Chapter Text
Finwain returns to High King Fingon eventually, and so joins the Western Host of the Union of Maedhros. He is granted an altogether excellent view of his King and brother being ground into the dirt of Angfaulith by the forces of Morgoth.
From there, he follows the retreat of the host that is able to flee, and hears mention of Gondolin as their destination, because this is Turgon's host now. And so too is Turgon the High King. Perhaps it would be best for Finwain to continue on this road, and shut himself into a hidden city as well, where no Balrog can enter to crush and burn him, too. He most certainly wants to hide himself away as best he can.
He does not do so. Alone, Finwain diverts to the south, and makes for the Falas.
"Ereinion," Círdan says, when the forces of Morgoth fall upon the Havens of the Falas all too soon after, "we will make for Sirion."
Ereinion nods, and hefts his shield in his off-hand, and begins to order a retreat to the docks, where Círdan has wrought ships to ferry people into Ulmo's waters. It would be safer to travel by sea.
He is not one for the sea, himself. Círdan had tried to teach him the craft, whenever Erenion resided in the Falas, to no avail. Were there a ship for every one of the Eldar, Ereinion would still be the last to board. He intends to see them filled to the last, and then escort whoever remains overland.
This plan nearly works, until the last of the wounded is hauled up the gangplank and Ereinion finds himself unable to return to the dock to search for anyone else they may be able to save. He is betrayed by those he had once thought loyal, who haul him bodily belowdecks and nearly have to bind him hand and foot to keep him from fleeing. From continuing to guard the retreat, if it is to be said in a more strategic manner.
Then the ship is cast off from the docks, and there is nothing that can be done about it anymore. So Ereinion sails with Círdan to the Isle of Balar in the Mouth of the river Sirion.
Círdan still rules in the Havens in name, as he had in the Falas. But much of his day-to-day work is left to Ereinion. "There is so much to do," he says, smiling and stroking at his bearded chin, "and I ought to ensure we have wrought enough ships, should we need them once more."
Turgon styles himself High King now, as is his right, though he seems to do little and less with ruling beyond his city than to request more ships of Círdan. Six of them are built, and set sail towards the uttermost West. None of them return.
"My lord," says Voronwë in the court of Círdan, "I beg your pardon that I am a latecomer among my people. I must bid you, once again, on behalf of High King Turgon of the Noldor in Beleriand, that you build another boat."
Ereinion listens from the right hand of Círdan, after hearing the sorry tale of yet another ramshackle ship of the Noldor falling to pieces in the sea trying only to cross from the Mouth of Sirion to the Isle of Balar. He knows the old elf will be building another to replace it before the day is out.
Círdan dismisses himself, and assigns Ereinion to handle the rest of the day's matters in court. As he did six times before. Ereinion does not mind; he would be much opposed to exchanging places. He may be a Noldo himself by kinship, but he possesses little skill in craft and less in shipwrighting, and he cares not at all to do so.
They remain in close contact with Nargothrond, as the two remaining havens of the Eldar that are known enough to do so — at least, until Nargothrond falls. Then there are Noldor and Sindar streaming into an already crowded camp at the mouth of the Sirion.
Ereinion has made the harrowing journey from the isle of Balar to the shore of Beleriand proper in an attempt to gain a semblance of order among the refugees. He directs the walking wounded to one healing tent, those who must be carried to another, and puts every able-bodied Elda he comes across to work. There are ditches to be dug and foundations to be laid if the Havens are to serve their purpose.
He turns to hand an axe towards the next elf he sees — for they will have greater need of lumber, even with no more ships to build for King Turgon's journeymen — and nearly drops it upon his own boot.
It is Celebrimbor before him, unkempt and disheveled, but whole and living.
Celebrimbor opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say a word, a frantic voice calls out for Ereinion by name above the general din that is the Mouth of Sirion. Ereinion shoves the axe at Celebrimbor at the same moment as he turns to answer the plea.
One request grows into a dozen, links building upon a chain, so that by the time Ereinion is able to return, Celebrimbor is long gone from where he had stood. Hopefully he wasn't actually chopping wood; he would be of much better use in a forge. War was growing ever nearer, and they had constant need of arms and armor to guard the walls they slept within.
It is the next day that Ereinion is able to find Celebrimbor. The former has not slept, as there is always so much to do, especially when settling a new people. The latter has not slept for similar reasons. Ereinion thankfully finds Celebrimbor in their makeshift forges and not in the forests.
"You need armor," Celebrimbor says. He holds up the beginnings of a breastplate, cobbled together out of scraps of steel that is nevertheless some of the best material one could hope to find, and sizes it against Ereinion's chest.
"I have armor," Ereinion counters. He is wearing it now: scale mail across his torso, and boiled leather on each limb. "It's served me well enough."
Celebrimbor looks over said armor with a critical eye, then turns back to his work undeterred. "Come back in the evening and we'll have it fitted, 'Ereinion.'"
Ereinion nearly rolls his eyes at Celebrimbor's back, but is far too grown now to perform such a gesture. And return he does, after another day of settling a peoples — who, Ereinion learns, are only a fraction of those who fled Nargothrond; the bulk are said to have headed to Doriath to barter for passage through the Girdle. He is not surprised Celebrimbor came south, instead.
