could not have explained why.

To Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor,

I entrust to your care Elrond and Elros, sons of Eärendil and Elwing. They are strong in spirit and quick of mind, yet they remain vulnerable in these dangerous times. The oath that drives me makes me an unsuitable guardian as the war reaches its final stages.

I ask that you grant them the protection of your court and the education befitting their lineage. They carry the blood of both Eldar and Edain, and in them lies a hope for the future that my brother and I can no longer claim.

Elrond has an aptitude for lore and healing. Elros is drawn to the sea and the stars. Both are fierce in their love for each other and for those they consider family. Treat them as your own, and they will serve you with the same devotion.

Maedhros Fëanorion

Gil-galad set the letter down, his heart heavy.

A soft knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," he called, hastily folding the letter.

Elrond stood in the doorway, his face pale in the lamplight. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I could not sleep."

"There is nothing to forgive," Gil-galad said, gesturing to a chair. "And please, when we are not in formal settings, you may call me Ereinion."

Elrond sat, his eyes moving curiously over the maps and scrolls that covered the desk. "You have many books."

"Not as many as once filled the libraries of Gondolin or Nargothrond," Gil-galad replied. "But we save what we can. Maedhros mentioned your love of lore."

Elrond's eyes snapped to the folded letter. "He wrote to you about us?"

"He did. He asked me to continue your education."

"Will you send us away?" The question came quickly, betraying the fear beneath the boy's composed exterior.

"Away? No. Why would you think that?"

Elrond looked down at his hands. "People fear us. The sons of the Evening Star, raised by the sons of Fëanor. We belong nowhere."

"You belong here," Gil-galad said firmly. "As long as you wish to stay."

"And if we wish to return to him?"

The question hung in the air between them. Gil-galad studied the young face before him—so serious, so determined to appear strong. He saw in it echoes of another face, centuries ago, scarred but unbowed.

"Maedhros sent you here to keep you safe," he said gently. "Would you dishonor his wish?"

Elrond's shoulders slumped slightly. "No. But I worry for him. He has nightmares—terrible ones. Elros and I would sit with him sometimes, when the memories became too much."

Gil-galad felt a pang of grief. He had not known this—that Maedhros still suffered from his torment in Angband. Or perhaps he had known and had forgotten, as children often forget the vulnerabilities of their elders.

"Tell me," he said, leaning forward, "what was it like? Living with him?"

And so Elrond spoke, his initial hesitance giving way to a flood of words. He told of life in the wandering camp of the last Fëanorians—harsh at times, but never cruel. Of Maglor's songs and Maedhros's quiet strength. Of learning to read the stars and track game and speak the ancient tongue of Valinor.

"He never spoke of you," Elrond said finally. "Though Maglor mentioned once that you were fostered by Círdan, as we were by them."

"Not quite the same circumstances," Gil-galad said with a wry smile.

"No," Elrond agreed, his eyes suddenly wise beyond his years. "But perhaps not so different. We are all orphans of this war, in our way."

Gil-galad felt a strange tightness in his chest. "Yes," he said softly. "I suppose we are."

They sat in silence for a long moment, king and child, bound by unseen threads of shared loss and unspoken truths.

"It's late," Gil-galad said finally. "You should rest. Tomorrow, I will show you the libraries, and you can tell me what subjects interest you most."

Elrond nodded and rose to his feet. "Good night, Your Majesty."

"Ereinion," Gil-galad corrected gently.

A small smile touched the boy's lips. "Good night, Ereinion."

After Elrond had gone, Gil-galad returned to the window. The distant fires still burned on the horizon, but now he saw them differently—not just as the doom of Beleriand, but perhaps as the cleansing flames that might forge a new beginning.

He thought of Maedhros, alone with his terrible oath and his memories. Of Elrond and Elros, torn from their parents and now from the only guardian they had known. Of himself, bearing the weight of kingship and secrets.

"We are all orphans of this war," he murmured, echoing Elrond's words.

And yet, perhaps in the ashes of all they had lost, something new might grow. A family forged not by blood or oath, but by choice and love and shared grief.

Gil-galad turned from the window and picked up Maedhros's letter once more. "I will treat them as my own," he promised the absent writer. 

The only answer was the distant rumble of war and the endless murmur of the sea.

Chapter Text

Elrond watched the waves crash against the cliffs of Balar, a restless rhythm that matched his own troubled heart. Three days had passed since they had arrived at the court of Gil-galad, three days of careful words and measured glances. He and Elros had been given adjoining chambers in the royal wing, an honor that felt more like a gilded cage. Behind them, guards stood at a discreet distance—protection or surveillance, Elrond couldn't decide which.

"You're brooding again," Elros said, joining him at the stone balustrade. "Maedhros would tell you to stop furrowing your brow before your face gets stuck that way."

Despite himself, Elrond smiled. "And Maglor would compose a mournful ballad about it."

The familiar joke brought a brief warmth between them, quickly followed by a shared pang of loss. Elrond looked sidelong at his twin, noting the tension in his jaw, the restless way his fingers tapped against the stone.

"You're planning something," Elrond said quietly. "Don't."

Elros scowled. "We shouldn't be here. Maedhros needs us."

"Maedhros sent us away because he doesn't want us involved in whatever comes next," Elrond countered. "You know what the oath demands of him. You know what happened at Sirion."

Seven years had passed since the attack that had orphaned them, but the memory remained vivid: the clash of steel, the screams, their mother's desperate flight with the Silmaril. And then, amid the chaos, a tall figure with flame-red hair kneeling before them, his scarred face twisted with grief and horror at what his quest had wrought.

"He protected us," Elros insisted. "For seven years, while everyone else abandoned us."

"Our father didn't abandon us," Elrond said automatically, the words worn smooth from repetition. "He sought help from the Valar."

"And now look where we are," Elros gestured at the distant fires that marked the War of Wrath. "The 'help' has come, and they're destroying what's left of Beleriand."

Elrond sighed. This argument had circled between them for years. "Let's not fight. Not now."

Elros's expression softened. "I'm not angry with you, brother. I just hate feeling useless. Waiting."

"I know." Elrond squeezed his brother's shoulder.

A guard approached, interrupting their conversation. "Lord Elrond, the King requests your presence in the library."

Elros raised an eyebrow. "Just you? Not me?"

"The King mentioned Lord Elrond's interest in lore," the guard said, his expression carefully neutral.

Elrond shot his twin an apologetic look. "I'll tell you everything later."

"You'd better," Elros muttered, turning back to the sea. "While you're reading dusty scrolls, I'll be here, planning our escape."

"Elros—"

"I'm joking." His twin flashed him a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mostly."

The royal library of Balar was nothing compared to what Elrond imagined the great collections of Gondolin or Nargothrond must have been, but it still took his breath away. Tall shelves lined with leather-bound volumes stretched toward vaulted ceilings, while tables scattered throughout held maps and scrolls illuminated by soft lamplight.

Gil-galad stood at one such table, his golden circlet catching the light as he bent over an ancient text. He looked up as Elrond entered, a smile warming his austere features.

"Ah, Elrond. Thank you for coming." He gestured to the chair across from him. "I thought you might appreciate seeing some of our oldest histories."

Elrond approached cautiously. In the three days since their arrival, the High King had been courteous but distant, occupied with the business of war. This invitation felt significant, though Elrond couldn't say why.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said, taking the offered seat.

"Ereinion," the king corrected gently. "When we are not in formal settings."

"Ereinion," Elrond repeated, the name feeling strange on his tongue. Gil-galad—Star of Radiance—was the name whispered in reverence throughout the remaining free lands of Beleriand. Ereinion—Scion of Kings—spoke to something more personal, a name rather than a title.

"I understand you've spent most of your time here in the archives," Gil-galad said, studying him with keen gray eyes.

Elrond nodded, wondering if he had overstepped. "I hope that's permitted."

"More than permitted—encouraged." Gil-galad smiled fully now, the expression transforming his face from that of a stern king to something younger, almost brotherly. "Knowledge must be preserved, especially now when so much stands to be lost."

"That's what Mae—" Elrond caught himself, unsure if mentioning Maedhros would sour the mood. "That's what I believe as well."

But Gil-galad only nodded, as if hearing the unspoken name without rancor. "You were going to say that's what Maedhros taught you."

"Yes." Elrond looked down at his hands. "He salvaged books from every stronghold that fell. Even as we moved from camp to camp, the library crates were always the first packed and the last unpacked."

"That sounds like him," Gil-galad said softly.

Elrond studied Gil-galad's face, searching for clues to the mystery he sensed. The High King was younger than Maedhros by centuries, yet there was something in his manner, in the particular set of his jaw and the watchful intensity of his gaze, that reminded Elrond of his foster father.

"You knew him well," Elrond said carefully. "Before the war."

A shadow passed over Gil-galad's face. "I knew him, yes. He was my father's closest ally, once upon a time."

"Fingon," Elrond supplied, demonstrating his knowledge of the lineages. "The Valiant."

