Footnotes by grey_gazania

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Dancing All Alone

Set during the Formenos years.

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Parmacundë stood barefoot near the mirror in Carnistir's room in Formenos, shivering slightly from the water dripping down her back as she rubbed a towel over her hair. The baths here were cold, not like the warm showers she was used to back in Tirion. When her hair was no longer dripping, she folded the towel over the back of a chair and picked up her brush.

 

"Let me, melissë?" Carnistir asked, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and kissing the crook of her neck.

 

"Always." She smiled and turned on tiptoe to return the kiss before handing him the brush and settling on the bed, tucking her feet under her nightshirt as she did so. Carnistir began gently working the snarls out, and Parmë sighed contentedly. 

 

"Auntie! Auntie!" The door to the bedroom was enthusiastically pushed open as Tyelpo toddled in and clambered up onto the bed. "Look! Timfan!" He held out the book of illustrated poems and beamed.

 

Carnistir and Parmë both laughed, and Parmë held out her arms to the little boy. "Yes, Tinfang," she said, taking the book from his chubby hands. "Why don't you tell your uncle about the flowers we found, and then I'll read it to you?"

 

Tyelpo nodded and bounced on the mattress a few times before nestling against his aunt. "We saw flowers! 'Nap dragons and toadflats and perrywinkles!"

 

"Where did you and Parmë look?" Carnistir asked. "In the garden?"

 

"We walked down the path to the river." It had been peaceful, away from the house and its tense atmosphere. Tyelpo could use more time spent outside, even if his parents didn't agree.

 

Parmë picked up the book, opening it to the proper page. "Hoot!" Tyelpo cried gleefully, clapping his hands.

 

"That's right," Parmë answered, wrapping an arm around him as she began to read. "O the hoot! O the hoot! How he trillups on his flute..."

 

Carnistir continued brushing her hair as she read, planting as soft kiss on the top of her head once the poem was finished. She smiled and squeezed Tyelpo gently around the shoulders. "Hoot," he murmured, cuddling close to his aunt and closing his eyes.

 

Nyellë rapped briefly on the door frame and stepped into the room. "Bedtime for you, little one," she said, nodding to Parmë and Carnistir. "Did you have a good story?"

 

"Read Timfan," Tyelpo answered sleepily.

 

"Wonderful! Say goodnight to your aunt and uncle," Nyellë prompted, scooping her son up. He dropped his head to rest on her shoulder and mumbled, "'Night."

 

"Goodnight, Tyelpo," Parmë said, as Carnistir reached over and gently ruffled the boy's hair. "Sleep well. And you, Nyellë."

 

"I think we certainly will." She kissed her son on the forehead and smiled. "You do the same, and we'll see you in the morning."

 

"He's sweet," Parmë said once Nyellë had left the room. She wasn't particularly fond of children, as a rule, but her nephew was such a charming little child, all bright smiles and enthusiasm. She couldn't help but love him.

 

"He adores you." Carnistir gave the brush a final run through her hair and began plaiting it into a loose braid. "If he knows you're coming to visit he runs toward the garden as soon as he hears hooves or the gate opening. 'Auntie! Auntie!' I think you're probably his favorite aunt or uncle. It's good for him that you visit; he needs more company."

 

"This from Arda's biggest introvert." She stretched out and patted the bed beside her, inviting him to lie down.

 

He did, draping his arm over her waist. "You know what I mean."

 

"I know," Parmë said quietly, curling closer and resting her head on his warm, solid chest. "I wish I could come more often, but it's a long ride and I can't take too many days away from work."

 

"You're always busy, I know." Carnistir said, no censure in his voice. He fell silent for a moment, thinking. "It's better when you're here, though," he eventually said, voice soft. "For him, I mean, not just me. He may have six uncles, but we're a mess."

 

"That's not your fault," she said, thinking of Fëanáro's blade at his brother's throat, of Nerdanel pleading with her youngest sons to stay.

 

"Doesn't matter whose fault it is, really," Carnistir said with a one-shouldered shrug. "It's reality."

 

"There aren't many other children here, are there?"

 

"No."

 

"Pity." She twined her fingers with his. "I'll try to come more often," she said, "but I don't know how often that will be."

 

It wasn't just her job and the distance; every trip to Formenos made her a traitor in some people's eyes, someone not truly loyal to Nolofinwë. A Fëanorian sympathizer. A spy. Someone who couldn't be trusted.

 

"Don't," Carnistir said, letting go of her hand to stroke her hair, and she felt his gentle touch against her mind. "Don't think like that. It's not your fault people are stupid. Just about everyone's loyalty is divided these days."

 

"That's true enough," she said, nestling closer. "And I'm grateful that you at least have the sense to know that."

 

It was no secret between them that they fell on opposite sides of the conflict among Finwë's sons. But, as Carnistir had pointed out, when they married they had promised to love and cherish each other, not to always agree with each other. And if her father-in-law eyed her suspiciously at every visit… Well. It wasn't any worse than what she endured from some in Tirion.

 

If no one tried to bridge the gap between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë's followers, the Noldor would never reunite. And if she was the only one who saw that, if she had to do it alone, she would.

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Chapter End Notes

Title taken from Tolkien's poem "Tinfang Warble."