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Arafinwë, High King of the Noldor in Aman, saw many extraordinary things when he landed in Beleriand at the head of the host of Valinor. Many horrors he witnessed by the hand of the Enemy, hordes of Orcs, werewolves, vampires, Balrogs, and even dragons. But he did also witness many things of beauty, and of hope for a better world.
Of course, one of those most extraordinary things was to meet his only daughter again, whole and hale. Artanis had grown in both wisdom and beauty, heart hardened by the many losses, and yet not shadowed by them. She had even married a kinsman of Elwë, a fine ellon called Celeborn, kind and soft-spoken, but fierce in battle beside Artanis. Arafinwë had been very proud.
The Secondborn were also quite extraordinary. In battle they proved themselves to be the bravest, most steadfast of the entire host. Quick to anger and quick to forgive, their behavior fascinated Arafinwë. During one of the breaks, he was surrounded by several of the remaining members of the House of Bëor, who spoke excitedly and with great reverence of his firstborn. Arafinwë had felt his chest swell with pride, Findaráto had touched the lives of so many people, left behind a bright legacy, and above all, cultivated a strong alliance with the Edain, which was proving invaluable in this war. Arafinwë missed his son terribly.
However, one of the most extraordinary and fascinating things, or rather, people, he met was the young High King of the Noldor in Exile, known as Ereinion Gil-Galad. Arafinwë had never been one to be overly concerned with the line of succession, being a third son, until fate had twisted his ideas and his family beyond repair. He could, however, not quite place the boy anywhere within his family tree, and this unsettled him.
The King was a young lad, not yet reaching his second century. He was tall and fair of face, like his claimed kin. His dark hair and gray eyes hinted at him being from Nolofinwë’s line, and he certainly bore more than a passing resemblance to Findekáno. However, Arafinwë was certain his brother’s firstborn had not taken a wife, neither in Aman, nor during his time in Beleriand. He could not possibly belong to Feanáro’s line, as his eldest son had given up claim to the crown. And that only left Arafinwë’s line.
But who could possibly be his father? Only Angaráto and Artanis had married, the former in Aman, the latter in Beleriand, and only his son had had a child of his own. Artaresto had a daughter, but no son.
Then there was the name. Ereinion, “scion of kings”, in the language of the Gray Elves. Surely, if he was a member of the House of Finwë, the name was well earned. But it did nothing to clear the doubt of his actual ancestry.
And the boy (for in Arafinwë’s mind he was surely still a boy), spoke Sindarin with a curious accent, one that Arafinwë could not quite place. It certainly was not similar to Artanis’ own, who had taken residence in Doriath and therefore spoke the tidiest Sindarin. Ereinion spoke with an unknown lilt, an accent that did not place him anywhere within the Girdle. Arafinwë had little indication of where his accent had originated, as he was still unfamiliar with the language.
All these thoughts crossed his mind when he went to find the boy king, to discuss a change in strategy. Ereinion, young as he was, seemed a capable commander, but had grown the habit of disregarding most of Arafinwë’s advice, preferring to listen to his own captains and heralds, Círdan, and the leaders of the Edain. Surely now that the rightful High King of the Noldor had arrived, there would be no need for the boy to risk his life in battle? Perhaps things were different in Beleriand.
The guards outside the King’s tent bid him to wait. Ereinion was holding council with his captains, and did not wish to be interrupted. Arafinwë nodded, deeming it impolite to begin a dispute over seniority.
Unaccustomed to being made to wait, ever since Feanáro’s departure, Arafinwë fidgeted, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. There were more quiet murmurs, and then finally the tent flap rose. Out streamed several Edain commanders, carrying scrolls and maps, faces grim and determined. Again Arafinwë stood in wonder of the strength of the Edain.
“Your Majesty,” High King Ereinion beckoned him from the tent, and Arafinwë stepped inside. The young King sat sprawled on a low chair, beside a table where Elrond, his even younger herald, busied himself collecting a set of maps. “To what do I owe this… pleasure?” Ereinion punctuated his last word with a side smirk, and Arafinwë felt a twinge of familiarity at the gesture.
“There are matters of war I wish to discuss with you,” Arafinwë said, and deliberately ignored the fact that the boy had not stood up upon his arrival. Elrond, the peredhel son of Eärendil, did straighten, but after a moment continued tidying, seemingly uncaring.