"Yes." Gil-galad's voice grew distant, as if speaking from memory. "They met in Valinor, before the darkness came. Their friendship was legendary—Maedhros was the one who rescued my father from Thangorodrim, did you know?"

"He told us the story once," Elrond admitted. "Though he spoke little of himself. He said—" Elrond hesitated, then pressed on. "He said your father was the best of them, the most honorable of the Noldor princes. That his death was the greatest tragedy of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad."

Gil-galad's eyes widened slightly, a flash of something vulnerable crossing his face. "He said that to you?"

"On the anniversary of the battle, two years ago. He thought we were asleep, but I heard him speaking to Maglor. He said he should have died in Fingon's place."

A heavy silence fell between them. Elrond worried he had said too much, revealed something private that should have remained unspoken. But Gil-galad did not seem angry, only deeply thoughtful.

"Maedhros has carried many burdens," the king said finally. "Not all of them of his own making."

"You don't hate him," Elrond realized aloud. "Despite Sirion, despite everything—you don't hate him."

Gil-galad met his gaze steadily. "Hate is a luxury kings cannot afford, Elrond. The truth is rarely simple, and Maedhros..." He sighed. "Maedhros is perhaps the least simple truth in all of Arda."

"Elros thinks we should go back to him," Elrond confessed, not sure why he was sharing this but unable to stop. "He's planning ways to escape Balar."

To his surprise, Gil-galad laughed—a warm, genuine sound. "He is very much like my father then. Fingon was ever rushing headlong into danger to aid those he loved." His expression sobered. "But you must not go. Maedhros sent you here knowing what likely awaits him. To return would dishonor his sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?" Elrond felt a cold dread rise in his chest. "Do you think he means to die?"

Gil-galad hesitated, clearly weighing how much to share with someone so young. "I think he means to see the oath through to its end, whatever that may be. The Silmarils are nearly within reach now, with Morgoth cornered by the Host of Valinor."

"And if he recovers them? If he fulfills the oath?"

"Then perhaps he will find peace at last." But Gil-galad's tone suggested he thought this unlikely. "But that is not for you to worry about now. You are here, you are safe, and that is what Maedhros wanted."

Elrond swallowed the lump in his throat. "He has been a father to us," he whispered. "Despite everything."

“Then honor him by living the life he has sacrificed to give you."

There was something in those words, something deeper than mere advice. Elrond felt a strange kinship with this king—not just their shared losses or their connection to Maedhros, but something more fundamental, as if they were pieces of the same puzzle.

"Now," Gil-galad said, visibly composing himself, "I wanted to show you something." He gestured to the text before him. "This is one of the oldest accounts we have of the awakening of the Eldar, brought from Valinor by my grandfather. I thought you might appreciate it."

Elrond recognized the olive branch—a return to safer territory—and took it gratefully. He leaned forward to examine the ancient script, his scholar's heart quickening despite his emotional turmoil.

They spent the next few hours poring over histories, Gil-galad guiding him through texts that few had ever seen. The king was a patient teacher, answering Elrond's questions without condescension, challenging him with new perspectives on familiar tales.

By the time the lamps needed refreshing, Elrond had almost forgotten his earlier suspicions. But as he rose to leave, Gil-galad placed a hand on his shoulder—a gesture so familiar that Elrond froze.

It was exactly how Maedhros would steady him after a difficult training session, the firm pressure of fingers on the exact same spot.

"You are welcome here, Elrond," Gil-galad said earnestly. "Not just as a ward or a political necessity, but for yourself. I hope you will come to see this as home."

Elrond looked up into the king's face—the face of a stranger who somehow felt like kin. "Thank you... Ereinion."

The name felt right this time, comfortable. Like addressing an older brother rather than a king.

As he left the library, Elrond's mind raced with new questions. There was a connection here, something beyond the historical ties between their houses. But whatever it was, it remained just beyond his grasp, like a word forgotten on the tip of the tongue.

"So?" Elros demanded when Elrond returned to their chambers. "What did the mighty king want?"

Elrond sank onto his bed, mind still whirling. "He showed me ancient texts. We talked about history."

"For hours?" Elros looked skeptical. "Nothing else?"

"We talked about Maedhros," Elrond admitted. "And his father, Fingon."

Elros's expression sharpened with interest. "And?"

"I like him," Elrond said finally. "Gil-galad. He reminds me of... someone."

"Maedhros?" Elros guessed.

"Yes. But also, oddly enough, of us." Elrond looked at his twin, searching for understanding. "Don't you feel it? Like a kinship."

Elros rolled his eyes. "We're all related if you go back far enough. The entire Noldorin royal family is one big, dysfunctional tangle."

"It's more than that," Elrond insisted. "When he put his hand on my shoulder, it was exactly the way Maedhros does it. The same gesture, the same pressure."

"Coincidence," Elros dismissed. "Or maybe Maedhros learned it from Fingon, and Gil-galad learned it from his father."

That was possible, Elrond conceded silently. A mannerism passed down from father to son, from friend to friend. Yet the sensation lingered—that he was missing something important.

"He wants us to consider this home," Elrond said, changing the subject. "He said we're welcome here for ourselves, not just as political pawns."

"Of course he wants us to stay," Elros said pragmatically. "We're the sons of the Evening Star. Our bloodline is valuable."

"I don't think that's all it is." Elrond lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "He was... kind. In a personal way."

Elros was quiet for a moment. "Do you think we could be happy here? If Maedhros doesn't come back?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Neither wanted to speak aloud the fear that had haunted them since their arrival—that Maedhros had sent them away knowing he would never see them again.

"I think," Elrond said carefully, "that we could find a place here. Not a replacement for what we've lost, but something new."

"A new family?" Elros sounded doubtful.

"Perhaps. In time." Elrond thought of Gil-galad's face, alight with passion as he explained the ancient texts, the way his formal reserve had softened into something almost brotherly. "I feel like I've known him before, somehow."

"Now you're being fanciful," Elros scoffed, but there was no real heat in it. He moved to the window, looking out at the distant glow of war. "Do you think they're still alive out there? Maedhros and Maglor?"

"Yes," Elrond said firmly, though he had no way of knowing. "And I think they would want us to make the best of where we are now."

Elros sighed, the sound of someone far older than his years. "Then I suppose we should try. For them."

Elrond nodded, his heart both heavy and hopeful. Whatever secrets lay in the complicated web of kinship that surrounded them, whatever fate awaited Maedhros in the fires of war, he and Elros were here now.

Chapter Text

The white shores of Aman stretched before Ereinion Gil-galad as he walked, his feet leaving temporary impressions in the sand that the gentle waves soon erased. The air here was different—clearer somehow than that of Middle-earth, where he had reigned as High King until his fall at the hands of Sauron. His rebirth from the Halls of Mandos had left him with questions that had lingered from his first life, questions about his origins that now demanded answers.

In the distance, he could see a solitary figure sitting upon the rocks, dark hair braided with gold ribbons catching the light of Laurelin. His father—Fingon the Valiant.

Gil-galad paused, watching the former High King of the Noldor for a moment. Throughout his life, whenever he had asked about his mother, he had been told only that she was a noble elleth who had died during childbirth. No name, no family connections, nothing but vague descriptions that never quite formed a complete picture.

"Father," Gil-galad called, approaching the rocks.

Fingon turned, his face brightening. "Ereinion," he said, using Gil-galad's birth name with the warmth and affection that had been absent during much of their time in Middle-earth, separated as they had been by death and duty.

Gil-galad climbed up to sit beside him. They shared a comfortable silence, looking out at the sea that separated them from the lands where they had once ruled and fought and died.

"There is something I must ask you," Gil-galad finally said. "Something I have carried with me since my first life."

Fingon's expression grew more serious, a shadow passing over his features. "Ask, then."

"My mother," Gil-galad said. "Now that we are here, in Aman, beyond the strife of Middle-earth... I wish to know her. To meet her, if she has been reembodied as well."

Fingon's fingers tensed where they gripped the rock. His gaze dropped to the waves below, watching them crash against the shore with rhythmic determination.

"Ereinion..."

"All my life, I was told so little. That she was noble, that she was beautiful, that she died in childbirth." Gil-galad turned to look directly at his father. "But there are no records of your marriage, no mentions of her name in any of the histories. When I became High King, I searched the royal archives. Nothing. As if she never existed."

Fingon drew a deep breath, the kind that precedes a confession long delayed. "The truth is not what you have been told."

"Then tell me the truth," Gil-galad insisted. "I have waited lifetimes for it."

Fingon was silent for so long that Gil-galad thought he might refuse again. But then he spoke, his voice low but steady. "There was no elleth."

"What do you mean?"

"Your mother... was not your mother at all." Fingon's eyes met his, filled with an ancient grief and something like fear—the fear of rejection. "Your other father was Maedhros."

The words hung in the air between them. Gil-galad felt as though the rock beneath him had suddenly shifted.

"Maedhros? Son of Fëanor?" The implications crashed through him like waves. "But how...?"

