The Love of Small Things, Chapter One
My first work is up for @feanorianfunbingo! This is the first chapter of a followup work to Scion of Kings. See my bingo card and read the story below! You can also read The Love of Small Things on SWG and AO3. Many thanks to @ecthvlion for beta reading.
Nerdanel turned, eyebrows furrowed, leaning in towards Maedhros. Her hammer and chisel were still clutched in her chalky hands, and Maedhros belatedly realized it was probably a good thing he’d said what he’d said when he did, while the chisel was still raised and poised to strike. Half a second later could have resulted in an, ah, interesting shape for the sculpture’s nose.
He steadied himself, and repeated:
“You have a new grandson.”
Nerdanel’s eyes squinted in confusion. Quickly, before a deluge of questions could erupt from his mother’s mouth, he continued, “That is, I’ve adopted another son. Like Elrond and Elros. So, you have a new grandson.”
Maedhros paused there hopefully. Nerdanel’s expression had not changed—in fact, she somehow looked even more befuddled, her mouth having inadvertently opened as she puzzled it out. Ever one for crisis control, Maedhros thought it best to answer as many questions as he could before she asked them. His mother had a way cutting straight to the heart of matters he sometimes wished were left a little more unexplored. “His name is—well, you’ve probably heard of him, actually—his name is Gil-galad—”
“The High King in Middle-Earth?” Nerdanel cut him off.
“Yes,” Maedhros answered, a little put out by being interrupted and having the story ruined, but used to his mother’s quick and inquisitive nature. “It’s a name I gave him, actually. He doesn’t have any parents, and hasn’t since he was small. He wrote to me, once he heard I was…out, to ask if, well, if I was his father—his sire, you understand,” Maedhros clarified. “And of course, I’m not, but he has silver hair, you see, and he never knew his parents. And as a boy, he was given an ëpessë, Ereinion, and so he thought…‘Scion of Kings,’ and all,” Maedhros finished, a little lamely, he thought.
“So he thought you were his father, because where else could he have gotten silver hair from a king of the Noldor?” Nerdanal prompted.
“Yes, exactly,” Maedhros replied, with somewhat more enthusiasm. “And it did seem so unfair for the lad—”
“Why?” Nerdanel interrupted, her eyes keen.
“Because…” Maedhros paused and sighed, looking away; girding up his courage, he continued, “Because he’s the son of…someone who died at Doriath, and I’m the one who found him and sent him to safety. I am, ultimately, responsible for his being orphaned.” Meeting his mother’s eyes at last, he said, “It seems only right I should be responsible for his parentage now.”
Nerdanel gave a small nod of understanding, her eyebrows still furrowed. Maedhros knew his mother well enough to know she guessed, probably rightly, at the boy’s true lineage and thus his own reticence to speak of it, but she respected him enough to let him have out with it in his own time. But then she asked something quite unexpected.
“I’m happy for you, of course, but Maedhros—how do you intend to be a father to a grown man, a world away?”
‘Damn,’ Maedhros thought. ‘Damn it all to the Void.’ How in Arda was he supposed to play father to an adult—not just an adult, but a capable king, a seasoned warrior, a respected leader, by all rights someone who should themselves be a father figure? That thought gave Maedhros pause. Was Gil-galad already a father? He hadn’t heard anything about children, or even a spouse, but then again, he hadn’t been out of Mandos all that long.
He barely even knew this man, and here he was trying to be—
Two thoughts struck Maedhros in such rapid succession they were almost simultaneous:
Elrond will know about him, and
How will I ever tell Elrond?
Sitting down at his too-small childhood desk, Maedhros shuffled some sheaves of parchment in an attempt to organize his thoughts. The more direct, the better—that had always been his philosophy. ‘Easier said than done,’ he thought. Be clear and understanding, but firm—that had been his method with the boys, and they’d turned out alright, hadn’t they?
Dipping his quill in ink, he sent out a silent prayer to—well, to whoever was listening, at this point—that in gaining one son, he would not lose another.
I am pleased to have received your last note in good time. It appears the late spring storms did not delay the ships from the Havens as you had feared they might. Tell Erestor to stop fussing about the crest—
“Lot of good that’ll do you,” Maedhros muttered to himself. “I spent centuries telling Erestor to stop fussing, and look where it got me.”
—and for the love of all that is holy, do not let my brother write another new song for the Gates of Summer. The one he sings now is long enough already. Tell him I said it may be hard to believe, but no one wants to hear his voice for five hours.