He comes back in the evening and dutifully submits himself to the measuring and fitting of proper armor. Celebrimbor has done something clever with the different patches of scrap by creating a sort of filigree that swirls into the shape of a field of raised stars across its expanse, so the shades and temperaments shift deliberately.
"When I do the shield," he muses, "it ought to look the same."
Ereinion takes the plate and turns it underneath his own eye. A far less skilled eye, to be sure, but one does not need to be a craftsman to be a critic. "Have you inlaid it with silver? Surely we have better uses for silver than this."
Celebrimbor dips his head towards the entrance of the forge. "No one needs silver for jewelry and other vanities. Nor do they need it for coin to trade; everyone is bartering with goods. This is as vain as I am allowed to be, kinsman."
Ereinion racks his mind. "We could trade with… Doriath. They are yet untouched by war, protected by the Girdle as they are."
"Be that as it may," Celebrimbor responds, "if we find ourselves needing coinage, I will be sure to melt it off your back first and foremost."
Doriath is not long protected by the Girdle. It feels as though the moment that the Havens of Sirion have finally stretched enough along the mouth of the river to comfortably house those who came from Nargothrond, another throng of refugees comes pouring in from the north.
They bear a babe, and a jewel.
Elwing is not presented as a Princess of the Sindar ought to be. She is clutched closely to the chest of her nurse, with neither retinue nor herald. Círdan is on Balar, so it is left to Ereinion to welcome her on the shore of the Havens.
"Her parents?" Ereinion asks when he sees her. She is so small, yet she screams like a thing possessed by the Enemy.
"Dead," replies her nurse. "And her brothers, most likely."
"And you have claimed her, then." A babe that orphaned and should be well on its way to fading would not be wailing loudly enough to wake the night watch from needed rest.
To his surprise, the nurse shakes her head. "I don't know how such a thing would be done, Lord."
Ereinion is very nearly about to lecture her on how to do so, for even a babe as resilient as Elwing seems to be could not last forever on her own vitality. Then he sees the the gleam of brilliant light shining from the babe's swaddling clothes. Even from the distance, he can feel the essence of fëa that emanate from it. It reminds him of the Treelight that shines in the eyes of so many of his kin.
"The Silmaril is hers, then," Ereinion says.
The nurse protectively hugs the babe even nearer to her. "As it is hers by her birthright."
Ereinion did not care to argue any points against the elleth's claim. He was not about to strip the child of the thing that was keeping her alive and hale. Nor did he particularly want the thing. So he sets about welcoming her as properly as he can, and establishing a trusted council to raise her beyond the few of Thingol's court that survived the Sons of Fëanor — Celebrimbor is excluded for obvious reasons; though he disavowed them, he harbors no grievance with this decision.
Though he disavowed them, reports of the slain creep through the Havens, and Celebrimbor grieves them all the same.
Ereinion all but cedes the Havens to the Sindar, and retreats to Balar with Círdan and his ships.
All too soon again, there are more refugees; many more of these are Noldor. Elwing grows fast as a Peredhel, though not fast enough for this, and so Ereinion sails back across the Bay to assist with these as well.
High King Turgon is dead. This weary, ragged column hails from fallen Gondolin. At its head walks, upon her silver feet, Idril Celebrindal and her husband Tuor, the Man. Ereinion hails them wearing his silvered armor and silvered spear and matching shield. He sees the spark of recognition in her eyes, and introduces himself as Ereinion.
His cousin — or niece, by technicality, though she is older than him, so he will still likely call her cousin — is wise enough to understand. "I ought to take Ereiniel from you for an epessë," Idril says, "for I am descended from more Kings than you are at present. But you are far more bedecked with stars than I have ever seen of one from the House of Fingolfin, and with the hope my people may garner aplenty from you and yours; I shall call you Gil-Galad."
Ereinion does not care to count how many Kings the each of them may claim descent from at this point, or how far he wishes to delve into the finer points of the issue so that he may keep a name he finally likes well enough. In the end it does not matter, and he chooses to note the child in Idril's arms. "Ëarendil," she names him, "though he has never yet seen the sea."
"That is one thing we have overmuch of, here," Ereinion Gil-Galad says, and Idril's husband Tuor laughs at that. He continues, "I take it your father named Ëarendil heir to the kingship?"
The smile falls from Tuor's face. "He did not," Idril says coldly, "and given the fates that oft befall Kings of the Noldor, I would rather it not pass to my son."
Ereinion Gil-Galad blinks. Succession had often been matter-of-fact before now, by either clear lineage or outright declaration. He continues through the House of Fingolfin in his mind. Argon is long dead, and he does not know if Kingship, in its natural course, would prefer to move through sisters before daughters. It cannot hurt to make the attempt. "And Aredhel no longer lives?" They had never seen a body in Barad Eithel.
"She does not," Idril confirms. "Nor does her son."
Gil-Galad hadn't even been aware of the son. Fingon and Argon both died without issue, which leaves Fingolfin with, by claim of kinship strong as any bond of blood, only one son left living. But Turgon was king last, and his daughter stands before him. Perhaps the Eldar would accept a daughter by blood more than a brother by claim. He tries, weakly, "I don't suppose you would like to be High King of the Noldor, cousin."
Idril throws her head back and laughs.
She crowns him instead, with a diadem crafted by their cousin Celebrimbor, inlaid with three small jewels that reflect the light of the stars above.