In Dreams, To Whom I Never Have by wind rider

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Feelings in a Dream

Title: In dreams, To Whom I Never Have: Feelings in a Dream
Author: Eärillë

 

Number: B15
Challenges:
1. Textures: Rough
2. Weather: Hot

 

Summary:
Sometimes the dream that comes true is more horrifying than the dream itself, and living the said dream is even worse. A seven-year-old Ginny Weasley experiences that first-hand. But perhaps, there will still be a silver-lining even in the worst situation?

 

Rating: G
Warnings: first draft

 

Characters: Caranthir, Celegorm, Maedhros, Maglor, Fëanor, Ginny Weasley, Nerdanel
Genres: Crossover, Friendship, Mystery
Place: Tirion: outside of
Timeline: Year of Trees: Noontide of Valinor
Word Count (in MS Word): 1,701

 

Notes:
The author originally wanted to post this fic for SWG’s Birthday Challenge in 2010, but did not get it in time. With a few additions and tweaks, here it is again, presented anew. And the credit again goes to Dawn Felagund’s marvellous work Another Man’s Cage, of which the author borrowed many things for this (chaptered) story. It is all in third person limited point of view and past tense, though, unlike in AMC.
In this chapter (and the next ones), Maedhros (Maitimo, Russandol, Nelyo) is 48 years old, Maglor (Makalaurë or Káno) is 39 years old, Celegorm (Tyelkormo or Turko) is 14 years old, and Caranthir (Carnistir or Moryo) is 3 years old. In human standard, their ages are roughly comparable to (respectively) 16 ½, 15, 7 and 3 (or 2 ½) years old.

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In Dreams, To Whom I Never Have
Chapter 3: Feelings in a Dream

 

Without her quite realising it, the man had brought Ginny to what she presumed was the front door of the odd mansion.

 

– Which turned out to be the back door, instead, as she found out when he opened it for her. She stepped into a large kitchen, which was occupied by a dark-auburn-haired woman and two little boys (one fair-haired and the other dark-haired), who were busy preparing a meal. Who would let in a guest through the back door and kitchen? Mum would have railed at her if she had done that to anyone.

 

But she could pretend that it was her mother she was seeing, and a smaller version of Ron and herself… almost.

 

The woman looked up from overseeing the boys pealing potatoes, and frowned. Her gaze fell heavily on Ginny, and then the man coming up behind her.

 

“Fëanáro,” she… greeted? – said to the man, ignoring Ginny for a moment – to her relief.

 

The man only stepped casually to Ginny’s side, at first. But then, when he had settled (casually, as if it were an everyday occasion) beside her, he said something in the beautiful language of the beautiful people to the woman while gesturing at himself and Ginny, then took her hand in his own.

 

The woman nodded, although reluctantly, so Ginny supposed that he must have asked for a favour of her, and she had granted it to him. (But what?)

 

And the said woman was now staring sharply at Ginny, up and down and thoroughly, as if she were a potion ingredient or a piece of work to be scrutinised and judged. Twice now she had to endure such a look, and she found she detested it. What was it with these people and powerful, searching stares? It eclipsed that of the great Albus Dumbledore, the one time he had visited the Burrow for a spot of tea and a – private – talk with her parents!

 

Did it have something to do with the favour asked by the man? The woman had indeed looked reluctant…

 

So she was going to be welcomed here by pure charity? Would the family despise her more and more the longer she staid?

 

Ginny shrank away, pressing her back flat against the doorjam, trying to stem her tears. Only then the woman released her from her gaze, turning away to once again confront the man. She said something to him, gesturing at Ginny, and he nodded. Then she said something to the little boys, who bobbed their heads – unenthusiastically – in assent. Her weary countenance then would have looked just natural on Ginny’s own mother: exhaustion of raising many boisterous children at once.

 

– Mum…

 

It was harder to stem her tears now, Ginny found out, as she tried to hide her face underneath her tangled red locks, making the purple flower the man had slipped in there dangle into her vision. (The flower had felt like ages ago…) Her chest squeezed painfully, and she felt like a single rabbit eyed by a hungry eagle; lonely and afraid.

 

When the woman’s eyes returned to Ginny, though, they had surprisingly softened from the earlier sharp, heavy suspicion. – They were kind and… concerned, almost. – It was a huge leap of change to Ginny, one that nearly tipped her balance figuratively and literally. But she was not going to complain about this new, unexpected development.

 

When the woman beckoned her, she followed the older female across the hallway with only a slight hesitation, and a brief glance at the man. (He was glaring down at the two little boys, who were doing exactly what the woman – their mother? – might have feared: playing with the vegetables instead of chopping them.)