I have some news to share with you, which I hope will be happy. Your king, Gil-galad, recently wrote to me inquiring of his heritage, and while I am not his sire, I took it upon myself to be his father, if he will have me. He would be well within his rights to refuse me, of course. But, speaking plainly, he seems to want a family, and for whatever reasons, he seems to want especially to be part of this family. I thought it right to at least offer him that—however difficult the distance and strange the circumstances.
I know this may come as something of a shock to you, but I assure you, this decision was not made lightly on my part, nor was it made for mere political convenience. It was made, like the decision to bring you and Elros into my care, to right a wrong. Of the specifics it is not my place to say any more.
I remember as a small boy feeling quite put out with Maglor’s birth; after enjoying the undivided attention of my parents and grandparents, suddenly I seemed invisible next to this small bundle that could only, so far as I could surmise, cry and eat. But of course my parents cared equally for us both, and so in the rush of all this, I do not wish for you to feel ignored or insufficient. My son, know that I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Words mean little, and I was never one much for embraces, as I am sure you recall, but were I by your side, I would hold you now. I suppose Maglor will have to suffice, although he may then encourage you to speak of your feelings—be forewarned.
I know little of your lord, and any information you feel comfortable passing on, I would welcome. Indeed, if it pleases him, I should very much wish to strike up a correspondence not unlike this one. I did not speak lightly when I said I would be his father if he would have me! If he takes me on, he shall have to endure all the things young men must expect from their fathers: innumerable birthday cards (all signed by Fingon), unsolicited advice on topics ranging from white-smithing to romance, recollections of my own youth and its inevitable superiority to the present state of things, etc. etc.
I hope I have made you laugh at least a little, my son. I suppose poor jokes are one more thing to add to the list of things young men must endure from their fathers. You are my brightest jewel.
PS—Tell Maglor for me. I know he shall be upset not to have gotten his own letter, but the messenger for Tol Eressëa leaves in an hour. And besides, I know there are no secrets in this family for long.
The air hung heavy and thick in the gloaming. Leaves lay still in the trees; curtains, flat against windows and pillars. A storm was waiting to break, Gil-galad thought. He was perched on a chair on his verandah, itself situated several stories up, with a commanding view of the city and surrounding countryside—and any messengers who were due to return that night with letters born secretly across the Sundering Seas to the Gray Havens. Sensing his thoughts, Elrond remarked, “I wish it would rain and get it over with.”
“All this dampness without any of the pleasure of a splash in the warm rain,” laughed Gil-galad in reply. Erestor’s eyes widened in horror. Their robes.
A sly grin blossoming across his face, Elrond turned to Gil. Before he could utter whatever comment he had conjured up to further horrify Erestor, though, Gil-galad gave a shout, springing up from his chair. “I see them!”
“Let’s go meet them at the city gate, shall we?” suggested Elrond.
“Fine,” muttered Erestor, as the three of them began to gather themselves up and make their way inside. “But I’m bringing umbrellas.”
Several hours later, the storm had indeed broken, leaving that damp smell particular to late spring rains lingering in the night air. It smelled like wet grass, Gil-galad had always thought, wet grass and earth. For some reason, in the deepest part of him, he recognized it as the smell of home.
And home he was, he reminded himself. He felt lightheaded, euphoric and nauseous all at once, like he might be swept up on a breeze and carried outside himself. The smell of the rain, the dampness that still hung in the air and on the glistening world around him—he needed it to ground himself to this life.
Suddenly, Gil-galad was startled out of his reverie by the sight of another figure, sitting on the edge of one of the fountains a little ways off behind some trees. It was Elrond, he realized, himself lost in contemplation of a letter like the one Gil carried. Even for the elves, it was a late hour, and the stars being obscured by the still-lingering clouds, Gil-galad was surprised. Coming a little closer, he saw the letter bore Maedhros’s seal.
“Elrond?” he called hesitantly. He had no wish to startle his friend, or awaken anyone sleeping nearby, so he kept his voice low, reaching out with his mind as much as his words. Elrond’s head shot up, his face betraying all in a rare moment of vulnerability. In the instant their eyes met, they both knew.
Tentatively, Gil approached the fountain and sat beside Elrond, each staring into the garden beyond. Neither spoke for some time. Words seemed superfluous, somehow. When the moment felt right to him, Gil shifted a little in his seat, turning to face Elrond. Softly, so as not to break the stillness of the night, he murmured:
“Didn’t I always say you were like the little brother I never had?”
