Untidy Souls by StarSpray

Chapter 3

Dior gets into the Second Kinslaying in this chapter so I have updated the warnings/rating accordingly.

Elu’s arrival sparked a flurry of activity such as he was not sure he had ever seen before. There was feasting and dancing on the shores of the Gladhuin and inside the halls of their new Menegroth, through which Elu was shown several times in the course of the next week, each as thorough a tour as though they were all a bit afraid of their king getting lost in his own halls. And he was not so proud now to admit that they were right to be worried. He had known his own Menegroth like he knew the palms of his hands, but these were different hills made of different stone, and though the style of the main halls was familiar, the way they were all laid out was different—by necessity, as the natural caverns were quite different. The craftsmanship was also different: no dwarves had helped to delve these halls, though Thingol was told more than once how Aulë himself had come to help them. It was always said in a tone of thrilled half-disbelief.

But best of all was this chance to know his grandson. Dior was fair as his mother, but carried also much of his father. His laughter was the same as Beren’s, and at times Thingol even saw glimpses of Túrin or Morwen in him, though he was never grim or stern. He was often quiet, though, and both watchful and thoughtful.

One afternoon they went walking together out into the forest, along the banks of the River Gladhuin. The woods were open and vast, ancient beeches and oaks and maples sharing the space with the occasional stand of pine, or a grove of aspen that shivered and trembled in the breeze. All was green and fresh; the air smelled of leaf mould and pine needles, and the niphredil that grew along the riverbanks. Dior went barefoot and with his dark hair loose. He was clad in blue, and seemed to Thingol both young and old, ageless in a way that was not like the agelessness of the Eldar. Thingol had dressed similarly, and Melian had braided sapphires and cornflowers into his hair in lieu of his crown. As they went they passed by a gathering of children splashing in the river. Their shrieks and laughter echoed off of the trees around them, and the river’s own music seemed amplified in harmony with it. As they passed the children paused their game to wave and call out greetings, in particular to Dior, who it seemed often joined in their games. He declined their invitation now, but greeted them all by name.

“I have not seen so many children in one place since the Girdle was first raised,” Thingol said as they went on. “For a long time there were no children at all in Doriath, until Túrin came.”

“My father wept bitterly when he heard the tale of Morwen and her children in full,” said Dior. “And when he heard what became of Rían.”

Thingol had wept, too, when the news had come from Brethil. “What of your children?” he asked Dior, not wishing to think too long upon Túrin now. It was a grief that had still been new when Thingol had died, and he found it still sharp even after two Ages of the world spent dreaming in Mandos.

“Elwing dwells by the Sea,” said Dior, his smile bright and sudden as the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “As does Eärendil, when he is not sailing the skies with the Silmaril—you will have seen it in the evenings. Of my sons, for many years we did not know what became of them. But they live still in Middle-earth; Elrond has come—so recently that we have not yet seen him—but no one seems to know when or whether Eluréd and Elurín will take ship at all, least of all themselves.”

Abruptly Dior stopped, turning toward the river. Thingol paused, and followed his gaze to find a large and familiar hound bounding toward them. “Huan!” Dior called. “Well met, my friend!” Huan sprang over the Gladhuin in a mighty leap, and pushed his great head into Dior’s arms, looking for ear scratches. “I did not expect to see you today.”

“Well met, Huan,” Thingol said, bowing as the hound turned his dark and knowing gaze on him. “I am glad to see you well and whole again.”

“He came to me soon after I came from Mandos,” said Dior. “Though these days, as of old, where Huan is, Celegorm is likely to be nearby. Is he coming?” Dior asked Huan, who woofed and shook himself in an apparent no.

Thingol frowned, taken aback. “Does Celegorm Fëanorion often visit your halls, Dior Eluchíl?”

“Often enough,” Dior said, straightening and meeting Thingol’s gaze calmly. “The Kinslayings have been long forgiven.” So Ingwë had said; Thingol had not paid much heed at the time. He had not expected to hear it again from Dior. “Would Finwë not wish that his children and yours would be friends?”

“If his children had not murdered mine,” said Thingol. “Or have you forgotten the wrongs that were done to you—to your people? Have you forgotten the blood spilled in Menegroth, and on the streets of Sirion—on the docks of Alqualondë?”

“Have I forgotten?” Dior replied, voice quiet but hard as steel. “I, who saw the tapestries of Melian burn, who watched our people fall one by one to the swords that flashed with the Star of Fëanor? I whose blood it was that spilled upon the very throne where you sat and pronounced the doom of Doriath when you demanded of Beren a Silmaril from Bauglir’s crown? I dream of it often.” And as he spoke Thingol saw the scene in his own mind, as though he had stood there with Dior, and he felt the sharp and icy spike of fear travel through his own body. And overlaid atop that scene was an even more vivid memory, his own, of Beren standing before him, haggard but straight-backed and defiant, with his bandaged and bloody arm outstretched, missing the hand that held the Silmaril.

“Do not speak to me of the blood spilled at Doriath or at Sirion,” Dior said after a moment of silence, in which even the Gladhuin’s laughter seemed muted. “I made peace between my realm and the Noldor—all of the Noldor—and I did not do it lightly. Should you wish to reverse my rule, I cannot gainsay you. But for my part, I will continue to follow the example of my grandson, and leave the past where it belongs: drowned with Beleriand beneath the waves of Belegaer.”

“There is a difference,” Thingol said after a silence that seemed to stretch a vast distance suddenly between them, “between making peace, and seeking friendship.” The first, Ingwë himself had directed Thingol to do—and he intended to do it. But friendship? That seemed a step too far.

“I know,” said Dior. “Yet if we continue to divide ourselves and refuse to even try to heal the breach between us, who wins but Bauglir, as his work continues through us? It is the way of the Elves, I know, to cling to the past and to resist change—especially here. But I am not an Elf, not wholly—I am the forefather of the Kings of Númenor as much as I am the heir of Doriath, and a child of Melian the Wise. I would not have the world be like a stagnant pond, unmoving and slowly rotting in its sameness. I would rather it be like a river.” He gestured at the Gladhuin. “As the water flows it changes, little by little, the stones and the earth, changing its shape and carving a new course as it seeks the Sea—and the water is clean and clear. In a river you can hear echoes of the Music that made the world. It is the way of Men to remember the past, to take it with them, but to look forward. To strive for something better.” He did not wait for Thingol to answer, instead walking away up the river path, Huan at his side. It was as clear a dismissal as Thingol himself might have made, and he found himself caught wrong-footed by it, as though Dior were still the king in these woods and not he.