"It is rare among our kind, but not impossible. A gift—or perhaps a curse—bestowed by Eru upon certain ellyn in times of great need. Maedhros possessed this ability, though we did not know it until it manifested." Fingon's voice grew stronger as he continued. "We were bound in secret, before the Ice. When we reunited in Middle-earth, after his rescue from Thangorodrim... our love remained, despite everything."

"The Oath. The Kinslayings." Gil-galad's mind raced. "The feud between your houses."

Fingon nodded, his expression pained. "That, and the customs of our people. Two ellyn together was... not widely accepted in those days. We kept our bond hidden, though I believe my father suspected toward the end."

"And I was born after the Dagor Bragollach? In the aftermath of battle?"

Fingon shook his head, correcting gently. "After the battle. Maedhros came to me at Barad Eithel during the winter. He had felt the changes in his body for months before he understood what was happening—something unprecedented, something no lore had prepared him for. He came to me in secret, and remained until you were born."

A memory stirred in Gil-galad—not his own, but perhaps passed down through blood or fëa. "There was a story, among the older elves in Lindon... that Maedhros had been gravely wounded and spent months recovering in my grandfather's fortress."

"A convenient tale we spread to explain his absence from Himring," Fingon confirmed. "Few questioned it. The wounds of Thangorodrim never fully healed—it was believable that he might need extended care."

Gil-galad tried to imagine it—Maedhros Fëanorion, tallest of the Noldor, fierce in battle despite his missing hand, carrying a child through a winter in hiding.

"He named you Artanaro," Fingon said softly. "Noble Flame. I named you Ereinion, Scion of Kings. Both are your father-names, though only one could be known."

"And afterward? When I was born?"

Fingon's eyes grew distant, remembering. "We created the story of a noble elleth who died in childbirth. Maedhros returned to Himring as soon as he was able. You were presented to the court as my son and heir."

"Did he ever... did he wish to acknowledge me?"

"Every day," Fingon said, his voice breaking. "It was the hardest sacrifice he ever made—harder than surrendering the crown, harder than enduring Thangorodrim. But he feared the Oath's shadow falling upon you. He feared what others might do if they knew you carried Fëanor's blood."

Gil-galad stood abruptly, needing space, air. "You wished to protect me from my own father?"

"Not from him," Fingon said quickly, rising as well. "From his fate. We feared the Oath would claim him—as indeed it did in the end. And we feared what others would do if they knew. There were those who hated the sons of Fëanor enough to harm even an innocent child."

"And when you fell at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad? What then?"

Fingon's eyes clouded with regret. "Maedhros knew that his brothers and him would become increasingly desperate as the Oath tightened its grip. He would not risk you becoming collateral damage in their quest."

Gil-galad paced along the edge of the rocks, processing decades of lies unraveling at once. "And all those times he visited during my childhood in the Havens? The Lord of Himring who brought me my first training sword? Who taught me to ride?”

"Those were the only times he could be a father to you, in the only way permitted him," Fingon said. "Every moment was precious to him."

"Has he been reembodied?"

Fingon's face clouded. "He remains in the Halls. His crimes... the Kinslayings... Mandos does not easily release those who have taken the lives of their own kind thrice over."

Gil-galad felt a strange mix of emotions—anger at the deception, grief for the father he had never truly known, confusion about his own identity.

"The star emblems I wore as High King," he said suddenly. "I always thought they represented the house of Fingolfin."

"They did," Fingon said. "But they were also Maedhros's tribute to you. 'Gil-galad,' he called you once—Star of Radiance. It was meant as a private endearment, but Círdan heard it and the name spread. Maedhros was both proud and dismayed that his moment of weakness gave you the name history would remember."

"I should have been told," Gil-galad said, his voice tight with emotion. "If not during the chaos of the First Age, then surely after my rebirth here in Aman."

"I should have told you long ago," Fingon admitted. "But first there was distance, then death separated us, and then... then I was afraid. Afraid you would hate me for the lie. Afraid you would hate him for his deeds without knowing the goodness that was also in him."

"Do others know? Here in Aman?"

"Few. My father knows—Fingolfin guessed much of it in life, and in rebirth I confirmed his suspicions. Finrod knows. Galadriel suspects, I think. The Valar, of course—little is hidden from them."

Gil-galad stood at the edge of the rock, looking toward the horizon where the light of Valinor met the endless sky. "I need time," he said. "Time to understand this."

Fingon nodded, pain clear in his eyes. "Of course."

Chapter Text

The gardens of Lórien in Valinor were unlike any Elrond had known in Middle-earth. Here, the light had a quality that seemed to emanate from within the leaves themselves, and the air carried fragrances that brought to mind half-forgotten memories of a world unspoiled by shadow. After millennia of struggle against darkness, the peace should have filled him with contentment.

Yet as Elrond walked the winding paths beneath silver-barked trees, he found himself restless. He had been in Valinor for only a fortnight, reunited with Celebrían, welcomed by the Valar themselves. But something—or someone—was missing from these joyful reunions.

"He has been spending his days by the eastern cliffs," Estë had told him that morning, her eyes gentle with understanding. "Since his father came to him three days ago."

Elrond had not needed to ask who "he" was. There was only one person whose absence he had felt so keenly since his arrival.

The path climbed steadily upward, winding through forests of silver and gold until it emerged atop the cliffs that faced eastward toward the mists that shrouded the straight path from Middle-earth. A lone figure stood at the edge, tall and straight-backed, golden hair moving in the gentle breeze.

Ereinion Gil-galad. Once High King of the Noldor. Once Elrond's lord, mentor, and friend.

Once dead, consumed by the fires of Sauron's hand.
Elrond paused, suddenly uncertain. In life, he had known exactly where he stood with Gil-galad—as advisor, as herald, as trusted companion through the long years of the Second Age. But here, in the realm of the reembodied, where time flowed differently and old wounds could be either healed or reopened... here, he was not sure.

As if sensing his presence, Gil-galad turned. His face was as Elrond remembered it—noble, strong-featured, with eyes that held both wisdom and a certain sardonic humor. But there was something new there as well, a vulnerability that Elrond had rarely glimpsed in life.

"Elrond," Gil-galad said, his voice carrying on the clear air. "I wondered when you would find me."

Elrond closed the distance between them, stopping an arm's length away. Up close, he could see the tension in Gil-galad's jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that always appeared when he was troubled.

"I arrived late for our reunion," Elrond said with a small smile. "Only by a few thousand years."

The attempt at levity earned him a fleeting smile from Gil-galad. "You always did have a talent for understatement. I should have been there to welcome you. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive." Elrond gestured to the stone bench set back from the cliff edge. "May we sit?"

They settled side by side, close enough for comfort but with space between them—a physical echo of the careful distance that had always characterized their relationship, even at its closest.

"You seem troubled," Elrond said, deciding on directness. "Not as one might expect to find the reembodied in Valinor."

Gil-galad gave a short, humorless laugh. "Always perceptive. Did you learn that from me, or did I learn it from you?"

"Perhaps we learned it together, over the centuries." Elrond kept his tone gentle. "Something has changed since I last saw you."

"Many things have changed. Death has a way of clarifying certain matters."

"And rebirth?"

Gil-galad looked down at his hands—strong hands that had once wielded Aeglos against the forces of darkness. "Rebirth, it seems, has a way of complicating them again."

Elrond waited, sensing that Gil-galad was gathering his thoughts, weighing what to say or how to say it. He had seen this same careful consideration countless times in council meetings and private conversations throughout the Second Age.

"My father came to me three days ago," Gil-galad said finally. "He told me... a truth. About my parentage."

Elrond nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"All my life I believed I knew who I was." Gil-galad's voice was controlled, but Elrond could hear the undercurrent of emotion. "The son of Fingon, grandson of Fingolfin. High King of the Noldor by right of birth and deed."

"And now?"

Gil-galad looked up at the perfect sky of Valinor. "Now I learn that Fingon was indeed my father. But my other parent was not some noble elleth who died in childbirth, as the official histories claim."

Elrond's breath caught as understanding dawned. "Maedhros," he whispered.

Gil-galad's eyes snapped to his, wide with surprise. "You knew?"

"No," Elrond shook his head quickly. "Not knew. But... I sensed something, long ago. A connection I could not explain."

"When?"

"In Balar, during the War of Wrath," Elrond said softly. "When Elros and I were sent to you. There was something in the way you spoke, in the way you moved sometimes. Gestures that reminded me of him."

Gil-galad closed his eyes briefly. "All those years, and I never knew. My own father—"

"He could not claim you," Elrond said, understanding with sudden clarity. "The Oath—"

"Would have bound me as well, had the truth been known," Gil-galad finished. "Fingon and Maedhros made the decision together, to protect me. To give me a chance at a life uncursed by Fëanor's madness."

Elrond felt a deep ache in his chest, thinking of the price of that decision. Maedhros, forced to deny his own child. Watching from a distance as his son grew up, unable to claim him even as he taught him the stars and songs of Valinor.

