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Act 1: The Precedent
“This just lists one male elfling, aged two years.” Fingon peers over the top of the parchment form dubiously, one brow arched as if inviting Maedhros to let him in on the joke any time now. “I thought you said this was a list of what I’d be getting in Himring’s back taxes.”
They were only two years out from the Bragollach, just now settled enough to rebuild and make diplomatic — if necessarily tight — visits to each other. They’re not rebuilt enough to produce more than tentative excess, and even that’s getting laid down in much depleted pantries and larders. To say Fingon wasn’t expecting his cousin to roll up announcing he’s prepared to pay back all twelve years of Himring’s understandably delayed back taxes in one go, is an understatement.
It’s straight politics. He gets it. With his father dead — and doesn’t that make his sore heart throb to think! — some people might get it into their heads that the peace between their Houses is now in contention. Maedhros must make some kind of gesture of acknowledgement, in a way no one can deny, of Fingon’s royal authority over him.
Purely ceremonial, Fingon figured. The Lord of Himring would publicly offer to beggar himself and his people of resources to serve his new king, and his new king would graciously turn it down for Himring’s sake. The gesture should be the whole of the point.
But this…
“It is, Your Majesty,” Maedhros demures smoothly, dawn-red head bowed, his great, thick red cloak swathing his right side and spreading out from his knelt figure like the bearberry that stained the hills of the March in bright streaks of color. “It awaits only your stamp of approval.”
“You cannot expect me to believe anyone was so foolish as to have a child in the tail end of the Bragollach,” Fingon protests, all ceremony forgotten, setting the paper aside as he rises and descends the dais. “I thought you were serious about this, but if you’re only out to take the piss—”
Like a plume of fire, Maedhros rises and casts aside his cloak in a dramatic gesture so smooth and graceful Fingon can’t help but suspect him of practicing it. But all intent to air that thought in public die on his tongue.
The sash across his left shoulder leads down to a swaddled baby nestled snoozing against his hip, so small their silvery hair still floats in wispy curls. As Fingon watches, the sudden influx of light makes their chubby face scrunch in displeasure, pudgy fists rubbing at blinking blue eyes in bleary confusion. At the first kitten mewl whine, Fingon stops caring entirely at how smackable Maedhros’ smug visage is.
In his arms — when did that happen, he doesn’t remember moving — the baby (boy, he remembers) is a warm, soft weight, curling trustingly against his shoulder in the way elven children do. Thump, thump goes Fingon’s heart, too big for his chest.
His blue eyes have little grey starry dots throughout. Fingon is hopelessly charmed.
“What’s his name?” Fingon asks, breathless for some reason that eludes him. “What’s your name, precious thing?”
The toddler blinks at him, swipes a wrist under his nose, and buries his face in Fingon’s shoulder with another kitten-soft grumble. Cooing helplessly, Fingon cuddles him closer, delightedly burying his nose in wispy silver hair.
“Gil-Galad, best we can tell,” Maedhros says, impossibly smugger. Fingon can’t remember why. “Of the meadows of Himlad and the southern dales of the March where each touch the Celon.” A breath, then he lowers his voice to a private murmur. “I’ll tell you about his parents later.”
Fingon hums absently in approval. Gil-Galad. What an excellent name. There’s only one little thing missing—
“Your Majesty?” His Steward says, startled to be the center of attention, equal parts incredulous, despairing, and resigned. “Can you not do that? As a favor to me, your father’s old friend? Please. Please don’t do this to me.”
Staring his father’s old friend in the eyes, Fingon continues to hold out his hand for the Royal Stamp.
With a subtle droop of his shoulders, and an expression of exquisite suffering, the Steward inks the stamp and looks away, cringing, as Fingon brings it down on the the damning tax document, single item: one male elfling, two years old. Unquestioningly worth twelve years of Himring’s taxes. Satisfied, Fingon blows on the ink and hands it off to his blank faced and stiff accountant, “Make sure a copy of that is given to the Lord of Himring with due haste.”
Settling back on his throne, his new child in his arms already burrowing into his velvet over robe, Fingon nods regally at his stunned court. “From this day forth, Ereinion Gil-Galad is to be add to the genealogies as my firstborn and heir, your new Crown Prince and future High King of the Noldor East of the Sundering Sea! Let all the Kingdoms of the Noldor be assured that the line of Fingolfin continues!”
In the back of the stunned-struck hall, a spear falls out of a guard’s hand and startles the whole lot out of their disbelieving stupor.
Fingon pays it no more mind. Gil-Galad has grabbed a lock of his gold-laden hair in innocent, elfling joy over a shiny thing, and that is far more important.
At the base of the dais, Maedhros turns his smug smirk on the rest of the court.
