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“She did not tell me,” Celegorm said. He was tense, cloak still wrapped around him oddly as he paced the clearing. “She did not tell me he was her husband and he would follow her until it was too late - I did not know. Curufin did not know. We would have killed him, she would still be alive. She would have returned here to us instead of leaving him here with me alone, with no hope and no plan.”
Celegorm’s voice rose again. Fingon could remember seeing Celegorm like this only once before, in those horrible minutes after his half-cousins rode in with news of their grandfather's death.
Celegorm spoke of Aredhel’s death now, of course, Fingon had already heard from Maedhros of the guilt that haunted Fëanor’s three middle sons, but it did not explain why Celegorm had begged for a secret meeting nor why his cousin, who was always so hasty and blunt, was rambling now.
“She and I met once in the eaves of the forest. I had not expected to see her, and she slipped away in the morning. I did not know why then, but I suppose it was to find her older son. We - I loved her. She had a son, a second one,” Celegorm said as he pulled his cloak away from his chest.
Fingon could not move for a moment as he took in the sight of a child cradled against Celegorm’s chest.
“She fled Eöl again after he was born. Eöl was often missing from their home, or so she said in the letter she left me with him, but he was not blind. He knew her, and he knew this child was not his,” Celegorm said. “He has silver hair like Grandmother’s. Fingon, I cannot raise him. He is the descendant of two kings, he deserves more than what I can give him now, when your family holds the crown and I am sworn to an oath and may no longer inherit anything.”
Fingon could not remember when Celegorm was young, but he could remember Aredhel and Fëanor’s younger sons as infants. Aredhel’s nose and cheeks surrounded eyes that sparked with the fire all of Fëanor’s descendants bore. For those still haunted by memories of those happy days, it was all too clear whose child this was, and all too clear why Celegorm was desperate for any path that would allow his son to escape the doom of being Fëanor’s kin.
“Eärwen has silver hair. If you can convince one of her descendants to foster him and allow rumors to be spread, he can be treated as a true prince of the Noldor. Or you can claim you and one of the Sindar fell in love, or any other story. Leave it a matter of speculation if you wish. Please. She wished for him to have everything, and I cannot give him that. I can give him almost nothing. Please. You know I do not beg, but if you ask it, I will beg you now. Do not let my son - your sister's youngest son - be captured by the doom that stalks me.”
It was a wretched feeling to look upon Celegorm’s despair and be unable to argue with the truth of it. Celegorm would have been a good father, but the knowledge of the oath hung heavy in the air between them.
Celegorm could have been a good father, but the oath would not let him place his son above all else, and Celegorm would not raise a child he believed he would hurt one day.
“Does he have a name?” Fingon asked when Celegorm finally thrust the child into Fingon's arms, still with the desperate look in his eyes.
Celegorm brushed the hair from his son’s face and then straightened. “Irissë called him Gil-galad in the letter. I know not if it was a true name she dared give him in the darkness, or an epessë to give him hope.”
Fingon nodded. It was the kind of name his sister would turn to, always hopeful and determined to bring light even in the darkest days. She had done that for Turgon on the Ice, she would have thought to do it for this son if she failed to return and for Celegorm in his grief.
“And from you?” Fingon asked.
“Ereinion,” Celegorm said. “I had thought Artanáro for Atar, or Finellach, but those names tell too much. Finwain is acceptable, if your father does not wish him to be known as the Scion of Kings.”
Fingon nodded. He would remember all of those names, even the ones Celegorm discarded as too risky, and pass them along to Gil-galad as he could. If this was all Gil-galad was to have of his father, Fingon would not deprive him of any of it.
“You are sure?” Fingon asked, though he knew his cousin’s mind was set if he had come this far. “If you wish to keep him, I shall throw all the weight of my position behind you. There are few who would argue.”
Celegorm paused for a moment, hand still on Gil-galad’s forehead as though he wished to take him back and run as far as he could from oaths and war. Then he shook his head, stumbling backwards until he was almost to his own horse.
“Nay, do not speak of hope I cannot keep. There are three other stars I must seek first. He is too young, and I shall not doom him on a quest he cannot withstand. Take him and keep him safe, and do not tell him of this,” Celegorm said, and then he was gone, leaving Gil-galad in Fingon’s arms.
Fingon turned his horse back towards his camp. It would be hard to explain to his followers where this child had come from, and his mind swirled with thoughts of how to avoid setting too many details in stone before he could speak to his father, even as he listened to the thudding hoof beats of Celegorm’s horse in the distance.
“Your father loves you,” Fingon whispered to his nephew, the only truth he could bring himself to speak.