"He loved you," Elrond said with certainty. "Even if he could not say it, even if you did not know."

"Did he?" Gil-galad's voice was rough with emotion. "Or was I simply another sacrifice to the greater good, another piece moved across the board in the endless game against Morgoth?"

"No." Elrond gripped Gil-galad's forearm, the gesture automatic—the same way Maedhros had steadied him countless times in his youth. "Never that. I knew him, Ereinion. I saw how he was with those he loved."

Gil-galad stared at Elrond's hand on his arm, recognition flickering in his eyes. "He raised you as I should have been raised."

"He raised us in war and exile," Elrond corrected gently. "He raised us knowing he was doomed by his own oath. Is that what you would have wished for yourself?"

"I would have wished for the truth," Gil-galad said, but the edge had gone from his voice.

Elrond released his arm and sat back. "Truth can be a burden as well as a gift. Maedhros understood that better than most."

They fell silent again, watching as clouds moved across the perfect Valinorean sky. Elrond thought of the long years in Middle-earth after Gil-galad's fall, of the grief that had never fully healed. And then he thought of Maedhros—his scarred face, his gentle hands showing a young half-elven child how to hold a quill properly, his voice low and steady as he recited histories that now seemed deeply ironic.

"Did you ever wonder," Elrond asked carefully, "why Maedhros sent us to you specifically? Of all the safe havens in Beleriand, why the court of Gil-galad?"

"The sons he claimed but could not keep, sent to the son he bore but could not claim." Gil-galad gave a soft, wondering laugh. "The symmetry would have appealed to him. He always did appreciate poetry."

"He did." Elrond smiled at the memory. "He would recite Quenya verse while teaching us swordplay. Maglor said it was to ensure we remained civilized even as we learned to kill."

"That sounds like him." Gil-galad's voice had softened, the anger giving way to something more complex. "My father—Fingon—told me that Maedhros never stopped watching over me, from a distance. That he would travel to the edges of the Havens just to glimpse me from afar."

Elrond nodded, unsurprised. "He kept a distance from us too, at first. Maglor was the one who sang to us, who dried our tears. Maedhros watched from across the camp, as if afraid to come too close."

"Afraid of what?"

"That his doom would touch us. That the Oath would somehow claim us through him." Elrond met Gil-galad's gaze steadily. "The same fear that kept him from claiming you, I imagine."

"A fear that proved well-founded," Gil-galad said bitterly. "The sons of Fëanor met their doom, as the Oath demanded."

"Yes. But you lived. You became High King. You led our people through the darkness of the Second Age."

Elrond leaned forward, intent. "Can you not see that his sacrifice bore fruit? That in choosing to deny himself a father's joy, he gave you the freedom to become who you were meant to be?"

Gil-galad was silent for a long moment, his eyes distant. "When I was young," he said finally, "there was a period when Maedhros would visit the Havens regularly. Official visits between allies, nothing more. But he would always make time to see me, to teach me things no one else could—the old stories, the language of Valinor as it was spoken before the exile."
Elrond nodded encouragingly.

"I remember once," Gil-galad continued, his voice softening with memory, "I was perhaps twelve summers old. I had been struggling with a particular form in swordplay. No matter how much the weapons master worked with me, I could not master the movement. And then Maedhros arrived. He watched me for one afternoon and then said, 'You're thinking of it wrong. The sword is not in your hand; it is an extension of your arm.' He showed me, using his left hand—his only hand. By the end of the day, I had mastered the form."

"He was a gifted teacher," Elrond agreed. "Patient in a way few would expect from a Fëanorian."

"I idolized him," Gil-galad admitted. "The great warrior, the noble eldest son of Fëanor, who had endured torment and returned stronger. I never understood why my father would look so sad when he spoke of him. Now I know."

"And now?" Elrond asked gently. "How do you feel about him now?"

Gil-galad did not answer immediately. He rose from the bench and walked to the cliff edge, his gaze fixed on the eastern mists. "I don't know," he said finally. "I have spent three days asking myself that question. Is he my father? My betrayer? Both?"

"Perhaps," Elrond suggested, "he is simply Maedhros. Flawed, complicated, tragic Maedhros, who loved too deeply and paid too high a price for his father's sins."

Gil-galad turned back to face him, something vulnerable in his expression. "How did you forgive him? After Sirion, after everything the oath drove him to do?"

It was a question Elrond had asked himself many times over the centuries. "I saw him," he said simply. "Not the legend or the monster or the tragic hero, but the person. I saw his struggles, his pain, his desperate attempts to hold onto some shred of honor in a situation that made honor impossible."

"And that was enough?"

"No," Elrond admitted. "Not at first. But I came to understand that forgiveness isn't about erasing the past. It's about choosing not to let the past dictate the future."

Gil-galad considered this, his brow furrowed in thought. Then, slowly, he smiled—a small, sad smile that reminded Elrond so strongly of Maedhros that his heart ached. “We are a strange family, aren't we? Bound by secrets and sacrifice as much as by blood."

"The strangest," Elrond agreed with a small smile. "And I would not have it any other way."

Gil-galad returned the smile, something easing in his face. "Nor would I, though it has taken me three days of brooding on this cliff to admit it."

"Only three days? For an elf, that's practically impulsive."

The joke startled a laugh from Gil-galad—a genuine laugh that seemed to lighten the very air around them. "You always did know how to counsel me, old friend."

"Not counsel," Elrond corrected gently. "Just the perspective of someone who loved him too, in a different way."

Gil-galad nodded, understanding in his eyes. Then he looked past Elrond, toward the path that led back to the gardens. "Would you walk with me? I find I have been alone with my thoughts quite long enough."

"I would be honored," Elrond said, and meant it.
Together, they walked down from the cliffs, two sons of complicated fathers, bound by blood that was not their own and love that transcended the boundaries of traditional kinship.

Chapter Text

The gardens of Lórien in Aman were in full bloom that day, a riot of colors that seemed almost obscene to Ereinion Gil-galad as he walked alongside Elrond beneath the silver-leaved trees. They had come to visit Fingon—his father, though few knew this truth—as they did each turning of the season.

"He seems lighter of late," Elrond observed, his voice carrying the wisdom of one who had seen too much sorrow. "Your father... he smiles more readily now."

Gil-galad nodded, feeling the weight of secrets carried across Ages. "The passing of time has been kind to him here. Though I know he still watches the gates of mandos, waiting."

Always waiting.

They rounded a corner of the path to find Fingon seated on a marble bench, his dark hair adorned with thin ribbons of gold that caught the light as he turned to greet them. His smile was radiant—the High King who had once led their people so valiantly, now at peace despite the hollow places in his heart.

"Ereinion! Elrond!" Fingon rose, arms outstretched in welcome. "I was just thinking of—"

The words died on his lips. Gil-galad saw it happen—saw the moment his father's face transformed from joy to confusion, then to a horror so profound it seemed to age him before their eyes.

Fingon gasped, a sound like breaking ice, and clutched at his chest.

"Father!" Gil-galad rushed forward, catching Fingon as his knees buckled. "What is it? What's happening?"

Elrond was there in an instant, his healer's hands steady even as his face drained of all color.

"It's... burning," Fingon whispered, eyes wide and unfocused. "Like a star going out. Like a—" His voice rose to a keening wail that cut through the tranquility of the gardens. "Maitimo!"

Gil-galad held his father as he convulsed, feeling utterly helpless. He looked to Elrond, but the former lord of Imladris had frozen in place, his eyes suddenly distant and glazed with a pain so ancient and profound that Gil-galad felt a chill run through him.

"Elrond?" Gil-galad called, alarmed.

Elrond's hands began to tremble violently. "No," he whispered, dropping suddenly to his knees beside them. "No, no, no..." His voice cracked, and he pressed his fists against his temples. "Not him too. Not the last of them."

"The oath," Elrond continued, his words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "Something has happened with the oath. Maglor—he must be—" He couldn't finish, his face contorting with a grief so raw that Gil-galad could scarcely bear to witness it.

Fingon's body went rigid in Gil-galad's arms, his back arched in agony. "They're taking him," he gasped. "They're pulling him into darkness. I can feel it—our bond—"

Gil-galad pressed his forehead to his father's, trying to share his strength. "Who is taking him? Father, tell me!"

"The Void," Fingon choked out. "Námo has passed judgment. Maglor must have... must have..." His words dissolved into a groan of anguish.

Elrond collapsed forward onto his hands, his shoulders heaving with violent sobs. Gil-galad felt cold dread wash over him. "And if the Silmarils were never recovered..."

"Then the oath was unfulfilled," Elrond finished, his voice breaking. "Fëanor and his sons—condemned."

A terrible sound tore from Elrond's throat then, a cry that held the grief of a child losing his father all over again. He bent double, pressing his forehead to the ground as his body shook with the force of his weeping.

Fingon writhed, clutching at Gil-galad's tunic. Tears streamed down his face as he cried out again, the name "Maitimo" breaking into fragments between his lips.

