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Fingon was reborn in the height of summer, a sweltering day even by the standards of Valinor, when the perpetual hum of insects was there always to remind him that this was not the pine forests and plains and peatlands of northern Beleriand. He was offered into the arms of his mother, and his baby brother, and he grieved with them that his father, Turgon, and Aredhel were still parted from them.
He grieved alone for another, who he knew no one else in Valinor missed.
On the advice of his mother, he sought out Idril, no longer a child but grown and wise and a grandmother and great-grandmother herself. She would not shirk from speaking of the last days of Beleriand, would not flinch from telling him the fates of those she loved, and those he loved.
On his way there, to the island of Tol Eressëa, he stopped in Alqualondë, where the beaches were white and free of both blood and the friendship-jewels of the Noldor. He knelt there, for an unspeakable thing, and was not forgiven, but was allowed to pass.
Idril told him that the king of the Noldor after her father died had been a boy called Ereinion Gil-galad, younger than both her and Maeglin, but insisting that he was Fingon's son, and had the title by that measure.
"No," Fingon said, "I had no child in Beleriand, nor would I have breached the customs of our people in this way. I would not have a child outside marriage, nor in a time of war."
"I thought not," Idril said, but admitted she had allowed the lie to stand. Gil-galad had been a leader already, by the time she arrived from Gondolin, despite his young age. The lie had allowed him to keep that power, and had allowed her and later Eärendil to pursue their quests for rescue from Valinor without betraying their people in Beleriand. "Finarfin did the same, though Finrod had told him you remained unmarried and childless as long as he lived."
"I hope he is a son to be proud of, this cuckoo of mine."
"Oh, he was very good," Idril agreed, and it was by this past tense that Fingon learned that his supposed son had died in battle, as he had himself, and with him had ended the line of high kings of the Noldor in the East. Only men, dwarves, and the Sindar, now, used so exalted a title.
Men had not often called themselves kings of great lands when Fingon had known them, but he took pleasure in the knowledge that they had come into themselves in this way, as elves and Aulë’s children had before them. He was glad likewise to meet Tuor, and took much pleasure in his and Idril’s company. They were more grounded in the world he remembered than either Argon or his mother were.
“It is the same with my mother,” Idril told him, sympathetically, and advised him, in strong terms, to make his home on Tol Eressëa among the returned rather than in Tirion.
This proved to be sound advice in that it spared him the politics of Tirion, and spared the remaining innocence of that shining, marble city from the wicked kinslayer Fingon. Its only drawback, it resolved, was that most of the people of Tol Eressëa considered themselves servants of Gil-galad the Elvenking, and were happy to tell Fingon of the glories of his son.
Gil-galad was a great warrior, with a spear that shone in his hand, and a shield adorned with the arms of his supposed grandfather Fingolfin. Gil-galad was a great peacemaker, who had brought together Noldor and Sindar, elves and men and dwarves all. He had stood between the people of Beleriand and the army of Valinor, and when they were proven friends, had commanded it with Ingwion and Finarfin. For all he was a child in comparison, it was said that he was, if not the most able strategist of the three, then surely the most skilled leader, who would ask no more of you than he would do himself.
These people who spoke to Fingon knew little of Gil-galad's origin, which was no surprise given that he had surely obscured it. They were, however, unsurprised that Fingon was asking about it, and apologetic in their ignorance. The general consensus was that Gil-galad had been born only shortly before Fingon's death, and so it was no shock that Fingon would have been curious about the fate of this poor, orphaned child. They all hurried to assure Fingon that his son had been raised well. Some said in Nargothrond, at the hand of Orodreth the king. Others said he had grown in Gondolin, though Fingon knew from Idril that was false. Some said Doriath, which on the whole seemed more likely as a place from which one who was willing to usurp the High King of the Noldor might arise. All agreed that in time, he had come to the care of Círdan, who had chosen to adopt the fatherless boy and treasure him as a son. It surprised Fingon, the relief he felt at the knowledge that this boy who was not his son had been well-loved.
"He was with Círdan when I met him," Idril agreed, when Fingon asked. "They were very close, and some rumours did suggest that Gil-galad might be his natural son, though they had little of the same look. Gil-galad may not have been yours, but he certainly could have played the part!"
