worldflower:

sometimesiwishiweremongolian:

eldochflamma:

syrisa:

eldochflamma:

syrisa:

nolikereally:

syrisa:

nolikereally:

napoldeinlove:

peredhel:

ha-leths:

i feel like the house of finwe just found a confused, crying, and lost little boy in the woods one day and decided to keep him and call him gil-galad

and thats why his parentage is so confusing because everyone claimed he was theirs 

that kind of makes it sound like he was Elured or Elurin haha

haha yeah that’s kind of NO NO THAT’S NOT OKAY THAT’S NOT OKAY

GET.

OUT.

Maedhros lied. Maedhros did find them. Both of them, for all the good it did Eluréd with his fragile neck broken where he’d fallen down a ravine trying to run from the Noldor who had been seeking him, trying to draw them away from where he had hidden tiny Elurín. 

They buried the child next to his parents, then Maedhros was left to ponder the still, crying creature he now had in his care. There were mental wounds too deep for their own healers to care for, and he doubted any child could survive the life that loomed before them both.

“We will send him to Balar,” he decided at last, the child on his hip since placing Elurín down usually resulted in screaming and crying fits, and sometimes actual convulsions from the terror that chased after the child so young he was practically a babe.

It felt like acid though, returning to the thindar one of the family that had stolen and continued to deny them their birthright.

Ah but…

It galled Cirdan to receive a messenger from the Noldor at such a time as this. But the child clinging to the messenger’s chest, in a deep, Power induced sleep stilled his tongue and made him curious for the babe was wrapped in clothing speaking of wealth, and had a regal cast to his or her young features already.

“I have been charged with delivering this child to you,” the messenger bowed deeply, “he is Gil-Galad, Scion of Kings. He is the only one left.”

“Technically we told him who the child was,” Maedhros said when the messenger returned successful.

“Save the name,” Maglor reminded him.

“I merely thought it a terrible burden for a child to grow up named literally as the reminder of a once mighty king who ultimately became nothing more then a thief and a failure,” Maedhros said, and turned away.

DID YOU FUCKING DO THIS ON PURPOSE YOU MONSTER

Oh gosh no. Golly not me, I never write angst. My hands slipped, that’s all.

SYRISA WHO ALLOWED YOU TO DO THIS

He remembered his father’s laughter.

And after that there was the woods, and darkness, and cold. And his brother (his brother?) left him behind, told him to hide in a tree and he would be back. But his brother (his brother?) never came back.

Cirdan asked him, once or twice before giving up, because really Gil-Galad’s memories were too fragmented to be coherent, and what was left was so tinged with horror it could make him shudder and scream to try and remember what had happened after his father’s laughter for very long.

“Perhaps Orodreth,” Cirdan suggested. That made sense, Gil-Galad thought, touching his silver hair, for Orodreth’s grandmother had been Teleri hadn’t she? And Orodreth had a daughter, it was said. Gil-Galad remembered having a sister, but not what had happened to her. He wondered perhaps if he had mixed things up, in his fright, and it was not his brother (his brother?) that had left him behind in the tree but his sister (his sister?).

That might make more sense.

His tutor Erestor said he had something of his face that resembled King Fingon.

The timing was off though, he was far too young to be Fingon’s child, and anyway the Noldor King had never married, nor had any known bastards.

Orodreth seemed the most likely candidate, but no one could ask him now.

Gil-Galad had his own theory; or perhaps his own desperately held secret. Or perhaps it was merely a yearning wish.

He could remember a warm arm around him, and curling his hands into hair that was the colour of a cheerful copper pot. He could remember his relief when his surprise had faded away, and reaching eagerly for the tall shining warrior that had reached back for him, whispering it was alright and he would protect him, that there was nothing to fear. He thought of the way that warrior chased the terror away, and held him close though he must have been a burden and an inconvenience.

“Queen Míriel the Broideress was a Noldor of small stature, and unusually for her pedigree was of only Tatyarin descent, silver hair,” a creakily old history text that he read to please Erestor once said.

“Maedhros Fëanorion is my father,” Gil-Galad said to his mirror, still touching his silver hair.

To say it warmed him from the inside out, and a lingering memory of winter within a unending forest faded a little more to speak the words loud.

“I am Gil-Galad Maedhrosion,” he looked himself in the eye through the mirror, “I am the scion of Kings. I am the son of Maedhros once King of the Ňoldor, son of King Curufinwë Fëanor, son of King Finwë and Míriel the Broideress whose silver hair I bear.”

He tilted his chin at his reflection, then grinned at how haughty that had made him look.

He was still young yet, he had much more growing to do, that was what Cirdan said. Perhaps he might grow as tall as Maedhros was said to be.

“Maedhros Fëanorion is my father,” he said a final time.

It was more plausible than Fingon, and as plausible as Orodreth, or at least it was to him.

And it pleased him.

And it made him hope.

I think I’ve started caring about Gil a lot more thankyou and goodbye

And then you realize that Elrond was by his uncle for millenia, only to see him die in front of him.  He never knew he had one other relative left.