To Gil-galad's horror, his father's form suddenly shimmered, becoming translucent as sunlight passed straight through his shoulder.

"Father!" Gil-galad cried out in panic. "You're fading!"

Fingon didn't seem to hear him. His skin grew cold beneath Gil-galad's touch, his limbs limp. For several terrifying heartbeats, Gil-galad could see the grass through his father's chest, could feel him becoming insubstantial in his arms.

"Elrond! Help me! He's fading!" Gil-galad shouted in desperation.

Elrond looked up, his face streaked with tears, and crawled to them with shaking hands. "The bond—their fëar were joined—when one is thrown into the void—" He couldn't complete the thought, his voice breaking repeatedly.

Gil-galad frantically tried to hold his father's increasingly intangible form. "What do I do? Tell me what to do!"

"Talk to him," Elrond managed, placing his trembling hands on Fingon's transparent chest. "Remind him he's still tethered here. To you. To this world."

Gil-galad held his father tighter, his own tears falling freely now. "Father, stay with me. Please. I've only just found you. I can't lose you too." This was the one who had carried him, who had given him life—and Maedhros, his other father—being thrown beyond the Circles of the World. A father he had never truly known, whose hands had never cradled him, whose voice had never sung him lullabies.

"Remember Fingon," Elrond said urgently through his tears, grasping Fingon's barely-there hand. "Remember you still have a son who needs you here."

Fingon's eyes cleared for just a moment, focusing on Gil-galad's face. "You have his height," he whispered brokenly. "His determination. He loved you, Ereinion, though he could never claim you. Even when he sent you away, it was always for love."

A sound escaped Gil-galad then, somewhere between a sob and a cry of rage. "Why must this happen? Haven't they suffered enough? Haven't we all?"

But the Valar gave no answer. In the gardens of Lórien, three Elves huddled together as one of their own was erased from existence itself.

Fingon suddenly went still, his form solidifying slightly though remaining cold as ice. "It's done," he said, his voice hollow. "He's gone beyond the circles of this world. I can barely feel him." His face crumpled. "Five Ages I've waited, hoping... believing that one day..."

Gil-galad gathered his father in his arms as Fingon broke completely, his proud shoulders heaving with sobs. In that moment, Gil-galad was not the High King who had faced Sauron, but simply a son witnessing his father's heart being shattered beyond repair.

Gil-galad looked between them—his father, still partially transparent and deathly cold, and Elrond, broken by a grief he had carried silently for Ages, never truly expecting this final, terrible severance.

"What do I do?" Gil-galad asked again, feeling lost. "How do I help either of you?"

Elrond's eyes met his, bottomless with sorrow. "We endure," he said simply. "As we always have."

Fingon stirred in Gil-galad's embrace, his voice raw as he spoke. "He made me promise never to tell. 'Let him be untainted by our doom,' he said. Even then, he knew. He always knew where the path would lead."

Gil-galad felt his father's form flicker again—becoming momentarily insubstantial before resolidifying. "Father, stay with me," he pleaded. "Don't follow him. Please."

"I don't know if I can stop it," Fingon whispered. "Part of me is already gone with him."

Elrond crawled closer, taking Fingon's hand and pressing it to his tear-stained face. "Think of Ereinion," he urged. "Your son needs you. I need you. We are what remains. We are what you must remember."

Fingon heaitated, before nodding. He would not choose to fade, not while Elrond still walked with Maedhros’s memory in his blood, nor while Erenion still bore the weight of two fathers’ blood. The sorrow was vast, and the ache of Maedhros’s absence a wound no light could truly soothe.

But someone had to remember. Someone had to keep alive the truth of the one who bore the Oath and broke under it, who gave everything and asked nothing in return. “If I do not remember him,” Fingon whispered to the wind, “who will?”

Gil-galad closed his eyes, imagining the tall, flame-haired figure who had occasionally visited him in his youth—the distant ally who had offered cryptic advice and steady gazes. The one who had sent him treasured books with no notes attached. The one who had entrusted him with Elrond and Elros after the Havens fell.

His father.

"We will remember," Gil-galad promised, his voice gaining strength as he felt Fingon's form grow slightly warmer, slightly more substantial in his arms. "We will remember them all as they were, not as their oath made them. And someday, when the world is remade..."

He could not finish the thought. Some wounds were too deep, some losses too final.

Outside the sheltering gardens, a wind from the east stirred the trees. The last echo of a song seemed to fade into silence—the song of one who had wandered too long, carrying too heavy a burden. In its place remained three broken hearts, beating stubbornly against the tide of an unimaginable loss, clinging to each other as the only anchors in a world suddenly emptier than before.

The days that followed were a slow descent into shadow.

Gil-galad moved his father to his own home near the shores of Eldamar, a place where the sound of waves might offer some comfort. Elrond came with them, his healer's hands and broken heart a constant presence. They spoke little of what had happened in the gardens, but the truth hung between them like a specter.

Fingon was fading.

It did not happen all at once, as Gil-galad had feared in those first terrible moments. Instead, it came in waves, in moments when Fingon would grow distant, his eyes focusing on something none could see, his form becoming translucent around the edges.

"It's like living with half a soul," Fingon confessed one evening as they sat watching the stars. His voice was thin, a whisper of what it had once been. "As if someone has taken a knife and carved away part of me, leaving jagged edges that will never heal."

Gil-galad reached for his father's hand, relieved to find it solid, though colder than it should be.

Across from them, Elrond sat in silence, his eyes reflecting starlight and unshed tears. Since that day in the gardens, he had rarely left their side, as if afraid that turning away might mean losing Fingon too.

Gil-galad felt the weight of their sorrow, their love, their shared grief. A family forged in secrets and pain, yet bound by something stronger than blood or oath.

"I am trying," Fingon said, his voice breaking. "To stay. To endure. For both of you."

Neither Gil-galad nor Elrond spoke. What could they say in the face of such a struggle?

There were good days, when Fingon seemed almost himself again. He would laugh, telling stories of the early days in Beleriand, before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had taken everything. On these days, his form remained solid, and color returned to his face.
But there were also the dark days, when the pain became too much to bear.

Gil-galad would find his father curled upon himself, gasping for breath as if drowning, his body flickering like a candle in the wind. On these days, Fingon spoke only in broken Quenya, calling out for Maitimo, begging him to answer across the void that had swallowed him.
"I can barely feel him," he would sob. "Where once there was warmth, there is only emptiness."

During these episodes, Elrond would sit with him for hours, his hands glowing faintly with healing energy that seemed to do little good. How does one heal a wound that exists beyond the physical realm?

"It's like trying to weave together mist," Elrond confessed to Gil-galad late one night, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "His fëa wants to follow what was taken from him."

Gil-galad leaned against the wall, feeling the weight of helplessness. "Will he fade entirely?"

Elrond's eyes were ancient with sorrow. "I don't know. The bond they shared... it was unique. Perhaps unprecedented."

"Then what do we do?"

"We remind him of what remains," Elrond said simply. "We become the anchor his fëa needs."

Months passed, and the pattern held. Fingon would seem to improve, growing stronger, more present—only to be struck down again by waves of agony that left him transparent and cold.

Gil-galad learned to recognize the signs: the distant look in his father's eyes, the slight tremor in his hands, the way he would suddenly stop mid-sentence as if listening to a voice only he could hear.

During one particularly bad episode, as Fingon lay shivering in his bed, fading in and out of visibility, Gil-galad finally asked the question that had been haunting him.

"Do you wish to follow him?"

Fingon's eyes cleared momentarily, focusing on his son's face with surprising clarity. "Sometimes," he admitted. "When the pain is too great. When the jagged edges of what remains cut too deeply." He reached out, his hand passing through Gil-galad's arm before solidifying enough to grasp it. "But then I look at you, at the son we created together, and I know I must stay."

Gil-galad covered his father's hand with his own, as if he could somehow hold him in the world through sheer force of will. "I never knew him. Not truly."

"No," Fingon agreed sadly. "That was our choice—his choice, mostly. To keep you safe from our doom."

"And now?" Gil-galad asked.

"Now I endure," Fingon said simply. "For you. For Elrond, who has lost too many fathers already. For the memory of what Maitimo was before the darkness took him."

From the doorway, Elrond watched them silently, his face a mask of careful composure that did little to hide the grief beneath. Gil-galad gestured for him to join them, and Elrond came, settling on the edge of the bed.

"I had a dream last night," Elrond said quietly. "Of Maglor singing on the shore. Of Maedhros standing tall, as he was before Thangorodrim." He took Fingon's other hand, his healer's touch gentle. "They were at peace."

Fingon's form flickered again, but this time it seemed less like fading and more like a candle catching new flame. "Perhaps it was not a dream," he whispered. "Perhaps it was a glimpse of what will be, when Arda is remade."

"Until then," Gil-galad said firmly, "we have each other."