(By the end of the year, when Dor-lómin has sent golden-haired Fingár, the Mithrimin offer up solemn-eyed Erien, Nargothrond sends affectionate Findobar, and Rerir carefully escorts clingy Finbor, for ostensible tax purposes, the administrators of Fingon’s court start burning twig effigies of Maedhros Fëanorian in stifled fury.)
Act 2: Set in law
“What the hell am I looking at?” His Majesty, Ereinion Gil-Galad, High King of a ragtag band of surviving Noldor, Sindar, and Avari crammed onto a coastal island with the Falathrim, demands incredulously. “No, seriously, what the hell am I looking at? And how the hell does this math actually work out?”
“Thank you,” One of the dark haired, grey eyed twins that greatly resembles Elwing says modestly. Elros, he thinks. “That took six abacuses, fourteen people, and a star chart to calculate.”
Where does Gil-Galad even begin to ask.
Oh, yes.
“Why.” He says, flatly. Onto his travel desk drops the carved wooden panel detailing in meticulous scorching how the twins before him equal the cost of a single silmaril, and so more than sufficient payment for the back taxes the Fëanorian host has neglected to pay to the High King since the death of Fingon.
In fact, if these calculations are in any way correct — which he refuses to entertain because guardianship is not a valid currency — he may even owe Maedhros fucking Fëanorian a tax refund.
This is going to be the thing that kills him. Not orcs, not balrogs, not kinslayers, not randomly tripping off a ship. It’s going to be this.
“I can’t accept this, it’s in no way a legal form of—”
The other twin, Elrond, without so much as a twitch, withdraws an old vellum parchment out of his breast pocket and presents it.
Gil-Galad reads it. Twice. And then twice more.
No matter how desperately he glares, the words On this date, one male elfling, aged two years, by newly name of Ereinion Gil-Galad, is accepted by His Majesty, King Fingon, as the owed twelve years worth of taxes from Maedhros Fëanorian, Lord of Himring.
Under it is the dark blue seal of two eagles circled in flight that marks his father’s reign.
His stupid, stupid father who decided the gift of family was valid currency. And made it accepted precedent in law.
And made it Gil-Galad’s new headache.
This is too many revelations in one day. Longingly, he thinks of his old nanny’s strange habit of burning redheaded twig effigies every fiscal year. He understands now. He understands. He’s sorry he thought you were strange, Nanny.
“One instance does not an argument make,” Gil-Galad valiantly argued, nonetheless. He’s not going down without a fight! If Maedhros fucking Fëanorian wants a tax refund so bad he can demand it of Gil-Galad’s face!
Still serene, Elrond pulls out another old vellum proclaiming Fingon’s acceptance of his old playmate and secret brother Finbor as Rerir’s twelve year back tax.
“Unfortunately,” Elros says, polite smile failing to hide the sly, amused glint in his eye. “We are not able to produce the records of Erien of Mithrim, Findobar of Nargothrond, or Fingár of Dor-lómin.” Gil-Galad twitches with each name. He doesn’t recognize the last, but the name and place suggest Hadorian. An Edain, lost or dead when Hithlum fell. A probable sibling he was too young to remember. “But we are assured that the Steward who presided over your royal father’s court yet lives and can confirm the veracity of their existence.”
Oh, he lives alright. But he won’t enjoy doing so when Gil-Galad shakes him by the scruff for not warning him about this!
“You’re not even children anymore,” Gil-Galad musters weakly, one last feeble defense before his pride is trampled into the mire.
Elrond shrugs. “Still worth a silmaril.”
“By that measure I think we also equal Luthien’s hand in marriage,” Elros muses to his brother.
“And out equal one hundred and six years worth of back taxes to the High King,” Elrond agrees. “We’re a precious commodity.”
“Good thing the accountants included our rarity and emotional value in the calculation of our worth,” Elros continues, twisting the knife further.
“By that metric, don’t you think we’re now worth slightly more than a silmaril?” Elrond delicately suggests, gently, somehow ominously, folding the vellum back up.
“Oh, for sure,” Elros purrs, smile widening at whatever horror is overtaking Gil-Galad’s face. “Certainly worth at least, oh, a non-aggression treaty. Access to the resources of the armies of Valinor. Amnesty for the Fëanorians who proclaim us liege.”
“That’s going a little—” Gil-Galad tries to interject.
“We are surely worth that much,” Elros raises his voice, refusing to stop. “When you consider that the price of a silmaril is now worth all the forces Valinor and the Valar can muster against the might of Morgoth!”
“And we are worth slightly more than one silmaril,” Elrond quietly concludes.