Her grandson, who by all accounts had known Gil-galad as well as anyone save Círdan, agreed with that assessment. He lived on Tol Eressëa also, in a house of open courtyards and gentleness, into which all were welcome but few dared venture, fearful of intruding on those great heroes to whom he played host. Fingon, to his surprise, had been personally invited to meet Elrond and his household.
"Forgive me," Elrond said, having stared at him too long for propriety. "Ereinion had so much of your look."
"That is fortunate," Fingon said, for he was sure that Idril's son was perfectly aware of his friend's dubious origins. "I doubt he could have carried it off otherwise."
Elrond shook his head in slight amusement. "It would have been more difficult the other way, perhaps, but I wager he could still have carried it off. He was very compelling, you must understand. He had as much charm as any king of the Noldor ever had, and in any event, the competition was thin on the ground. Galadriel was still in the east then, and Turgon did not rule most of Beleriand even when he was king. Once Orodreth was gone, and Finduilas with him, only Gil-galad remained outside Gondolin's walls with a claim through Indis's line."
Even an invented child, Fingon supposed, would have been considered a better bet than allowing Maedhros to have his throne back. He did not say as much. The grief was too raw, and he knew that of all people, Elrond of Sirion was least likely to hear it sympathetically.
The hobbit Bilbo, however, had no such decorum. He asked directly about Thangorodrim – said they had Eagles as a common connection, and that he was working on a translation of one of Maglor's old poems about the rescue – and was suitably apologetic when Fingon recused himself from the visit.
So passed the years on Ulmo's favourite island. Fingon made himself a largely solitary creature, though he would allow Finrod or Argon or his mother to pry him from it when they wished to. He took up a series of risky pursuits – cliff-jumping, pearl-diving, storm-surfing – and was not drowned. At Idril's house he was a frequent guest. When she sailed away on her long voyages, Elrond extended similar invitations. He never invited Fingon as far as the family quarters, the one private courtyard in that great house, but it was understood that even Idril did not go so far. This was generally believed to be a matter of consideration for Elrond's wife, Galadriel's daughter, who was both hard and fragile in a way Fingon recognized; in support of this belief, her mother was one of the very few allowed anywhere in the house.
It occurred to him, after some decades of this, that perhaps he ought to repay the favour of hosting. Fingon had no cooks, and was not much of one himself, but he could prepare as suitable a breakfast as anyone, and it was to this meal he invited the motley household. These days, that included Elrond and his wife, one of their children – another had sailed recently as well, but he seemed to have been invited on Idril and Tuor's trip – and three Hobbits.
Celebrían contributed a convoluted crown of bread and currants, and they all pronounced the best effort of the day to be the garlicky, butter-laden potatoes belonging to the newest Hobbit, who blushed at the compliments. No one complained about Fingon's eggs, and they had just adjourned to the garden to admire Fingon's latest endeavour – some unusually hazardous, if tasty, blackberry bushes – when the bell at the gate chimed.
Fingon made his excuses and went out, sure it was his surly sole neighbour complaining about the noise of Fingon's only ever party. Instead, he saw the grey-robed servant of Nienna standing before the wrought iron arch – the rest of the property was ringed by a hedge – with a proclamation in her hand.
There had been so little hope. None at all, in truth, for even the one-time kinslayers like Fingon were not often returned. Galadriel's forgiveness was measured in decades, and she had slain no one. They would surely never allow the butcher of Sirion to rise again. Even if none of that had been the case, Maedhros's despair had been so much, on his worst days, and the end must have been worse still. His grandmother had bargained her life away for less.
Yet for all that hopelessness, it was the case that spouses and parents were always called first for rebirths. There was no one else whose freedom would be delivered to Fingon's hands. It could only have been Maedhros. He looked to the clouds to stem the tears that rose in his eyes. He had said, had he not? The sun of hope would rise, despite everything.
"Fingon the Valiant," the spirit addressed him, unrolling the decree. "You are called to witness and provide for the rebirth of Ereinion Gil-galad Artanáro. Do you accept?"
He had never hated the imposter like he hated him in that moment. Did he have no one else? No mother or father upon whom he could depend?