Fingon nodded, his eyes closing as exhaustion claimed him once more. But his form remained solid, his breathing steady. For now, at least, he was anchored to the world by the love of his son and the one who might have been his son in another life.

Outside the window, the waves continued their eternal rhythm against the shore. Gil-galad found himself counting them, each crash a reminder that time moved forward, even after unimaginable loss. Each wave a testament to endurance.

As Fingon slept, Elrond looked across at Gil-galad, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. This was their burden now—to be the strength that kept Fingon tethered to the world, to be the reason he fought against the pull of the void that had taken half his soul.

"We will not lose him too," Gil-galad vowed softly.
Elrond nodded, his ancient eyes holding a determination that belied his weariness. "No," he agreed. "We will not."

In his sleep, Fingon's lips moved, forming a name that would never again be answered. But his hand remained firmly clasped in Gil-galad's, warm and solid and present. And for now, that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The summons arrived with the dawn, carried by one of Fingolfin's messengers. Gil-galad read the precisely written note with growing concern.

"My grandfather wishes to see us," he told Elrond, who was preparing a tincture of herbs that seemed to ease Fingon's pain on the worst days. "Today. All of us."

Elrond looked up sharply. "Does he know?"

"Someone must have told him of Father's condition." Gil-galad folded the note carefully. "The gardens of Lórien are not as private as we might wish."

Fingon himself was having one of his better mornings. He sat by the window, gazing at the sea, his form solid though still too pale. When Gil-galad shared the news, he merely nodded, unsurprised.

"I have felt my many eyes upon me these past weeks," he said quietly. "It was only a matter of time."

The walk to Fingolfin's grand home in Tirion was slow, accommodating Fingon's weakened state. Gil-galad walked close beside his father, ready to offer support should he begin to fade during their journey. Elrond followed just behind, watchful and alert for any signs of distress.

Fingolfin was waiting for them in his study, tall and regal as ever—the High King who had challenged Morgoth himself. Yet today, his stern countenance was softened by evident worry as his eyes fell upon his son.

"Findekáno," he said, using Fingon's Quenya name with gentle formality. His gaze took in his son's diminished state, the translucent edges of his form that came and went like tide pools. "You should have come to me sooner."

Fingon straightened, summoning a shadow of his former strength. "There was nothing you could do, Father."

"That was not for you alone to decide." Fingolfin gestured for them to sit. His eyes lingered on Elrond with something between gratitude and curiosity before settling on Gil-galad with unmistakable pride. "I have been to the Máhanaxar."

The circle of judgment. Gil-galad felt a chill run through him. "Why?"

"To petition the Valar," Fingolfin replied, his voice carefully controlled. "I have asked them to intervene. To sever the bond that is killing my son."

A terrible silence fell over the room. Gil-galad looked to his father, whose face had gone absolutely still.

"You did what?" Fingon finally whispered.

"The bond you share with Maitimo—with Nelyafinwë—is draining your fëa," Fingolfin said, using Maedhros' formal name and father-name with deliberate distance.

"It is drawing you toward the same fate that claimed him. I will not stand by and watch you fade."

"It is not your decision to make," Fingon replied, his voice gaining strength born of sudden anger.

"The Valar have agreed to consider my petition," Fingolfin continued, as if Fingon had not spoken. "They believe it may be possible to dissolve what remains of your marriage bond, to heal the torn edges of your fëa."

Gil-galad watched in alarm as his father's form flickered violently, rage and distress causing the already fragile connection to his body to waver.

"Father," he said, reaching toward Fingon. "Please, calm yourself."

But Fingon was beyond calming. He stood, swaying slightly but refusing to show weakness. "You have overstepped," he told Fingolfin. "This bond is mine. Mine and his. No one has the right to sever it. Not even the Valar."

Fingolfin rose as well, his patience clearly fraying. "He is gone, Findekáno! Thrown beyond the Circles of the World! And he is taking you with him!"

"And what would you have me be if they cut away what remains of him within me?" Fingon demanded. "A half-creature? A shadow of myself? This bond is all I have left!"

"You have your son!" Fingolfin gestured to Gil-galad. "You have responsibilities to the living, not to the destroyed!"

"Grandfather," Gil-galad interjected, rising to place himself between them. "Perhaps this is not the time—"

"When would be a better time?" Fingolfin countered. "When he has faded so completely that not even Estë can heal him? I have watched my brother fall to madness and doom. I will not watch my son follow the same path."

Elrond, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "Lord Fingolfin," he said quietly, "the bond they shared was unlike any other. It was not merely a marriage of custom or convenience, but a joining of fëar so complete that to sever it now..."

"Would be to commit a kind of violence against what remains of both of them," Gil-galad finished.

Fingolfin's expression softened slightly as he looked at his grandson. "You defend this bond that causes your father such agony?"

"I defend his right to choose," Gil-galad answered firmly.

Fingon's form had steadied somewhat, though a faint transparency still haunted his edges. "I will not dissolve what remains of our bond," he said with quiet certainty. "I would rather fade with the pain of what was than exist without it."

"You would choose him still?" Fingolfin asked, incredulous. "After everything the oath cost us? After what it cost you?"

"Every time," Fingon replied without hesitation. "In every life. In every Age of this world."

Gil-galad watched his grandfather's face as understanding finally dawned—not merely of the situation, but of the depth of the bond that had united Fingon and Maedhros. Something in Fingolfin's stern countenance cracked, revealing a father's fear beneath the High King's authority.

"I cannot lose you, son," Fingolfin admitted, his voice suddenly raw. "Not to this doom. Not to him."

"You won't lose me," Fingon said more gently. "The pain is... considerable. But I am learning to bear it." He glanced at Gil-galad and Elrond. "I have reasons to remain."

Fingolfin looked between them, his gaze lingering on Elrond. "You tend to my son as if he were your own father," he observed.

Elrond met his eyes steadily. "In many ways, he is."

The tension in the room gradually eased, though the fundamental conflict remained unresolved. As they prepared to leave, Fingolfin approached Gil-galad privately.

"You understand what this means," he said in a low voice. "If he refuses to let the bond be severed, he will always carry this wound. There will be days when he fades so completely you will think you've lost him."

"I know," Gil-galad answered. "But I would rather have him as he is—with all his grief and love intact—than have some diminished version that has forgotten how to feel so deeply."

Fingolfin placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "You have your father's stubborn heart. Both of your fathers'."

"Is that a compliment or a criticism?" Gil-galad asked with the ghost of a smile.

"Perhaps both," Fingolfin admitted. "Watch over him. And when you cannot... send for me."

As they departed, Gil-galad walked between his father and Elrond, feeling the weight of all that remained unsaid. Fingon would continue to fade in moments of greatest pain—his fëa reaching instinctively for what had been torn away. But he would also continue to fight, to cling to what remained: his son, his family, his stubborn refusal to let go of a love that had defied doom itself.

Some bonds, Gil-galad realized, were never meant to be severed—not by death, not by doom, not even by the void itself. They were written into the very music that had shaped the world, impossible to silence without unmaking everything they were.

As they walked back toward the sea, Fingon's form flickered once, twice—then steadied, growing more solid with each step toward home.

Chapter Text

The summons to the Máhanaxar came without warning.

"They have decided," Fingolfin told them, his expression grave yet somehow relieved. He stood in the doorway of their seaside home, regal and unyielding as the mountains of old Beleriand. "The Valar will hear no more arguments. The ceremony will take place tomorrow at dawn."

Gil-galad felt his blood turn to ice. "They cannot do this without his consent."

"They can, and they will." Fingolfin's eyes softened as he looked at his son, who sat motionless by the window, staring out at the endless waves. "It is for his own good, Ereinion. The Valar have determined that the bond was formed under... unnatural circumstances."

"What does that mean?" Elrond asked, his healer's hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Fingolfin's voice dropped lower. "They believe Nelyafinwë used his power to manipulate Findekáno's fëa. That the bond was marred from its inception—a cunning ensnarement rather than a true joining."

"That's absurd," Gil-galad hissed, mindful not to let his father hear these cruel assertions. "You cannot possibly believe—"

"What I believe matters little," Fingolfin interrupted. "The judgment has been made. Manwë himself will oversee the severance."

Across the room, Fingon's form flickered briefly before solidifying. Though he gave no indication of having heard their whispered conversation, Gil-galad could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the arms of his chair—white-knuckled and desperate.

"I will not go," Fingon said quietly, still facing the sea.

"You have no choice," Fingolfin replied, his voice heavy with the weight of inevitability. "Either you walk to the Máhanaxar of your own volition, or they will bring you there."

Fingon turned then, and Gil-galad was struck by the fierce light in his father's eyes—a spark of the valiant prince who had once challenged the darkness of Angband itself.

"Let them try," Fingon said.

They came with the setting sun—Eönwë, herald of Manwë, accompanied by a contingent of Maiar whose forms shimmered with barely contained power. Gil-galad and Elrond stood protectively before Fingon, though both knew they could offer little resistance against the will of the Valar.

