By Love or at Least Free Will by grey_gazania

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Now Join Your Hands

 

 

"Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts." — William Shakespeare

 

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“Are you nervous?” Lalwen asked, looking Ianneth over with her sparkling grey eyes.

 

“A little,” Ianneth admitted with a sheepish smile. “I feel like there’s a frog in my stomach.” She tried to hold herself as still as possible while she spoke, for her mother was busy dressing her hair with delicate seed pearls. It wouldn’t do to disrupt Amareth’s work, not when the wedding feast was less than half an hour away.

 

Lalwen laughed. She had a warm, golden laugh that came easily, proving that her mother had named her well, and Ianneth had already grown accustomed to hearing it echo through the corridors of Eithel Sirion.

 

“Pay the frog no heed,” Lalwen said. “Fingon chose well. My brother and I are honored to have you join our family.” In the absence of Fingolfin’s wife, Lalwen had stepped into the role usually held by the bridegroom’s mother, and she was filling it with great enthusiasm. Smiling at Ianneth, she added, “I used to worry that Fingon would never find a partner who suited him, but it seems he was simply waiting for you. The pair of you were clearly made for one another.”

 

Flattered, Ianneth felt her cheeks heat as she blushed. While it was true that this union had begun as a political alliance, she had quickly grown to love her soon-to-be spouse, and she knew that he had done the same over the course of their engagement. Now, finally, they were to be wed.

 

She may have been nervous, but she was also overjoyed.

 

“There,” Amareth said, pinning one last strand of Ianneth’s hair into place. She nudged her daughter to her feet and ushered her to the mirror that hung on the wall of Lalwen’s room. “What do you think?”

 

“Oh, Nana, it’s perfect,” Ianneth said, turning to hug her tightly.

 

“Careful!” Amareth chided, though she was beaming. “You mustn’t wrinkle your gown before the wedding has even begun.” She smoothed the sage-colored lace that covered Ianneth’s shoulders and then steered her daughter back to her seat. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.

 

Ianneth complied, holding herself as still as stone while her mother brushed a fine coat of powdered mica over her eyelids.

 

“Oh, that’s very striking,” she heard Lalwen say. “You should wear that more often.”

 

Amareth laughed, and Ianneth blinked her eyes open as she heard her mother step away.

 

“It’s traditionally reserved for weddings,” Amareth told Lalwen. “It brings luck to the bride.”

 

“It brings out the eyes of the bride,” Lalwen said. “This bride, anyway. You look stunning, Ianneth.”

 

Someone pounded impatiently on the door. “Can I come in yet?” Tinneth demanded. “You’re taking forever.”

 

Laughing, Amareth opened the door to let her younger daughter inside. Tinneth, too, was clad in a new gown for the occasion, blue as a robin’s egg and embroidered with silver thread. She let out a delighted gasp when she saw her sister.

 

“Oh, Ianneth,” she said. “Your dress! Your hair! You look so pretty!” The girl was only stopped from hurling herself into her sister’s arms by her mother’s restraining hand on her shoulder.

 

Standing, Ianneth took Tinneth’s hands in her own and squeezed her small fingers. “You look lovely, too,” she said. “Now sit still and let Nana do your hair.”

 

“Yes, do,” Lalwen said, glancing at the clock on her dresser — a complicated device of gears and rods, so different from the water clocks that Ianneth had grown up with. “It’s not long until we need to welcome everyone to the feast.”

 

While Amareth began to braid Tinneth’s hair, Lalwen finished her own preparations, slipping on her shoes and clasping a gold chain around her neck. The aroma of violets filled the room as, beside her, Ianneth carefully dabbed scented oil behind her ears and on the insides of her wrists.

 

“All finished,” Amareth said, sliding one last pin into place. “Ianneth, Lalwen, are you ready?”

 

“We are,” Lalwen said as Ianneth nodded.

 

Together, the quartet headed outside to join Fingon and Fingolfin in greeting their guests. Half of Hithlum seemed to have turned out for the celebration, so many people that even Fingolfin’s grandest room wouldn’t have been able to hold them all — most of Fingon’s kin, all of Ianneth’s relatives and friends, various lords of Hithlum’s Grey-Elves, and every one of the Golodhrim who held a position of importance or was dear to the groom and his father. Even Lord Círdan had come from his twin coastal cities to offer his good wishes to his allies.

 

Representatives from the Elves of Doriath were conspicuously absent, but Ianneth did not let that trouble her overmuch.

 

Beside her, Fingon stood tall and handsome in his wedding robes, his hair braided with its usual strands of gold. The brooch that Annael and Amareth had given him at last night’s family feast, his wedding gift, was pinned at his left shoulder, holding the drape of his robe in place. The polished amber seemed to glow in the sunlight, highlighting the single, delicate feather preserved within. Ianneth, too, wore the gift that Fingolfin and Lalwen had given her — a pendant of milky green stone, shaped into a smooth heart and adorned with two clasped hands in finely-detailed gold.

 

She took hold of Fingon’s hand now, lacing their fingers together, and he looked down at her with soft, loving eyes. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow until it held just the two of them, just this time and place, and she was filled with a warm joy that she was certain must be lighting her up from the inside out.

 

“I insist on stealing the bride for a dance later,” a voice said, interrupting her reverie. When Ianneth looked around, she saw Finrod standing before them, his own grey eyes twinkling with happiness.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of denying you,” Ianneth said, leaning forward to accept his kiss on each of her cheeks — a greeting custom of the Golodhrim with which she was still not entirely comfortable. But Finrod, with his quick wit and his kind heart, had swiftly become Ianneth’s favorite among Fingon’s cousins, and she now counted him as a friend in his own right.