Círdan was not sailed yet. Perhaps he did not. Perhaps the Valar had not understood the lie.
"Who would you go to if I did not?"
The Spirit's wooden mask lacked any muscles and so should have been inscrutable in its emotions, yet she seemed plainly disappointed to Fingon as she consulted the scroll.
"In the absence of all parents, Elrond Peredhel is next on this list."
This was somewhat irregular. As far as Fingon knew, spouses took precedence, and then parents, and then children, and then siblings, grandparents, and other, more distant kin. Elrond was, as far as he knew, none of these things to Gil-galad, except via the imagined claim to Fingon, and by that reasoning, Fingon's mother should have come first. Perhaps that was an acknowledgement that, in absence of any true family, the imposter had only his dear friend.
"He is here," Fingon told the spirit, and turned back down the garden path.
Elrond, as if summoned, met him coming around the house. "No trouble, I hope?" Perhaps he saw the lingering wetness in Fingon's eyes.
Fingon gestured at the maia. Elrond's eyes shone with the same hope Fingon's had a moment before. "Is it-"
"Elrond Peredhel," the servant of Nienna said. She was standing only a foot away, somehow. "You are called to witness and provide for the rebirth of Ereinion Gil-galad, Artanáro. Do you accept?"
"I was the first choice?" He questioned, not unreasonably. "Over his own father?" This was more confusing. Fingon had not thought that his knowledge of the situation extended to full understanding of who the imposter really was.
"Following his father," the servant corrected. "You precede his grandmothers, uncles, and cousin. Do you accept your brother into your arms?"
"Always," Elrond assured her, and it was only after she dissolved to butterflies, leaving the proclamation now bearing his name in his hand, that he looked on Fingon with a scathing disappointment that brought out everything of Turgon in his features.
"I congratulate you on your happiness," Fingon said, hoping to avoid acknowledging whatever this was.
"Do you disown him, then? You will not speak of your marriage, you pretend you are unmarried even to your closest kin, and the innocent child whose only crime is to be born of the match is anathema to you? Every soul on this island counts him a credit to you who know nothing of him, ignores the father who bore him into this world, and yet you will not have him?"
"I disown no one. I tell you he is no son of mine. Do you think so little of me that you imagine I – we – would bring a child into collapsing Beleriand? Into a place where there was no future?"
"I imagine you hopeful enough to think that you might have made a better world." He said it almost as if he was quoting someone.
The words brought to life the night before a battle, the night before death. How foolish they had been, making love and dreaming of the world they would make in the morning. They had spoken idly of declaring the marriage publicly, of never again living apart. Fingon had fantasized of a world where it might be safe for them to have a family, and had been sure that the fantasy was safe because he knew Maedhros did not want children, not in a world where the enemy walked the earth and likely not ever. It took two, after all, to endow the spirit of an elven babe.
But if Maedhros had been thinking of that future too-
There were no words. Elrond's anger seemed to melt away, looking at him. "You never knew."
"I would not have put him through that alone." But he had, of course. One more time Maedhros had been in pain, had been hurt and likely frightened, and Fingon too far away, too parted, to do anything of use.
"He never blamed you for anything," Elrond said, a comprehensive indictment that said little about where Elrond himself laid blame.
“Idril thought – still thinks – it was a trick, that he pretended to be my son to unite the Noldor.”
“Idril knows nothing of your marriage and would not have acknowledged it if she had; of course she had no reason to think you a father."
He looked more closely at Elrond, at Lúthien's heir, with her beauty and Turgon's strength, who in truth reminded him of someone else entirely. Of something else. Elrond, who had named himself brother to Maedhros's son. "You knew.”
For a breath Elrond was far away, touching the mind of his wife in a way that stoked Fingon’s envy. Then he suggested “we should walk,” and they meandered along the cliff until Fingon spotted a path down to a sea cave, which they followed like mountain goats, nimble down the face of the cliff, until they could sit at the entrance of the cave and listen to the water, which at low tide could not reach them, against the stone. Normally, the sound was enough to drown out some of Fingon’s darker thoughts. Not now, however. Not the thought of Maedhros screaming.