“Of course there are. Please, have a seat.” Ereinion gestured towards a chair near him, and Arafinwë sat.
“You must forgive me,” he said, switching to Quenya. “But I am not yet accustomed to the language of these lands, and I would prefer to speak in my own, just to be sure I make myself clear enough.”
“Certainly.” Ereinion responded in perfect Quenya. “What brings you to my tent this evening, sire?”
His accent was undoubtedly Noldorin, with the clear pronunciation of someone who had spent several years being scolded by tutors for every slip. Arafinwë realized with surprise that it also hinted at Tirion, and guessed the boy had been raised by someone in his family.
“Well,” Arafinwë began, and paused, searching for the right words. The boy’s attitude irritated him, but he dared not bring it up, as he was committed to keeping the peace among the Noldor. How could he bring the issue up, without seeming like a petulant child, asking for that to which he had no right? But he did have a right, as the High King of the Noldor. “It has been brought to my attention that you are choosing to command your own armies.” He had noticed this himself, but thought it rude to address the issue openly.
“I beg your pardon, sire?” Ereinion pressed his lips into a thin line. “Would you wish for me to sit back and do nothing instead?” The tone was perfectly polite and pleasant, but the boy’s smile twisted into something short of insolence. Arafinwë frowned.
“I am, after all, the High King of the Noldor,” he said stiffly. “There is no longer need for you to command…”
“I am also the High King of the Noldor. In exile,” Ereinion cut him off with that insolent smile. “And on this side of the Great Sea, sire, we lead. We command our armies, and we fight.”
“There should be no need for someone so young such as yourself to lead an army,” Arafinwë objected, and Ereinion shrugged.
“You see, sire, I may be young,” he said, the lopsided smirk returning to his lips, “but with all due respect, I am certain that my combat experience surpasses yours. Perhaps, on this occasion, you ought to leave the command to me.” Ereinion raised his eyebrows, and Arafinwë sputtered.
“You might claim to be king,” he finally managed to say. “Nevertheless, as your lineage remains unclear, perhaps you ought to renounce, for the time being, until this matter is settled.” The boy’s insolence was grating on his nerves, but Arafinwë regretted his choice of words as soon as he said them. Ereinion stood up, but he did not appear offended.
“I see.” He turned towards his herald, who had been now busying himself with a scroll and a pen, presumably to record the meeting. Arafinwë had a sneaking suspicion that the young peredhel had been listening in on their conversation. “Elrond, would you mind giving us a few minutes to speak in private?” Ereinion said in Sindarin.
Elrond hesitated for a moment, before nodding and standing up to gather his work. “Of course,” he said, and with an armful of scrolls, walked out of the tent, after giving them both a single nod.
“I figured this would be an issue,” Ereinion said again in Quenya, and sat back on the chair, but instead of his careless sprawl, he sat with his back straight. Dark hair framing his fair face, gray eyes glinting in the torchlight, he finally resembled the king he claimed to be. "You are concerned about my lineage, and whether my claim to the crown is legitimate, yes?"
Arafinwë nodded. There was no use now in pretending he did not care about such things. He needed to know where Ereinion’s claim to the kingship stemmed from. If not only for himself, also for Feanáro’s remaining sons and their supporters, who would surely see this as a way to cause division among the Noldor.
"I am merely curious," he said, gesturing with one hand as if it was a minor issue. "As you may know, the kingship among the Noldor has been a… contentious issue." Ereinion gave him that smirk again.
"I am aware," the boy said. "And I would like to put your concerns at rest. My epessë, although it certainly started as a term of endearment, is nevertheless true." Ereinion seemed to be strangely enjoying himself with the turn of the conversation, his smug smirk turning into one of amusement.
"I am glad to hear that I can count you in the House of Finwë, then," Arafinwë said tentatively. Ereinion merely beamed wider.
"You can." He shrugged. "I personally feel a closer kinship to my mother's people, however, the day I accepted the crown, I accepted linking my fate to that of the Noldor also."
Arafinwë frowned. He understood that after his nephew Findekáno’s demise, there had been a few turbulent and confusing years regarding the line of succession. Findekáno’s younger brother had chosen not to leave his kingdom, and of his descendants only Elrond and his twin brother remained now in Beleriand. Both of them had renounced their claim as soon as they had had the option, not that it mattered, since Ereinion had ascended to the throne before the twins had even been born, while he was a boy still.