Head in hands, Gil-Galad accepts defeat. There’s no way he can pay Maedhros fucking Fëanorian the worth of the armies of Valinor in tax refunds.
He stamps the fucking wooden panel.
Act 3: Law abiding
“Do you understand now?” Elrond asks, hands folded, peering up earnestly at the Herald of Manwë in all his gilded, winged glory.
Said Herald drops his head in his hands with a tortured groan. “No.”
“Alright, from the top then,” Elrond says, the air of gentle patience never budging despite Eönwë’s desperate certainty the peredhel was fucking with him start to finish.
“Please,” he begs. He! A Maia! But he begs, nonetheless. “That’s not necessary.”
“I would be loathe to leave anything in confusion,” Elrond protests sincerely, looking so, so concerned. “It is a matter of utmost import that has suffered neglect for far too long, to my mind. I would see it settled before any other matter, which can surely wait a little longer if they have kept this long.”
“I might argue the same!” Eönwë exclaims, flinging a hand out in exasperation.
“Ah, but if it was so urgent to bring Maglor Fëanorian before the Ring of Doom for judgment than surely Ulmo who was present at every shore Maglor sang on, or Manwë who heard the winds that carried Maglor’s voice, might have requested he be brought forth at any time,” Elrond rebuts, calmly reaching out to pat the thin shoulder of a sea-wraith-esque Maglor. “Whereas I have only reunited with my foster-father just recently, having only mortal means to find him.”
“But taxes?” Eönwë hardly understands the point of them. As an embodied spirit with no physical needs and no concept of currency before the elves moved to Eldamar, he’s never worried about them in his entire existence. Surely, they’re not that important.
“Yes, taxes,” Elrond insists. “I am a law abiding citizen who strives to set an example for my people and my neighbors. That means when I am paid taxes to, I redistribute tax refunds fairly and promptly. And my foster-father—” and here, Elrond slants him a stern glance. “Not only grossly overpays his taxes, and as such is deserving of a hefty refund, but has never, not once, come to the home of his acclaimed lord to receive it! Not in six-thousand years!”
“That is my wrong,” Maglor nods, creaking like driftwood in the tide. “I’ve really put my poor foster-son in an awkward position. You see, I only know how to pay taxes as a ruler of a minor kingdom to a high king. But my dear Elrond is merely a lord of a lorddom. I didn’t mean to, but I’ve embarrassed him!”
“And what does the ruler of a minor kingdom pay to a high king in taxes?” Eönwë askes, yanking a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Well,” Maglor starts, looking shifty.
“As my foster-father was living quite humbly all this time,” Elrond smoothly interjects, “he preferred to bundle his taxes every other century in the form of guardianship of a child.”
Guardianship of a child being a valid form of currency among elves is news to Eönwë. Guess he’s not too old to learn something new, huh.
Makes sense they’re worth so much too, he’s seen how elves are about children.
With a growing sense of disquiet, Eönwë reconsiders Finwë’s ancient complaint of his House lacking children when Olwë and Ingwë had so many. Did the Noldor consider their king a pauper in comparison? Much to think about.
“It’s really amounted to a frightful mess,” Elrond says, all gentle sorrow. “So you see, it’s really quite imperative I consult with the reborn accountants of Himring and Rerir, and potentially also my other foster-father in Mandos who helped quantify the whole system, before I end up any deeper in debt than I already am.”
“Well,” Eönwë casts about for anything to say in response. “It really doesn’t seem fair to hold yourself indebted to Maglor Fëanorian after all the wrongs he’s already perpetrated against you.”
“Exactly!” Maglor exclaims, like the squawking of a gull in flight. “Exactly! At last you understand! This is not me delaying the reparations I owe to those I wronged, it is simply starting with Elrond first! I ache with how I’ve continued to wrong him all these years. I must help him get this awkward matter off his conscience, that he may rest easily in Aman, at last. Don’t you think he of all people deserves that?”
Naturally, Eönwë can hardly dispute that…
Sighing, he concedes. It is not the delaying of reparations, it is merely picking the starting point. He can accept that logic.
“Very well. What is owed?”
“According to Erestor, the preliminary summation is going to include a home with full furnishings, round the clock medical care, at least six horses, a silver-stringed golden harp, at least two grandchildren—”
“WHAT?” Eönwë reels, aghast. “That can’t be accurate!”
“I couldn’t agree more with you,” Elrond says feelingly, chin lifted. “We weren’t sure either. That’s why we need to consult those particular experts. If anything, Erestor believes he lowballed the amount. He’s very apologetic about it.”
“But— but. What. Wait, hold on, I don’t understand what you mean!” Eönwë pleads.
“Very well, from the top—”
“No!”
Eönwë eventually flees this conversation, knowing less about taxes than he started with.