 

The pair walked quietly for a while, as they passed rooms after rooms and hallways after hallways set in a convoluted manner. Ginny despised the silence, since it was awkward and laden with subtle tension, but she could not do anything to dissolve it. (Anything that would not mean more trouble for her, anyway.) – It was not her wish to be spirited here, for Merlin’s sake! She had been contented with her life…

 

Had she?

 

But she had always hoped that her father would gain fame and a good fortune, had she not? And she had always wished herself bigger, stronger, so that her elder brothers would not see it fit to mollycoddle her (and subsequently keep her out of the fun things), had she not? And she had always dreamt a better chance at living, more opportunity for her to study what she really wanted to study, had she not? She wanted to be a musician like the Weird Sisters (her favourite band), an artisan, a writer, an explorer…

 

This family, this place, seemed to offer her all, and then some. Was it right and good for her to gripe all along, then? She wanted to be a Gryffindor when she went to Hogwarts, and Gryffindors would not baulk from adventure and adversity.

 

But would there still be Hogwarts, let alone Gryffindor, when she was old enough for it?

 

No, no, she did not want to think about it right now.

 

The woman led her into a side hall and a single door, at last. They stood awkwardly, facing each other, in the sitting-room beyond the door. But while Ginny looked away wishing miserably that she were in her old home and rickety bed, the woman regarded her in that strange, unnerving manner of these beautiful people. (She knew, since such a gaze could hardly be missed.) The suspicion was back, although it was now tempered with hesitation and concern. Still, Ginny had to stifle an instinctive urge to hunker down in self defence.

 

The woman smiled knowingly, but said nothing in response to the gestural confirmation. Instead, in an almost business-like tone, she pointed to herself and said, “Nerdanel.” There was a vague warning in her look as she patted her lower belly and counted with her fingers slowly, saying, “Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Carnistir.” It was as if she wanted to say, “I have four children. Hurt them on your peril.”

 

They locked stares. Ginny looked away first, but only after she glimpsed yet another unidentifiable emotion, similar to that is shown by the man, lurking in the depths of the woman’s eyes. It unnerved her, and yet it made her also curious.

 

The woman led her around the sitting-room and waved her hand as if saying, “please look around.” Then she pointed at a smaller door leading away from the sitting-room and proceeded to go there.

 

Ginny did just that. She was glad to finally have a chance to leisurely look around. (She had been too nervous and afraid to do so before.) And what a marvel to behold! She could ignore the stifling heat permeating the space around her, the characteristics of a room which had not been opened for a long time and left under the direct mercy of strong sunlight. She could ignore virtually everything now, even though she had always felt icky when sweat had begun to bathe her like this.

 

The room alone was… exquisite, to say the least. It was beyond the best and most beautiful of all the magical sites she and her family had ever visited. And she had visited many, in spite of her family’s poverty. (The seven children her parents had never lacked in knowledge and education, if they did clothing and belongings.) It was, to her, magic at its peak, although it did not seem to be manifested obviously, like all the sites she had gone to before. Here, she felt as if everything was not built or made by human hands. So fitting, really, given how these people she had been dropped amongst looked as unearthly – but realer – than the little tree fairies in the Burrow’s back garden.

 

The two windows there were currently shuttered, which explained the stifling air and the heat to her. The lighting which substituted natural illumination worked just as well, and was just as gorgeous in her opinion, although it did not help subside the heat. She could see neither flame nor Muggle steel-yarns in the round stones that emitted the cold, other-worldly blue glow, however. Spread out in strategic places to minimise shadows, the strange lamps illuminated the room in a way she could not give word to. It was… She was… She just wished…

 

And the paintings—! They were somehow realer and more life-like than the moving ones at home. Each depicted a person at work, and one particularly-big one captured the activities of a family – the people she had encountered so far, minus the two workers in the horrible hall she had gladly left behind. All of them were displayed beneath the illumination of a lantern each, as if the person who had put them there was quite proud of his works – or perhaps, his family?

 

She looked away. No, it was too unreachable – they were too unreachable.

 

She padded to a corner opposite the door, attracted (to her relief) to a portable fountain boasting the carving of a pair of dolphins in playful mid-leap, framed by a roughly-hewn stone basin and set on a narrow but sturdy nightstand. The dolphins, water spouting in rivulets from their tail,  looked as if they could jump out of the large stone bowl any time soon, whistling and chattering. She loved them, their watery home and the rough perimeter somebody had so skilfully created to mimic natural stone. She could spend hours there, just listening to the music of the fountain while drawing or wittling. If only the lighting were a little warmer and the heat less oppressive…

 

She padded closer towards the merry little fountain and knelt in front of it, carefully fingering the rough rim of the stone basin, admiring the play of light on the fine sprays and how alive the dolphins looked. The water’s song was so sweet. She could really spend hours listening to it, regardless of the illumination… if she could, of course.

 

And thus she was brought back to the reality of her situation, and the peace the water had lent her shattered like tiny shards of glass.