"Accept the crown?" Arafinwë raised an eyebrow and gazed at the young king. He possessed the bright eyes of the Noldor that had been born on this side of the Great Sea, but something in his gaze was… different. Not quite the same as Eärendil's, but not entirely different either.
"Aye. After the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and King Findekáno's fall." Ereinion relaxed his posture just a smidge, and linked his hands together. "Nobody seemed able to locate his brother and as I was already living in the Falas…" he grimaced. "I will spare you the details, but I will say that Nolofinwë’s line renounced their right to the crown as well. And so it fell to me."
Arafinwë raised his eyebrows. He knew this much, and what he did not, he had guessed and asked around on arrival in Beleriand. Still, that nobody seemed to be able to determine who the boy's father was, that continued to unsettle him. Had the Noldor fallen so low that now they were looking outside the House of Finwë? No, that could not be, the boy had declared himself a member. If both his brothers' lines were excluded, now this only left…
"Are you…" Arafinwë began, then paused. "What is your name? What did your father call you?"
“My father named me Artanáro,” Ereinion said simply. Arafinwë met the young king’s eyes, and he froze.
Of course. Hearing his father name confirmed what Arafinwë had suspected in his heart, and yet the realization hit him like a massive wave, swallowing everything on its path. He then understood the reason why the boy’s features had seemed so painfully familiar. This was not Findekáno’s unlikely child. Ereinion had the dark hair and gray eyes of Nolofinwë’s line, but the similarities ended there. The shape of his face, the profile of his nose and chin, even the playful smirk, they were those of Arafinwë's youngest son. Aikanáro.
"You are Aikanáro’s child,” Arafinwë said in a whisper, and felt a pang of sorrow tug at his chest.
Ereinion nodded, and his playful grin dissolved into a serious expression. “I am indeed."
“But…” Arafinwë struggled with words again, searching Ereinion’s face carefully. His son had Eärwen's sea green eyes, while the boy’s were storm gray, but they had the exact same shape. And Arafinwë was certain that they had the same build too, if the young king's already quite broad shoulders were any indication. "I thought Aikanáro never married."
Ereinion raised his eyebrows at that, and that familiar smirk returned to his face. “He did, or else I would not be here.” He shrugged.
Arafinwë watched his grandson for a moment, in stunned silence. He wondered how he could have possibly missed this when he first met Ereinion. And with an increasing weight on his chest, he wondered also about his son. Aikanáro was the only one who had not yet left the Halls, and his brothers had refused to elaborate on his choice. He wondered if this boy was the reason.
“I am honored to have you as a member of my house, then,” he finally said in a soft voice, and extended his hand towards Ereinion. The boy shook it and mumbled his thanks, and then Aranfinwë noticed his palms were rough, marked by the use of the spear, his preferred weapon. It had struck him as odd the first time he met the boy, that he used a spear, rather than the swords the Noldor generally preferred. Then again, the boy had spent several years under Círdan's tutelage, and the Teleri on this side of the Great Sea showed a preference for spears, same as their kin in Aman.
He was then hit by an old memory, of the peaceful days in Alqualondë, and the pain in his chest deepened. Arafinwë jolted, and his eyes went to Ereinion’s weapon of choice, which had been set against one of the tentpoles. “Is that…” His eyes went wide with recognition.
“It was my father’s, yes.” Ereinion nodded solemnly. “He left it in my mother’s care, for me to use when I came of age.” With a grimace, he added, “or when the war found me.”
Arafinwë said nothing for another moment. Then he stood, and as words failed him, he pulled the young king into his arms. Ereinion stood still for a moment, awkwardly frozen as someone unaccustomed to such overt displays of affection, but immediately relaxed and wrapped his arms around his grandfather. They stood holding on to each other for a few long minutes before Arafinwë felt ready to let go of his newfound grandson.
"I apologise, Artanáro," Arafinwë began as they sat back on their respective seats. "I did not expect to find you, but my heart is ever fonder for having done so. I do wonder why your uncles never mentioned you, however."
Ereinion grimaced at that, and was quiet for another moment. His eyes wandered around the tent, as if he was searching for the words.