"Findekáno son of Fingolfin," Eönwë intoned, his voice resonating with authority beyond the physical realm. "You are summoned to the Ring of Doom by the decree of the Elder King."

Fingon stepped forward, moving past Gil-galad with a gentle touch to his arm. "I decline," he said simply.

Eönwë's expression remained impassive. "This is not a request."

"Nor is it their right to unmake what was freely given," Fingon countered. "This bond is mine. Mine and his. No power in Arda has the authority to sever it against my will."

"The Valar have determined that your will was compromised," Eönwë replied. "The son of Fëanor bent your fëa to his desires through arts learned in the darkness. You were ensnared, not joined."

Gil-galad had never seen such cold fury on his father's face.

"You speak of things you cannot comprehend," Fingon said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I knew him before the darkness fell. I loved him before the oath was sworn. I crossed the Helcaraxë to find him again, and I cut him down from Thangorodrim when your masters did nothing."

"Father," Gil-galad murmured in warning, seeing Eönwë's countenance darken.

But Fingon was beyond caution now. "Tell your masters this: I refuse their judgment. I refuse their 'mercy.' And if they wish to sever this bond, they will have to take me by force."

Eönwë's eyes flashed with something like regret. "So be it."

The Maiar moved with otherworldly grace and terrible swiftness. Gil-galad lunged forward, but found himself held in place by invisible bonds. Beside him, Elrond struggled against similar restraints, his face contorted with helpless rage.

Fingon did not go easily. Though weakened by his condition, the spirit of the valiant prince of the Noldor burned bright as he fought against powers far beyond mortal strength. His fëa blazed visibly around him, a defiant corona of golden light laced with scarlet threads—the visible manifestation of the bond they sought to destroy.

"Stop this!" Gil-galad shouted as his father was finally subdued, held between two Maiar whose forms flickered with the effort of containing him. "You claim to heal, but you commit violence!"

Eönwë paused, turning to regard Gil-galad with ancient eyes. "This violence now prevents a greater suffering. When the bond is severed, he will heal. He will forget the pain that consumes him."

"He will forget himself," Elrond said, his voice breaking. "You do not understand what you destroy."

But their protests fell on deaf ears. As twilight deepened into night, Fingon was taken from them—still fighting, still defiant, his eyes meeting Gil-galad's with a fierce love and a silent promise: Remember what was true.

They were permitted to attend the ceremony, though forced to remain at the outer edge of the Máhanaxar where the Powers of Arda sat in solemn judgment. Gil-galad stood rigid with suppressed fury, Elrond a silent shadow at his side. Fingolfin was there as well, his face a mask of conflicted emotions—relief warring with doubt as he watched his son brought before the throne of Manwë.

Fingon no longer struggled against his captors. He stood straight and proud, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the circle, as if looking toward shores he could no longer reach.

"Findekáno son of Fingolfin," Manwë's voice filled the air like thunder without sound. "We act not in punishment, but in healing. The bond that drains your fëa was formed through deception and the marred arts of Fëanor's lineage."

"You lie," Fingon said simply, his voice carrying clearly across the ring.

A murmur rippled through the assembled Valar at this blasphemy. Varda's stars seemed to pulse with sudden brightness above them.

"The son of Fëanor twisted your spirit to his will," Manwë continued, as if Fingon had not spoken. "He bound you with cunning and power beyond your ability to resist. We free you now from his final ensnarement."

"I have never been enslaved," Fingon replied. "I have only ever made choices of my own free will—to love, to bind myself, to remain faithful even now."

Gil-galad felt a surge of fierce pride at his father's unwavering defiance. Even here, before the assembled might of the Valar, Fingon stood unbowed.

Nienna wept silently from her place in the circle, her tears falling like gentle rain. Estë stepped forward, her hands outstretched in what might have been intended as comfort.

"The severance will bring pain," she acknowledged. "But after will come healing, and peace."

"I do not want your peace," Fingon told her. "I want my bond intact."

But the time for argument had passed. At a gesture from Manwë, Fingon was brought to the center of the ring and forced to his knees. Estë and Irmo approached him from either side, their hands beginning to glow with power that transcended the physical realm.

Gil-galad lurched forward instinctively, only to be restrained by Elrond's grip on his arm. "We cannot stop this," Elrond whispered, his voice thick with grief. "But we can be here for him after."

As the Valar began their work, Fingon's physical form grew transparent, revealing the golden light of his fëa within. Threaded through it were strands of deep crimson—the visible manifestation of the bond they sought to destroy. These threads pulsed and writhed as if alive, resisting the gentle but inexorable pressure of the Valar's power.

Fingon's scream when the first thread snapped would haunt Gil-galad for the rest of his immortal life—a sound of such profound anguish that even some of the Valar flinched. The crimson threads flailed wildly, seeking to reattach, to preserve what was being unmade.

"Stop!" Gil-galad begged, his own voice lost beneath the terrible sounds of his father's agony. "Can't you see you're destroying him?"

One by one, the threads were severed—each breaking with a sound like the world itself being torn asunder. Fingon no longer screamed. He hung limp between his captors, his fëa visibly diminishing with each strand that was cut away.

When the final thread was severed, a shockwave of power rippled outward from the center of the ring. Gil-galad felt it pass through him like a knife of ice, carrying with it fragments of emotions not his own—grief so profound it defied comprehension, rage that burned like the fires of Angband, and beneath it all, a love so enduring that not even the collective will of the Valar could fully extinguish it.

Then silence fell.

Fingon knelt alone in the center of the ring, abandoned now by the Maiar who had held him. His physical form had solidified completely—no longer flickering or fading. By all outward appearances, he was healed.

But when he raised his head, Gil-galad knew immediately that something essential had been lost. His father's eyes, once bright with defiant spirit, now stared blankly ahead—empty windows to a diminished fëa.

"It is done," Manwë declared. "The bond is severed. You are free, Findekáno son of Fingolfin."

Fingon did not respond. He remained kneeling, unnaturally still, as if he had forgotten how to move of his own volition.

Gil-galad broke free of Elrond's restraining hand and ran to his father, dropping to his knees before him. "Father," he said urgently, taking Fingon's cold hands in his own. "Father, look at me."

Slowly, with terrible emptiness, Fingon's eyes shifted to his son's face. There was recognition there, but distant, as if viewing Gil-galad through thick layers of ice.

"Ereinion," he said, his voice a hollow echo of itself. "I cannot feel him anymore."

Gil-galad gathered his father into his arms, glaring over his shoulder at the assembled Valar. "Are you satisfied?" he demanded. "Is this your healing?"

Estë approached cautiously, her expression troubled. "The emptiness will pass," she assured him. "His fëa will heal, will grow to fill the spaces left behind."

"You have not healed him," Elrond said as he joined them, his voice quiet but cutting. "You have amputated part of his soul and call it medicine."

Fingolfin came forward then, kneeling beside his son and grandson. His face was ashen, his earlier certainty replaced by dawning horror at what had been done in the name of healing.

"Findekáno," he whispered, reaching out to touch his son's face.

Fingon turned to him with that same terrible emptiness. "Father," he acknowledged without emotion. "You have what you wanted. I will not fade now."

"Not like this," Fingolfin said, his voice breaking. "I never wanted this."

But it was too late for regrets. What had been done could not be undone—not by the Valar, not by Fingolfin's remorse, not by Gil-galad's rage or Elrond's wisdom.

The bond was severed. And with it, something vital in Fingon had been extinguished.

They brought him home to the house by the sea. Fingon walked under his own power but moved like a sleepwalker, responding when spoken to but initiating nothing. He ate when food was placed before him, slept when led to his bed, but the spark that had defined him—the valiant spirit that had dared to challenge darkness itself—was nowhere to be found.

"It is early days yet," Elrond said as they watched Fingon sitting motionless by the window, staring out at the sea with unseeing eyes. "His fëa needs time to adjust."

But days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, and still Fingon remained a shadow of himself. He no longer flickered or faded—his physical form was more stable than it had been since Maglor's death. Yet Gil-galad would have preferred the uncertain translucence of before to this hollow stability.

Fingolfin visited often, his proud bearing diminished by guilt that grew with each passing day. "I was wrong," he confessed to Gil-galad during one such visit, as they watched Fingon methodically turning the pages of a book he showed no interest in reading. "I thought to save him from pain. Instead, I have condemned him to emptiness."

Gil-galad could not find it in himself to offer forgiveness—not yet, perhaps not ever. "He fought so hard to keep what remained," he said instead. "It was his choice to make, not yours. Not theirs."

The only time any emotion crossed Fingon's face now was when Elrond would sing certain songs—old lays from Beleriand, ballads that spoke of valor and sacrifice. During these rare moments, tears would slide silently down Fingon's cheeks, though he seemed unaware of them.

"He remembers," Elrond said softly after one such evening. "Not with his mind, perhaps, but with what remains of his fëa. Some bonds go too deep to be truly severed, even by the Valar themselves."