 

The line of guests continued on, Fingon and Ianneth welcoming each in turn, until the time came for the feast to begin. Fingolfin’s cooks had outdone themselves, working for days to craft a sumptuous banquet comprised not only of the Golodhrim’s delicacies, but also many dishes traditional to the people of Mithrim. The sun shone, the food was plentiful, the wine and mead flowed in abundance, and soon the air was filled with the sounds of merrymaking.

 

Some time later, as everyone was finishing the final course of the meal, Fingolfin stood and gestured for silence.

 

“My friends,” the king said, “we are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of my dear son Fingon to the lady Ianneth, a most admirable woman who many of us are privileged to know. I ask now that the bride and groom stand, that they may exchange their vows and receive our blessings.”

 

Ianneth and Fingon both rose, as did Amareth. Butterflies were fluttering in Ianneth’s stomach, but she couldn’t help smiling when Lalwen caught her eye and winked. As Amareth and Fingolfin took hold of their children’s hands and joined them together, Ianneth looked again into Fingon’s eyes.

 

She loved him. Perhaps she hadn’t at first, but she did now.

 

Once more, Fingolfin spoke. “May the Lord of the Breath of Arda bless you and your union, as I have given you my blessing. Fingon, do you agree to take Ianneth as your wife?”

 

“I do,” Fingon said, smiling at his bride.

 

Now it was Amareth’s turn. “May the lady of the Stars bless you and your union,” she said, “as I have given you my blessing. Ianneth, do you agree to take Fingon as your husband?”

 

“I do.”

 

Releasing their children’s hands, Amareth and Fingolfin each took a half-step away from the couple, and Fingolfin said, “Then I call upon Eru Ilúvatar to witness this marriage and to bless your future.”

 

Now Tinneth stood, holding in her hands a small pot of honey, which she held out to them. “I pray that you give each other sustenance, and that you always have sweet words for your love,” she said, her young voice trembling as she spoke.

 

Ianneth gave her a reassuring smile, dipped her pinky finger in the honey, and held it to Fingon’s lips. He did the same to her, and when they had each tasted the honey, Tinneth stepped away and sat down. The ceremony concluded with the exchanging of the rings, and then it was time for the dancing.

 

Ianneth danced with Fingon. She danced with her father. She danced with Fingolfin. She danced with Finrod, Aegnor, and Angrod. She danced with her own cousins. Three times she danced with Tinneth, the young girl giggling as her sister twirled her around, her blue skirt spinning out like the petals of a flower.

 

The celebration continued even as the sun began to set, the lanterns that had been strung along the courtyard walls lighting the night with a pleasant glow. She and Fingon had stopped to catch their breath and share a drink, and they were laughing over a glass of mead when Maedhros approached them.

 

He bowed to Ianneth and then extended his hand. “May I?” he asked.

 

“Of course,” Ianneth said, smiling at him and passing the glass back to her husband.

 

She had met Maedhros only that day, and only very briefly. He had missed the family celebration last night, delayed by a sudden, violent storm while crossing Ard-galen. He and his party had only just made it in time for the wedding, arriving that very morning. And Ianneth had to admit, she was curious about her husband’s dearest cousin.

 

It took them a few moments to find their rhythm as they rejoined the dancers, for Maedhros truly was tall. With the other Golodhrim, Ianneth at least reached their shoulders, but with Maedhros, the top of her head barely made it to his chest. They shuffled awkwardly until they found a posture that suited them both.

 

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said. “I wish I’d been able to be here earlier, but it rained so hard that the road flooded, and the land around us turned into a veritable swamp.”

 

“Fingon has mentioned that that can happen,” Ianneth said. “He tells me that such storms are rare, but when they come, they’re torrential.”

 

Maedhros nodded. “He’s correct.”. They lapsed briefly into silence as he lifted his arm and Ianneth spun beneath it. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, once they were facing each other again. “Fingon tells me you’re an herbalist?”

 

“Yes,” Ianneth said. “My mother began teaching me healing and herb lore when I was young, and I found it fascinating, so I’ve continued my studies.”

 

“And you breed your own cultivars, he said,” Maedhros continued with a smile. “Apparently you’ve done quite a lot with roses, to breed hardier plants?”

 

“Yes,” Ianneth said again. “It sounds as though Fingon has told you a great deal about my work.”

 

“Well, I have some interest in botany myself. Perhaps we could exchange notes?” he proposed. “The climate at Himring is rather different than it is here, but there are still plenty of useful plants that grow in both places.”

 

Ianneth smiled. “I’d enjoy that,” she said. “Fingon never mentioned that you were interested in herb lore.”

 

“He’s had a lot on his mind, I’m sure,” Maedhros said. “I’m very happy for you, you know. The way he looks at you — I can see that you bring him joy. I can’t remember the last time I saw him so carefree.”

 

The words were kind, but Ianneth could sense an inexplicable sadness behind them. Still, Maedhros was smiling, and Ianneth had no desire to press him, not when she knew how much family strife he and Fingon had endured.

 

They fell silent as she spun again beneath his arm, and when the song ended, he returned her to Fingon’s side. “Congratulations to you both,” he said, kissing each of them on the cheek. “I wish you nothing but happiness.”

 

Then he melted back into the crowd, leaving the bride and groom alone in the lantern light.

 

 

Chapter End Notes

This chapter was written for SWG’s “Season’s Greetings” challenge. The customs of the marriage ceremony (the ring exchange, the blessings from Manwë and Varda, the naming of Eru, etc.) are drawn from “Laws and Customs Among the Eldar”, which can be found in Morgoth’s Ring. The exception is the honey ceremony, which is a traditional part of Persian weddings and is the sweetest (no pun intended) marriage tradition I’ve ever seen.

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