Elrond said, “Maglor told us, Elros and I, before they sent us to Gil-galad. If he did not know in your time, then Maedhros must have been unable to keep it from him after. He said he wanted us to be sure that Ereinion was someone we could trust. Elros asked him if he was trying to give us material to blackmail the high king.”
“Was he?” All Gil-galad’s secrecy, not because he wasn’t Fingon’s son, but because he was Maedhros’s.
“Perhaps. To me it was a relief. We were old enough, by the time they sent us away, that I was already the best healer they had. I had seen the stretch marks when stitching a wound just below his ribs. I feared the worst.”
Fingon did not want to know the worst thing this strange child of Beleriand could imagine. “You do not speak of them how I imagined you would.”
“I tried very hard to speak of them with you, but I could never be sure whether you would not speak of Ereinion because you had come to hate Maedhros, or because you loved him too much, and I was willing to chance little on the issue.”
“I would not have spoken of them to you, who would be more justified than any to view them with hate. I know you have cause, but I could not bear it.”
“I have cause,” Elrond agreed, “yet I have more than that, unlike those who hate them most easily. I have known and loved them, whatever they are. Do you understand?”
It was an impossible thing, and Fingon did. “I slayed kin for him. I went to Thangorodrim for him and when he begged me to kill him I knew I would die with him. I know. I wanted a child with him beyond reason, despite everything that made it a horrible idea. I did not know – I died without knowing – that he felt the same. And I would have done all of it again – slayed kin and walked the ice and died – for another chance at the future where I could have them. Do you understand that?”
Elrond inclined his head, and they shared silence a time in the waves, and Fingon thought about how Elrond knew Fingon’s son better than either of his parents had. He thought of ancient Círdan as a sort of father to the boy. Had he been ashamed to be their child? Would he be disappointed in Fingon now?
“Where was he raised? Gil-galad. I heard a hundred tales, but was it in truth Amon Ereb?”
“I am not sure Maedhros kept him for longer than it took him to be weaned. You would have to ask Maglor to be sure. No other living knows, I suspect, precisely when Gil-galad was sent away, but he was, to Nargothrond under the mountain.”
“Orodreth agreed to raise Maedhros’s son?”
“Celebrimbor was still in Nargothrond in those years. He had disowned his father, but he would not have refused to take his baby cousin to a place of safety, no matter the bad blood between them. Once he was there, I understand that Finduilas, grieving herself in those years, took to him with much fondness, and it was she who convinced Orodreth to see that Gil-galad grew with the honours due to a prince. In time they all became a family of sorts, I gather. When Nargothrond fell, some survivors went to Doriath, but Celebrimbor could not, nor would he go to Amon Ereb, so he brought Gil-galad to Círdan, and asked him to take him as a ward. By then, the general understanding was that Gil-galad was yours, given to Orodreth’s care. He looks so like you that it seemed the obvious conclusion. It was easy, I think, for Celebrimbor to slip into the background and become only one loyal vassal among many who served the boy king. It must have been agony for Maedhros, to be so far away, but there surely was comfort in knowing the ruin it spared him. Gil-galad lived centuries of peace after Beleriand fell. He was happy, and ruled well, and-”
“Do not tell me he died well, as so many others have.”
“And he is coming home to us,” Elrond finished, raising the decree. “To the arms of those who cherish him best, to father and brother and uncles and grandmothers, our Gil-galad, the Scion of Kings and the Noble Fire, called the Young Finwë, King of Elves, shall be reborn.”
“You will have the welcoming of him now. It will be your choice whether to invite me.”
“Will you love him as well as he deserves, now that you know he is your own?”
"I swear it."
Elrond, Lúthien's heir and Turgon's too, anointed Fingon as a worthy member of the welcoming party with a kind smile and a strong grip on his as he accepted the vow. He spoke of his older brother – Elros was youngest, he admitted – with a ceaseless fondness, and followed Fingon home to where his wife was equally thrilled by the news her long-ago friend would return to them.
It was only in the evening, long after Elrond's household had left that Fingon, lying in bed gazing up at the canopy, said "uncles" aloud, as if the plural was a vile curse, and peeled himself out of bed to go see where, exactly, Elrond and Celebrían had been hiding his husband's last living brother.