"I assume," he began slowly, "that this is due to the fact that they opposed my father's marriage to my mother." Ereinion’s eyes searched his grandfather's carefully.
"Why would they?" Arafinwë said in shock. "Surely they would want Aikanáro to be happy."
"They were at war." Ereinion explained in a tone that hinted he thought the answer was obvious. "My parents could not be openly married for that reason. Only my mother's kin and Uncle Anga knew, and I am sure he often wished he did not."
Arafinwë remained silent for a moment. He had not considered that, safe as he had been beyond the Sea, that his children had to plan their lives around the war, and give up some of the most precious moments of their lives.
"How did Findaráto find out then?" Arafinwë asked after a long silence. He had long forgotten his initial animosity towards the boy, and Ereinion himself appeared to be less on edge, his body turned towards his grandfather.
"My mother sent me away to Nargothrond, to keep me safe," he said, and at the mention of his mother, his shoulders sagged slightly. "She had the gift of foresight, quite rare among her people, and after consulting with my father, they decided I would be safer with my uncle."
"Was it her who chose Gil-Galad?" Arafinwë asked, now eager to know everything about the young king. He had heard the boy’s amilessë as his kingly name, and he had to admit he was curious as the sort of person that had thought of such a name. Ereinion nodded.
“She often said how much brighter her life was, since my father came into it." A sad smile curved Ereinion's features. "So when I was born, she thought it would be a fitting name for me."
"Is your mother still with us? I would love to meet her," Arafinwë mused. He loved his childrens' partners as if they were his own children, and felt a surge of curiosity as to the kind of woman Aikanáro had chosen. "She sounds formidable."
Ereinion remained quiet for a moment. Then his eyes darkened with sorrow.
"My mother was a remarkable woman," he said in a soft voice. "And I miss her dearly. However, I fear where she has gone, you may not be able to reach her, not for a long time."
Arafinwë pondered the boy's words for a moment. What could possibly be so strong as to separate a mother from her child? Even if she had already passed over, she would be in the Halls, and that should not be a tremendous problem. Perhaps that was the reason why Aikanáro had not left yet. But Ereinion had emphasized the time. What could he mean by that? Arafinwë met the young king's eyes once again, and took notice of the strange light in them. Only then did the pieces begin to fall into place in his mind.
"Your mother… who was she?" he said in a whisper.
"Andreth Saelind, of the House of Bëor," Ereinion replied, arms crossed over his chest. Arafinwë watched him in a stunned silence.
"A mortal," he whispered. Ereinion nodded. Of course. The haunting gray eyes and the dark hair were his mother’s. The Bëorians Arafinwë had met were not as numerous as the Hadorians, but they did mostly share Ereinion’s coloration.
Arafinwë sat in silence for a while, watching Ereinion stare at his hands. He could not even begin to understand the kind of grief the boy must be experiencing, the enormous soul-crushing grief his own son must be dealing with. He had not given much thought to the Fate of Men before, not while he had never come face to face with the Atani. He had of course seen them as they aged, had noticed how they changed, how different and varied their appearances were. But in war there was little time to grieve for the departed.
“I would have… I wish I could have met her,” Arafinwë said softly. Ereinion did not raise his gaze from his hands, his shoulders slumped.
“She would have liked that,” Ereinion said, and finally lifted his gaze. Arafinwë tilted his head curiously. “My mother was a loremaster. She would have a thousand questions for you.”
Arafinwë chuckled at that, and wondered how on Arda had his son managed to charm such a woman.
“I would have loved that, very much,” he said, and reached out to take Ereinion’s hand in his. “For what it's worth, I am sure she would be proud of you. I know I am.”
Ereinion gave him a short nod, his eyes still set somewhere beside Arafinwë’s head, but he squeezed his grandfather’s hand in acknowledgement.
“I cannot begin to imagine how hard this must be for you," Arafinwë said after a pause, still holding Ereinion’s hand in his. "Knowing that she is gone, possibly forever, with only memories left…"
Ereinion released his hand then, and shook his head. Clearly he did not find this topic pleasant.
"My mother loved me, and even though she is gone, her love for me lives still in my heart," Ereinion said, his eyes a little red, his voice a little hoarse. "Such is the way of things for the Edain, she knew this, and made sure I understood." He sighed. "Besides, I hold out hope that I will see her again, before Arda is remade. In the meantime, I must carry on the fight."