Gil-galad clung to this small hope—that somewhere beneath the emptiness, some fragment of his father's true self remained, preserved like a seed in winter, waiting for the right moment to reawaken.

"We will not abandon him," he vowed to Elrond one night as they sat vigil beside Fingon's bed, watching him sleep the dreamless sleep of the deeply wounded. "No matter how long it takes, we will find a way to reach him."

Elrond's ancient eyes held a mixture of sorrow and determination. "Some hurts cannot be fully mended this side of the remaking of the world," he said gently. "But we will be with him, even in the emptiness."

Outside the window, the stars of Varda shone down upon the sleeping form of Fingon the Valiant—a prince who had dared to love beyond doom and oath, who had fought to preserve that love even against the will of the Powers themselves. Though his fëa now lay diminished, the memory of his defiance remained, a testament to a bond that not even the Valar, in all their might, could truly understand or unmake.

In the quiet darkness, Gil-galad kept watch, holding his father's cold hand and repeating the silent promise he had made in the Ring of Doom: I remember what was true. I will always remember.

Time flowed like water around the unchanging stone that Fingon had become. Seasons passed in Aman, trees bloomed and shed their leaves, stars wheeled overhead in their eternal dance, and still Fingon remained locked in his hollow existence.

Gil-galad found himself marking time not by the cycles of nature, but by the small rituals they had developed around his father's care. Morning tea that Fingon would drink without tasting. Afternoon walks along the shore where he would follow silently, his eyes fixed on nothing. Evening songs that sometimes—less and less frequently now—would draw a single tear down his still-beautiful face.

"They said he would improve," Gil-galad told Elrond on the second anniversary of the severance. They sat on the terrace while Fingon slept inside, his dreams as empty as his waking hours. "They promised the emptiness would pass."

Elrond's face, ancient with the wisdom of one who had seen too many sorrows, grew solemn. "I believe they truly thought it would," he replied. "But they did not understand what they were sundering."

It was true. The Valar, for all their power and wisdom, had fundamentally misunderstood the nature of the bond they had destroyed. They had seen it as an unnatural attachment, a cunning ensnarement by the son of Fëanor. They had not recognized it for what it truly was: a complete joining of fëar that transcended the physical realm, a union so profound that to sever it was to tear away half of Fingon's very essence.

"Will he ever return to us?" Gil-galad asked, though he already knew the answer.

Elrond did not offer false comfort. "Not as he was," he said gently. "What the Valar took cannot be restored this side of the remaking of the world."

The initial hope that Fingolfin's visits might spark something in his son had long since faded. The former High King now came rarely, unable to bear the sight of what his intervention had wrought. When he did visit, he would sit silently beside Fingon, sometimes weeping openly—tears that his son neither acknowledged nor seemed to notice.

Even Turgon had come once, stern and proud as ever, but leaving with his shoulders bent by the weight of what he had witnessed. "This is not healing," he had said to Gil-galad before departing. "This is a death that never ends."

Chapter Text

The decision came to Gil-galad not as a sudden revelation but as a slow, inevitable certainty—like the tide gradually reshaping the shoreline until what once seemed impossible becomes the only path forward.

Three years had passed since the severance. Three years of watching his father exist as a hollow echo of himself, going through the motions of living without truly being alive. Three years of searching for some spark of the valiant prince who had once defied darkness itself, only to find emptiness staring back at him.

"I was selfish," Gil-galad whispered to the pre-dawn darkness as he stood at the window of his father's room, watching Fingon's unnaturally still form in slumber. "I begged you to stay when you were fading. I could not bear to lose you then."

The weight of that realization had been growing heavier with each passing day—the understanding that in his desperate attempt to keep his father with him, he had condemned Fingon to something worse than fading. At least in fading, there had been purpose, a desperate reaching toward something lost. This hollow existence was neither life nor release, but a terrible limbo that stretched endlessly before them.

Gil-galad moved silently to his father's bedside table and opened the small wooden box that held Fingon's few personal effects—items that had once held meaning for him but which he now regarded with the same blank indifference as everything else. Among them was a small silver flask, a gift from Turgon long ago in Nevrast. Gil-galad removed it carefully, then reached into his pocket for the packet of herbs he had gathered in the gardens of Lórien.

The decision to seek out Estë's healing plants had been made weeks ago, though the courage to use them had come more slowly. He had walked the dream-gardens under the watchful eyes of the Maiar, selecting leaves and berries with careful precision, answering their curious questions with half-truths about easing his father's troubled sleep.

Now, with steady hands that belied the turmoil in his heart, Gil-galad steeped the herbs in water warmed by a small flame, then strained the resulting liquid into the silver flask. The liquid caught the first pale light of dawn, gleaming with an almost ethereal luminescence—a gentle poison that promised not pain, but peace.

"I cannot be selfish again," he whispered, closing the flask and returning to his father's bedside. "I cannot keep you bound in this half-life for my own comfort."

Outside, the sea murmured against the shore—an endless conversation between water and land. Gil-galad listened to its rhythm, gathering strength from its constancy. He had told no one of his plan—not Elrond, who would have counseled patience; not Fingolfin, who carried enough guilt already. This burden was his alone to bear, as was the love that drove him to this final mercy.

When Fingon woke, it was with the same vacant ritual that had marked every morning since the severance—eyes opening not to awareness but to empty continuation. Gil-galad helped him sit up, arranging pillows behind his back with a tenderness that threatened to break him.

"I've brought you something special to drink this morning," Gil-galad said, his voice steady despite the storm raging in his heart. "An infusion from the gardens of Lórien."

Fingon accepted the flask without interest, his movements mechanical as he raised it to his lips. Gil-galad watched each swallow with piercing attention, memorizing every detail of his father's face—the proud line of his jaw, the arch of his eyebrows, features that had once been animated by such valiant spirit.

When the flask was empty, Gil-galad took it gently from his father's unresisting fingers and set it aside. Then, with deliberate care, he sat on the edge of the bed and gathered Fingon into his arms.

"I love you," he said, his voice barely audible even in the quiet room. "I have always loved you, and I always will."

For a moment, there was no response—only the same emptiness that had greeted all his declarations of love these past three years. But then, so subtly that Gil-galad might have imagined it, Fingon's body seemed to relax into the embrace, the rigid posture softening ever so slightly.

"Rest now," Gil-galad murmured, stroking his father's dark hair where once gold ribbons had been woven. "You've carried so much for so long. It's time to let go."

The poison worked gently, as he had intended. There was no struggle, no distress—only a gradual slowing of breath, a deepening stillness. Gil-galad held his father close, rocking slightly as though comforting a child, his own tears falling silently into Fingon's hair.

"Find him," he whispered fiercely as he felt his father's fëa begin to loosen from its physical moorings. "Find him beyond the circles of this world, where the Valar cannot reach, where no oath binds and no doom separates."

He searched desperately for some sign of recognition, some flicker of the father he had known in the increasingly distant eyes. For one heartbreaking moment, he thought he saw something—a brief clarity, perhaps even the ghost of understanding—but it passed so quickly he could not be certain it had been there at all.

In the end, Fingon died as he had lived these past three years—quietly, without resistance, his fëa slipping from his hröa as easily as a sigh. There was no violence in his passing, no struggle against the inevitable. There was only peace, and then absence.

Gil-galad continued to hold him long after the last breath had been drawn, long after the body had grown cold in his arms. He held him as the morning light strengthened, as birds began their songs outside the window, as the sounds of the household stirring reached his ears.

He held him and wept for what had been lost—not just in this final moment, but in the Ring of Doom, in the fires of Thangorodrim, in all the long Ages of separation and suffering that had defined their lives.

"You will not go to Mandos," Gil-galad said with fierce certainty, finally laying his father's body gently back against the pillows. "Not after what they did. Your fëa will find its way to whatever remains of his, beyond the reach of the Valar and their judgment."

He knew in that moment that he would never see his father again—not in the Halls of Waiting, not in the remaking of the world. Fingon's fëa, what remained of it after the severance, would seek out the one bond that transcended even the will of the Valar. And in doing so, it would pass beyond the circles of the world itself.

Gil-galad smoothed the dark hair one last time, arranged the still hands peacefully on the chest that no longer rose and fell with breath. Then he stood, his own body feeling impossibly heavy, as if he too had lost some essential part of himself in this act of mercy.

"Goodbye, Father," he whispered. "Be free."

Outside the window, a gull cried once—a sharp, piercing sound that seemed to cut through the very fabric of the morning. Gil-galad turned toward it, toward the sea beyond, and for one impossible moment thought he glimpsed two figures walking away along the shore—one dark-haired with gold ribbons catching the light, one tall and copper-haired with a hand of flesh reaching out to intertwine with its companion's.

Then he blinked, and there was only the empty beach, the endless sea, and the weight of loss settling into the marrow of his bones—a loss that would never heal, not in all the endless days of Aman.

Ereinion Gil-galad, son of kings, stood alone in the quiet room, keeper now of nothing but memory and the terrible burden of mercy.