Arafinwë nodded, and said nothing. He could not even begin to fathom the enormity of the divide that sundered them from the Secondborn. He realized he admired Ereinion’s strength; not merely the fact that he would engage his enemies in battle, but the hope and kindness he showed, in spite of the great losses he had suffered at such a young age.
It saddened him, however, that he would not get to meet Andreth, the extraordinary woman who had raised this boy, until the end of days. Arafinwë knew his grief over this fact was merely a shadow to what Ereinion himself must be feeling, and yet he wished he could have met her.
Ereinion seemed to be thinking in similar terms, for he stood without a word, and went to his improvised desk. From underneath a stack of papers, he produced a book, and walked back to his seat with it. Arafinwë recognised the runes, the cirth were not hard to read, but the language was not one he understood.
"It was my mother's," Ereinion said, flipping through the pages of the book carefully. It was a leather bound tome, and Arafinwë could see illustrations among the text. He assumed the language must be the one the Edain used amongst themselves. "I thought you might like to see this." Ereinion fished a sheet of folded paper, and handed it over to his grandfather.
Arafinwë unfolded the sheet delicately. It was clear to him that whatever this was, it was very dear to Ereinion, so he treated it with the utmost care. And then he saw the drawing.
"A portrait?" Arafinwë said, and felt his throat tighten. Ereinion nodded.
"My Aunt Beril made it, as a wedding present," he said, a sad smile on his face at the memory of his mother's family.
"This is… it's quite…" Arafinwë found himself at a loss for words. The artist, this Beril person, had rendered an almost exact likeness of his son. Aikanáro had always had an infectious smile, and yet Arafinwë had never seen him with such a joyful expression, grinning at his bride.
The woman, Andreth, had kind eyes and an equally bright smile. Her dark hair was braided around her face, small white flowers set on it like pearls in the circlets of the Teleri. There was something about her though, a steel edge under the kind appearance, that made her posture seem almost regal. The artist must have been her sister indeed to be able to capture such a thing in a simple charcoal drawing.
Arafinwë stared at the drawing for several more minutes, committing the image to his memory. He felt a new surge of affection for Ereinion, for having shared with him what was clearly one of his most prized possessions.
"Thank you," he said, and folded the page carefully again before passing it back to the young king. Ereinion tucked it back into the book, and Arafinwë used his distraction to dry his eyes with a sleeve.
"You wanted to discuss the war?" Ereinion sat back after a few minutes, seemingly having regained his composure.
"Ah, yes." Arafinwë now regretted his words more than ever. "If it is not too much to ask, I would like to be present in your councils," he said, looking intently at the boy. "I might not possess as much combat experience, but perhaps there is some other way in which I can contribute."
Ereinion seemed to ponder this for a moment.
"Of course. Your presence will be most welcome, Grandfather," he said, and Arafinwë smiled, his chest now fuller than when he had entered. He got up to leave, and Ereinion did the same.
"Will you come with me after this is done?" Arafinwë asked as they stood beside the tent entrance.
"I will not," Ereinion said immediately. "I swore an oath the day I took the crown. As long as the Noldor remain in Middle Earth, it is my duty to stay and lead them."
"I understand," Arafinwë said then. He placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "If you ever change your mind… I believe Aikanáro will be looking forward to seeing you."
"I know." Ereinion nodded. "Tell him I will come when I fulfill my duty, as he taught me to do. And perhaps…" The young king raised a hand and searched for something under the collar of his shirt. He tugged at a simple cord, and extracted a silver ring dangling from it. "You could give this to him in the meantime."
Arafinwë accepted the ring, and raised it to examine it in the torchlight. It bore the intricate markings he had seen the Bëorians use to adorn their clothes and armor, some sort of plant inspired geometrical patterns. On the inside, his son had carefully engraved his own personal seal.
"My mother's wedding ring," Ereinion explained with a shrug. "He should have it, he made it after all."
"I will make sure this reaches him." Arafinwë tucked the ring and the cord carefully in one of his pockets. He hugged the boy tightly one final time, and left the tent.
Arafinwë made his way back to his own tent. Of all the extraordinary things he had seen, nothing would come close to this: Ereinion Gil-Galad, named Artanáro by his father, High King of the Noldor in exile… and his grandson.